BORN 6 MARCH 1806 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT 
 
 BROWNING 
 
 This Volume has long heen recognized as 
 
 THE BEST POPULAR BIOGRAPHY 
 
 of the celebrated Poetess: it has run through 
 
 Five Editions in 
 
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 University of California. 
 
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 EDITED BY JOHN H. INGEAM 
 
 ELIZABETH 
 BAKRETT BEOWNING 
 
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H 
 
ELIZABETH 
 BAEEETT BEOWNING 
 
 JOHN H. INGRAM 
 
 FIFTH EDITION 
 
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 SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY 
 
 Limited 
 
 15a, Paterxoster Row, E.C. 
 

 INTRODUCTOHY. 
 
 No writer approaching tlit eminence of Elizabeth 
 Barrett Browning has been so little written about. 
 Hitherto, nothing even claiming to be a biography of 
 her has been published in her native land, whilst her 
 works, which reveal so much of her inner self, have 
 only been attainable in costly editions. It would 
 almost appear as if it had been desired to retard, 
 rather than promote, the popularity of one of England's 
 purest as well as greatest poets. 
 
 All critical persons who have read the correspondence 
 of Elizabeth Barrett Browning assign it a pre-eminent 
 place in epistolary literature ; yet it is only allowed tc 
 appear in fragments, without proper or responsible 
 editorship. It is to be hoped that this injustice to the 
 memory of a great writer will not continue much 
 longer, because, as Mr. Browning has himself said of 
 another great poet, " lettetH hnd poems are obviously 
 
?i INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 an act of the same mind, produced by the same law, 
 only differing in the application to the individual. . . . 
 Letters and poems may be used indifferently as the base- 
 ment of our opinion upon the writer's character ; the 
 finished expression ot a sentiment m tne poems giving 
 light and significance to the rudiments of the same in 
 the letters, and these, again^ in their incipiency and 
 unripeness, authenticating the exalted mood and 
 re-attaching it to the personality of the writer." 
 
 Notwithstanding these pregnant words, as, also, Mr. 
 Browning's uttered opinion that "it is advisable to 
 lose no opportunity of strengthening and completing 
 the chain of biographical testimony," the testimony to 
 the goodness and greatness of our poetess, which the 
 publication of her literary correspondence would afford, 
 is still withheld. Those letters of INIrs. Browning 
 which have been published, it should be observed, do 
 not express any repugnance to afford biographical 
 information, but rather the reverse. 
 
 The mystery which has hitherto shrouded Mrs. 
 Browning's personal career, has caused quite a 
 mythology to spring up around her name, and this 
 fictitious lore the publications of those assuming to 
 speak with authority has only increased. Miss 
 Mitford, who saw Mrs. Browning frequently, knew 
 her relatives intimately, and claimed to have received 
 two letters a week from h-er, is utterly wrong in her 
 
INTRODUGTOEY. vii 
 
 biographical statements about her ; Richard H. Home, 
 who published two volumes of Mrs. Browning's corre- 
 spondence, muddles the dates almost beyond elucida- 
 tion; whilst Mrs. Richmond Ritchie, who has 
 contributed to the Dictionary of National Biography 
 the most copious and authoritative memoir of Mrs. 
 Browning extant, has, so far as biographical data arc 
 concerned, made ** confusion worse confounded." 
 
 With examples so misleading^ and material so 
 restricted, neither accuracy nor substance sufficient 
 for a volume might have been hoped for ; but some 
 past success in the paths of biography has encouraged 
 me to place before the public what, with all its short- 
 comings, is the initial biography of Elizabeth Barrett 
 Browning. 
 
 JOHN H. INGRAM. 
 
LIST OF AUTHORITIES. 
 
 The Works of E. B. Browning. 1826-1863. 
 
 A Neio Spirit of the Age. Edited by R. H. Home. 1844. 
 
 Letters of E. B. Browning to B. if. Home. 1877. 
 
 Life ofM. B. Mitford. Edited by A. G. L'Estrange. 1870. 
 
 Letters of M. 11. Mitford. Edited by Ksnry Chorley. 
 
 1872. 
 The Friendships of M. B. Mitford. Edited by A. G. 
 
 L'Estrange. 1882. 
 Dictionary of National Biography, vol. vii. pp. 78-82. 
 
 1886. 
 Passages from the Note-Books of Nathaniel Hawthorne. 
 
 1883. 
 Notes in England and Italy. By Mrs. Hawthorne. 1870. 
 Memoirs of Anna Jameson. By G. Macpherson. 1878. 
 Edgar Allan Poe. His Life and Letters. By John H. 
 
 Ingram. 1886. 
 H. F. Chorley. Memoir, &c. Compiled by H. Gr. Hewlett. 
 
 1873. 
 Living Authors of Britain. By Thomas Powell. 1851. 
 
X LIST OF A UTIIORITIES. 
 
 "Notes on Slips connected with Devonshire," by W. 
 
 Pengelly, F.R.S. (In Devonshire Association Rejport, 
 
 vol. ix. pp. 354-360). 1877. 
 ^ The Atlantic Monthly. Letter from W. W. Story. 1861. 
 The Athenceum. 1825-84. 
 Walter Savage Lander. Biography by John Forster. 
 
 1879. 
 The Correspondence of Leigh Hunt, vol, ii. 1862. 
 Yesterdays with Authors. Article on " M. R. Mitford." 
 
 By J. T. Fields. 1873. 
 The Quarterly Review. " Modern English Poetesses." 
 
 1840. 
 At Home and Abroad. By Bayard Taylor. 1880. 
 Browning Society Papers. 1881, &c. 
 Six Months in Italy. By G. S. Hillard. 1853. 
 Recollections of a Literary Life. By M. R. Mitford. 
 
 1859. 
 Benjamin Robert Haydon, Correspondence. 1876. 
 JVo^es and Queries, Magazines, Newspapers, Vills, &c. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. PAOR 
 
 Hope End 1 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 Womanhood 3 6 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 Torquay , . 82 
 
 CHAPTER IV, 
 Home . v 51 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 Fame 7G 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 Makriage . ^ . . - . , . 114 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 Casa Guidi Windows 184 
 
x& CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER Yin. PAGE 
 
 Aurora Leigh ..... t . 154 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Before Congress . . . . . • . 181 
 
 GRATEFUL FLORENCE 191 
 
ELIZABETH 
 BAPiRETT BEOWNING. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HOPE END. 
 
 The Barretts were wealthy West Indian land-owners. 
 Edward Barrett Moulton^ a member of the family, 
 assumed the additional surname of Barrett in accord- 
 ance with liis grandfather's will. Edward Moulton- 
 Barrett, as he now styled himself, had not attained 
 his majority when he married Mary, daughter of 
 J. Graham Clarke, at that time residing at Fenham 
 Hall, Newcastle-on-Tyne. Of Mrs. Moulton-Barrett 
 our records are scanty ; it is known that she was 
 several years older than her husband and that, despite 
 their disparity in age, she was tenderly loved by him. 
 
 In 1806 the Moulton-Barretts were residing at 
 Coxhoe Hall, Durham, and there, on the 6th of March, 
 the future poetess was born. Three days later she 
 was privately baptized in the names of Elizabeth 
 Barrett Moulton-Barrett. 
 
 Soon after the birth of their daughter the fiimily 
 removed to Hope End, near Ledbury, Herefordshire. 
 Hope End, an estate recently acquired by Mr, 
 
 1 
 
2 FLIZMEm^'SABBJSTT-JDROWNINa. 
 
 liarrett, had previously been the country seat of Sir 
 Henry Vane Tempest, and was not unnoted for the 
 beauty of its situation. It was located in a retired 
 valley, a few miles distant from the Malvern Hills, and 
 the Rev. J. Barrett, in a description he gave of the 
 place some years previous to the birth of Elizabeth, 
 Bays : " It is nearly surrounded by small eminences, 
 and therefore docs not command any distant 
 prospect, except to the southwardj nor is that very 
 extensive ; but this defect is compensated by the 
 various and beautiful scenery that immediately sur- 
 rounds this secluded residence. In front of the 
 house are some tine pieces of water; on their banks 
 arc planted a variety of shrubs and evergreens, which, 
 in conjunction with the water, look very ornamental. 
 The Deer Park/' says the reverend gentleman in the 
 pedantic phraseology of the period, "lies on the ascent 
 of the contiguous eminences, whose projecting parts 
 and bending declivities, modelled by nature, display 
 much beauty. It contains an elegant profusion of 
 wood, disposed in the most careless yet pleasing 
 order. Much of the Park and its scenery is in view 
 from the house, where it presents a very agreeable 
 appearance." 
 
 The residence belonging to this charming estate 
 was modern, and in keeping with the grounds ; but it 
 was not of sufficient grandeur to suit the semi-tropical 
 tastes of its new proprietor. ]\Ir. Barrett had the 
 house pulled down and on its sight erected an oriental- 
 looking structure, bedecked with " Turkish " windows 
 and turrets. 
 
 A large family of sons and daughters sprang up 
 rapidly around the wealthy West Indian, and the 
 quaint residence and its pleasant environments re- 
 
EOPE END. $ 
 
 echoed daily to tlie prattle of little tongues and tlie 
 patter of little feet. Foremost of the band was 
 l^iizabcth. She was her father's favourite child, and 
 he, who was proud of her intelligence, spared no pains 
 to cultivate it. Although one of a large family, and 
 presumably the sharer in the sports of her brothers 
 and sisters, she appears to have been fond of solitude 
 and solitary amusements. She was allowed a little 
 room to herself, and thus describes it : — 
 
 I had a littlo chamber in tho house 
 As groon as any privet-hedge a bird 
 Might choose to build in. . . , 
 
 The walls 
 "Were green, the carpet was pure green, the straight 
 Small bed was curtained greenly, and the folds 
 Hung green about tho window, which let in 
 The out-door world with all its greenery. 
 You could not push your head out and escape 
 A dash of dawn-dew from the honeysuckle. 
 
 A member of Mr. Barrett's family, who is said to 
 remember Hope End as it was in those days, speaks 
 of "Elizabeth's room" as a lofty chamber with a stained 
 glass window casting lights across th3 floor, and upon 
 little Elizabeth as she used to sit propped against the 
 wall, with her hair falling all about her face, a child- 
 like fairy figure. '^Aurora Loigh's " recollections, 
 however, are probably accurate, and it may be assumed 
 that her record of childish rambles in the early sum- 
 mer mornings when she would — 
 
 Slip down-stairs through all the sleepy house 
 
 As mute as any dream then, and escape 
 
 As a soul from the body, out of doors, 
 
 Glide through tho shrubberies, drop into the lane 
 
 And wander on the hills an hour or two, 
 
 Then back again before the house should stir, — 
 
 faithfully represents little ]*]lizabeth"s own doings. 
 
 I * 
 
4 ELIZABETH BARRETT BBOWKING. 
 
 Of Hope End and tlic surrounding scenery ''Aurora 
 Leigh" furnishes many glimpses, hut Avhether the 
 heroine's father, ''who "was an austere Englishman" 
 who taught his little daughter Latin and Greek him- 
 self, is intended for Mr. Barrett, is more than 
 douhtful. Indulgent as her father was in some 
 thingSj he was sternly despotic in others, and although, 
 as she grew up, Elizabeth evidently revered him, it is 
 certain that he would never allow himself to bo 
 thwarted. There is evidence that the gentle wife, 
 who flits like a colourless spirit across the early 
 life-track of her celebrated child, had often to soothe 
 the anger of the wealthy West Indian slave-owner 
 against his own offspring. 
 
 Although little Elizabeth found some things "as 
 dull as grammar on an eve of holiday," as a rule 
 she took more kindly to grammars than children of 
 her age generally do. At nine — she herself is the 
 authority — the only thing the mystic number nine 
 suggested to the little girl was that the Greeks had 
 spent nine years in besieging Ilium ! Pity for her lost 
 childhood's pleasures rather than admiration for her 
 precocity would "arise were it not palpable that infant 
 necessity for play caused her to mingle frolic with 
 lier classical endowments. In the poem of " Hector 
 in the Garden," Elizabeth Barrett tells that a device 
 for amusement she invented when she was only nine 
 years old was to cut out with a spade a huge giant of 
 turf and, laying it down prostrate in the garden, 
 style the creation of her childish fancy " Hector, sou 
 of Priam." Then, she says, — 
 
 With my rake I smoothed his brow, 
 Both his cheeks I weeded through. 
 
nOFE END. % 
 
 Then slie made her playthmg — 
 
 Eyes of gcntianellas azure, 
 Staring, -winking at the skies : 
 Nose of gillyflowers and box; 
 Scented grasses put for locks, 
 Which a little breeze at pleasure 
 Set a waving round his eyes. 
 
 Brazen helm of daffodillies. 
 
 With a glitter toward the light ; 
 Purplo violets for the mouth, 
 Breathing perfumes west and south; 
 And a sword of flashing lilies, 
 Holden ready for the fight. 
 
 Aid a breastplate made of daisies. 
 Closely fitting, leaf on leaf ; 
 Periwinkles interlaced, 
 Drawn for belt about the waist ; 
 While the brown bees, humming praises, 
 Shot their arrows round the chief. 
 
 Even at this tender age the little girl began to ■write 
 verses, and dream of becoming a poet. " I wroto 
 verses," she said, "as I daresay many have done who 
 never wrote any poems, very early ; at eight years old 
 and earlier. ... I could make you laugh by the nar- 
 rative of nascent odes, epics, and didactics, crying 
 aloud on obsolete Muses from childish lips. The 
 Greeks were ray derai-gods, and haunted me out of 
 Pope's Homer, until I dreamt more of Agamemnon 
 than of ' IMoses,' the black pony." 
 
 The result of this was an " epic " on The Battle of 
 Marathon. The composition was completed before 
 its author was eleven, and Mr. Barrett was so 
 proud of the production that he had fifty copies of 
 it printed and distributed. The little booklet, con- 
 sisting of scvcnty-tv^o pages, was dedicated to her 
 
6 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 father, from "Hope End, 1819." The Battle of 
 Marathon is divided into four books, and is truly- 
 described by its author as " Pope's Ilomcr done over 
 again, or rather undone ; for, although a curious pro- 
 duction for a child, it gives evidence only of an imi- 
 tative faculty and an car, and a good deal of reading in 
 a peculiar direction." 
 
 " The love of Pope's Ilomcr threw me into Pope on 
 one side, and Greek on the other, and. into Latin as 
 a help to Greek,'' is her own record of this period 
 of her life, contradicting the legend of her reading 
 Homer in the original at eight years old. About 
 the time of the grand epic, a cousin of Elizabeth 
 was wont to pay visits to Hope End, where their 
 grandmother, says Mrs. Ritchie, "would also come 
 and stay. The old lady did not approve of these read- 
 ings and writings, and used to say she would rather 
 see Elizabeth's hemming more carefully finished off 
 than hear of all this Greek." 
 
 Mr. Barrett evidently differed from the old lady in 
 this respect, and encouraged his daughter both in her 
 studies and her writings. In some of her earliest 
 known verses, inscribed to him, Elizabeth says : — 
 
 'Neath thy gentleness of praise, 
 My Father ! rose my early lays I 
 And when the lyre was scarce awake, 
 I lov'd its strings for thy lov'd sake ; 
 Woo'd the kind JIuses — but the whilo 
 Thought only how to win thy smile — 
 5Iy proudest fame — my dearest pride — ■ 
 JiJore dear than all the world beside 1 
 
 Mrs. Barrett, who was still living when these lines 
 were written, doubtless divided her affections more 
 equally among her many little sons and daughters 
 
nOPE END. ? 
 
 than did lier husband ; wliat with continuous ill-health 
 and a constant succession of children, she had some- 
 thing else to think of than The Bailie of Marathon, or 
 " Hector, son of Priam." In those days it was the 
 father's praise that sounded sweet to the little author's 
 ears ; in after life, when too late, a lost mother's love 
 were more oiten the first thought of her verse. 
 
 The principal sharer of Elizabeth's childish amuse- 
 ments was her brother Edward. There was little 
 more than a year's difference in age between them, 
 and as he was, by all accounts, a suitable companion for 
 her in both study and frolic, it was but natural that 
 they should regard each other with intense affection. 
 Alluding to the pet-name by which she was known 
 in the family circle, she says : — 
 
 My brother gave that name to me 
 
 When we were children twain, 
 "When names acquired baptismally 
 Were hard to utter, as to see 
 
 That Ufe had any pain. 
 
 In her earliest volume of poems, published in 1826, 
 Elizabeth included " Verses to my Brother,'^ intro- 
 duced by the quotation from Lycidas, " For we wera 
 nurs'd upon the self-same hill." She addressed him 
 as " Belov'd and best . . . my Brother 1 dearest, 
 kindest as thou art ! '^ adding : — 
 
 Together have we past our infant hours, 
 Together sported childhood's spring away, 
 Together cull'd young Hope's fast budding flowers, 
 To wreathe the forehead of each coming day ! 
 
 And when the laughing mood was nearly o'er, 
 
 Together, many a minute did we wile 
 
 On Horace' page, or Maro's sweeter lore ; 
 
 While one young critic, on the classic style, 
 
 Would sagely try to frown, and make the other smile. 
 
a ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 Surrounded by liappy clnldren, companioned by d 
 beloved brother, encouraged in her pursuits by a proud 
 father, supplied by all that wealth could procure, it is 
 easy to imagine that Elizabeth's early life was a happy 
 one. Her greatest pleasure was, apparently, derived 
 from reading. "I reaJ," she said, "books bad and 
 good," anything, in fact, in the shape of a book that 
 could be got hold of. 
 
 Neither her indiscriminate and extensive reading nor 
 her close application to study prevented her joining in 
 pursuits suitable to her age and position. Riding and 
 driving were among her amusements; and Mrs. Ritchie 
 relates : — " One day, when Elizabeth was about fifteen, 
 the young girl, impatient for her ride, tried to saddle 
 her pony alone, in a field, and fell with the saddle upon 
 her, in some way injuring her spine so seriously that 
 she was for years upon her back." 
 
 That Elizabeth was an invalid for many years is cer- 
 tain, as it also is that to the end of her life she remained 
 in delicate health ; but, although she remarked that at 
 fifteen she nearly died, she attributed the origin of her 
 illness to a cough ; " a common cough," she said, 
 " striking on an insubstantial frame, began my bodily 
 troubles. '^ Be the cause of her delicacy what it may, 
 confinement and ill-health only increased her passion 
 for reading. 
 
 About this epoch in her life came to pass an event 
 that must be regarded as one that influenced Eliza- 
 beth's future as largely as anything in her career. Her 
 father obtained an introduction for her to the well-known 
 Greek scholar, Hugh Stuart Boyd. Mr. B )yd, although 
 blind, was a profound student of Hellenic literature 
 and an accomplished author. Under his friendly 
 tuition the eage^: girl d"ank de^p draughts of Grecian 
 
HOPE END. 9 
 
 lore, and acquired a knowledge of its less studied 
 branches that stood her in good stead in after days. 
 In her poem on " Wine of Cyprus," addressed by her 
 to this dear friend, she proves, by the happiness of her 
 allusions and tlie condensation of character, how 
 thoroughly she had grasped the most salient features 
 of Greek literature : her poem is at once a proof of her 
 capacity to acquire, and her friend's to instruct. Some 
 of the stanzas are charming reminiscences of these 
 early days : — 
 
 And I think of those long momiugs 
 
 Which my thought goos far to seek, 
 When, betwixt the folio's turnings, 
 
 Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek. 
 Past the pane, the mountain spreading, 
 
 Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling noise, 
 While a girlish voice was reading — 
 
 Somewhat low for ai's and oj's / 
 
 Then what golden hours wore for us t— 
 
 While we sat together there ; 
 How the white vests of the chorus 
 
 Seemed to wave us a live airl 
 How the cothurns trod majestic 
 
 Down the deep iambic lines ; 
 And the rolling anapaestic 
 
 Curled like vapour over shrines I 
 
 For we sometimes gently wrangled : 
 
 Very gently, be it said, — 
 For our thoughts were disentangled 
 
 By no breaking of the thread ! 
 And I charged you with extortions 
 
 On the noble fames of old — 
 Ay, and sometimes thought your Porsom 
 
 Stained the purple they would fold. 
 
10 ELIZABETH EAUllETT BROWNINQ. 
 
 Ah, my gossip I yon were older, 
 
 And more learned, and a man !— 
 Yet that shadow, — the enfolder 
 
 Of your quiet eyelids — ran 
 Both onr spirits to one level ; 
 
 And I turned from hill and lea 
 And tho summer-sun's green rovel^ 
 
 To your eyes that could not see I " 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett never forgot the advantages she 
 had derived from the patient kindness and profound 
 learning of the blind scholar, nor did he forego friendly 
 correspondence with his apt and able pupil in after 
 years. She deferred often to his opinion, despite her 
 intense independence, and allowed his somewhat eccen- 
 tric course of reading to influence her own studies. In 
 later life she addressed three sonnets to this 
 
 Steadfast friend. 
 Who never didst my heart or life miskno'W, 
 
 on "His Blindness/' "His Death, 1848,^' and hia 
 " Legacies " to her, which last consisted of his 
 
 ^schylns, 
 And Gregory Nazianzen, and a clock 
 Chiming the gradual hours out like a flock 
 Of stars, whose motion is melodious. 
 
 "The books," she says, "were those I used to read 
 from,'' thus 
 
 Assisting my dear teacher's soul to milock 
 The darkness of his eyes : now mine they mock, 
 Blinded in turn, by tears : now murmurous 
 Sad echoes of my young voice, years agone, 
 Entoning from these leaves, the Grecian phra«o, 
 Return and choke my utterance. 
 
 " All this time," says Elizabeth, " we lived at Hope 
 End, a few miles from Malvern, in a retirement scarcely 
 
UOPE END. H 
 
 broken to me except by books and my OTVii thcnghts, 
 and it is a beautiful country, and Avas a retirement 
 happy in many ways. . . . Tliere I had my fits of Pope 
 and Byron and Coleridge, and read Greek as hard 
 under the trees as some of your Oxoniaus iu the 
 Bodleian ; gathered visions from Plato and the drama- 
 tists, and eat and drank Greek and made my head 
 ache with it.'' 
 
 The young girl by practice and increasing intensity 
 of feeling was gradually learning to become a true poet. 
 Most of the events of her life, she said, had passed in 
 her thoughts, and these thoughts she had continuously 
 striven to transmute into poesy. Many youths wrote 
 verses, but with her, '^ what is less common,^' as she 
 remarked, "the early fancy turned into a will, and 
 remained with me, and from that day poetry has been 
 a distinct object with me — an object to read, think, and 
 live for." 
 
 Already as early as 1825, Elizabeth Barrett had contri- 
 buted fugitive verses to literary publications of the day, 
 but now her ambition prompted her to more daring 
 flights. Her childish lines on The Battle of Marathon 
 can scarcely be taken into account in any chronicle of 
 her literary deeds, but a volume which she published 
 anonymously in 1826 marks a distinct epoch in her 
 career. It was entitled An Essay on Mind and Other 
 Poems, and the leading piece, written in heroic verse, 
 and extending to eighty-eight pages, is produced in 
 view, not without some doubts as to its truth, of the 
 utterly false dictum of Byron, that " ethical poetry 
 is the highest of all poetry, as the highest of all 
 earthly objects is moral truth." 
 
 The lines display no originality of thought, arc in 
 the sec-saw style cf the Pope school,, and arc not very 
 
Li ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. 
 
 "wondciful cvcu for a girl of seventeen, bat tlic Essay ia 
 rcmarkal)le, as has been pointed out, " for the pre- 
 cocious audacity with which she deals with the greatest 
 names in the whole range of literature and science. 
 Gibbon, Berkeley, Condillac, Plato, Bacon, Bolingbroke, 
 all come in for treatment in the scope of the young 
 girl's argument." 
 
 Some of Elizabeth's words in her preface, needlessly 
 long and wordy as it is, offer a much better specimen 
 of her prose tlian does the Essay on Mind of her poesy, 
 and, as the first knoTvn example of her unrhymed 
 writings may be cited from. With youthful modesty 
 she says : *' I wish that the sublims circuit of intellect, 
 embraced by tlic plan of my Poem, had fallen to the 
 lot of a spirit more powerful than mine. I wish it had 
 fallen to the lot of one more familiar with the dwelling- 
 place of mind, who could search her secret chambers, 
 and call forth those that sleep ; or of one who could 
 enter into her temples, and cast out the iniquitous who 
 buy and sell, profaning the sanctuary of God; or of one 
 who could try the golden links of that cliain which 
 liangs from Heaven to earth, and show that it is not 
 placed there for man to covet for lucre's sake, or for 
 him to weigh his puny strength at one end against 
 Omnipotence at the other; but that it is placed there 
 to join, in mysterious union, the natural and the 
 spiritual, the mortal and the eternal, the creature and 
 the Creator. I wish the subject of my poem had 
 fallen into sucli hands that the powers of the executiou 
 might have equalled the vastness of the design — and 
 the public will wish so too. But as it is — though I 
 desire this field to be more meritoriously occupied by 
 others, I would mitigate the voice of censure for 
 mvself. I would eudcavour to show that while I may 
 
HOPE END. 18 
 
 have often erred, I have not ching willingly to error ; 
 and that "while I may have failed, in representing, I 
 have never ceased to love Truth. If there be much to 
 condemn in the following pages, let my narrow capacity, 
 as opposed to the infinite object it would embrace, 
 be generously considered ; if there be anything to 
 approve,, I am ready to acknowledge the assistance 
 which my illustrations have received from the exalt- 
 ing nature of their subject — as the waters of Halys 
 acquire a peculiar taste from the soil over which 
 they flow." 
 
 Besides the Essay on Mind, preface, analyses, and 
 notes, the little book contained fourteen short pieces 
 pretty equally divided between Byronic and domestic 
 themes. "Whilst none of these verses gave cause to 
 believe in the advent of a great poetess, some of them, 
 notably those beginning '^ Mine is a wayward lay," 
 were skilfully handled and were not barren of felicitous 
 turns of thought. 
 
 lleverting to the more personal history of the young 
 poetess, we arrive at what may be deemed the first, and 
 probably the greatest, real trouble she ever had to 
 endure. For some time past Mrs. Barrett had had a 
 continuance of ill-health, and eventually, on the 1st of 
 October 1828, she died, at the comparatively early 
 age of forty-eight. Elizabeth, herself an invalid, was 
 left by her mother's death not only the chief con- 
 soler of her widowed father, but, to some extent, 
 the guardian and guide of her seven brothers and 
 sisters. 
 
 How Elizabeth managed to bear her grief, or what 
 part she took in household affairs, are mysteries which 
 have not been revealed, but she continued to seek 
 consolation for human trouble, and an outlet for her 
 
14 ELIZABETH BARRETT BUOWNINO. 
 
 amlbition, for .nmbitions she was, in beloved Poesy. 
 For a time, apparently, she was sent to France to pursue 
 her studies, and contracted at least one strong friend- 
 ship there, hut neither her words nor works evince that 
 any strong imprint was made on her mind by that stay 
 on French soil. 
 
 Storm-clouds were gathering at home, and Eliza- 
 beth's influence was wanted to soothe, and her com- 
 panionship to cheer, her fatlier. As a AYest Indian 
 proprietor, his chief wealth wa«, naturally, derived 
 from slave labour. The voice of the British people 
 had gradually been growing louder and stronger 
 against slavery, and finally, guided by \Yilberforce and 
 his compatriots, demanded its abolition. Emancipa- 
 tion, after a long and weary fight, was at last obtained, 
 and though still shackled by certain galling restric- 
 tions, the fiat went forth that, henceforth, unpaid com- 
 pulsory labour should cease. Liberty for slaves in 
 many instances meant ruin or, at the best, heavy 
 pecuniary loss for their late owners. On Jamaica the 
 blow fell with peculiar force, and the Barretts 
 naturally felt the shock. j\Ir. Edward j\Ioulton 
 Barrett's fortune appears to have been very largely 
 affected by Emancipation, and one of the chief 
 results of his diminished income would appear to 
 have been the relinquishment of the Hope End 
 establishment. 
 
 The place where so many happy days had been spent, 
 so many fond dreams born and nourished, so many 
 loving ties formed, had to be left. '' Do you know 
 the Malvern Hills? — the hills of Piers Plowman's 
 Visions'^" wrote Elizabeth in later years; "they 
 seem to me my native hills, for I was an infant 
 when I went first into their neighbourhood, and 
 
HOPE END. 15 
 
 lived there until I had passed twenty by several years. 
 Beautiful, beautiful hills they arc ; and yet not for 
 the whole world's beauty would I stand in the 
 sunshine and shadow of them any more. It would 
 be a mockery, like the taking back of a broken 
 flower to its stalk." 
 
16 ELIZA BETH /; J /;;.: ett bro wning. 
 
 CHAPTEli II. 
 
 WOMANHOOD. 
 
 From Hope End the Barretts removed to Sidmonth, 
 and resided there for two years. Nothing is known of 
 the family doings during that time, save the publica- 
 tion, in 1833^ o£ Elizabeth's second volume. This 
 book was entitled Prometheus Bound, translated from 
 the Greek of yEschijIus, and Miscellaneous Puems, 
 and was issued as by the author of An Essay on Mind, 
 That author's own account is that her translation 
 ** was written in twelve days, and should have been 
 thrown in the fire afterwards — the only means of 
 giving it a little warmth." 
 
 INIiss Barrett's judgment on her own work is per- 
 haps somewhat too sweeping, but as she not only 
 replaced it in after life by a more mature version, but 
 desired the earlier attempt should be consigned to 
 oblivion, there can be no incentive to drag it into day- 
 light again. All the copies not issued, she says, " are 
 safely locked up in the wardrobe of papa's bedroom, 
 entombed as safely as CEdipus among the olives." " A 
 few of the fugitive poems connected with that trans- 
 lation," she added, "may be worth a little, perhaps; 
 
WOMANHOOD. 17 
 
 but tlipy have not so much goodness as to overcome 
 the br^dncss o£ the blasphemy of aEschylus." 
 
 Some of the fugitive pieces thus carelessly referred 
 to are, indeed, worth something more than a little. 
 The initial poem, styled. "The Tempest: A Fragment,'* 
 not only suggests a talc of intense horror, but con- 
 tains lines as grand, sonorous, and truly poetic as any 
 blank verse Elizabeth Barrett ever published. 
 
 Several other short pieces in the 1833 volume are 
 well \vorthy republication ; as a reviewer has said they 
 are, *' for the most part, in no sense immature, or 
 unworthy of the genius of the writer," and certainly 
 are equally good with many of those poems given in 
 her collected works. There are some grand thoughts 
 in " A Sea-side JNIeditation," " A Vision of Life and 
 Death," " Earth" ; and others in the volume are well 
 worthy their author's name, and very different from the 
 general juvenilia of even eminent poets. There is 
 sustained pathos, albeit bitter irony, in the lines, 
 " To a Poet's Child " — presumably Ada Byron — whilst 
 none of the pieces are common-place or devoid 
 of some traces of their author's peculiar originality 
 and genius. The lines " To Victoire, on her Marriage," 
 unless totally different from all Elizabeth Barrett's 
 personal poems, in being pure imagination instead of 
 a record of real life, refer to a certain period of her 
 life spent in France. There are not wanting proofs 
 that Elizabeth Barrett proposed to republish, with 
 revision, some of the poems, at least, of this volume of 
 her early womanhood, as she did, indeed, stUl earlier 
 but less meritorious pieces. 
 
 After two years' residence in Devonshire, the Barretts 
 removed to London, where Mr. Barrett took a house 
 at 74, Gloucester Place. After the pure country air 
 
 2 
 
18 ELIZA BETH BA BRETT BBO WNING. 
 
 and invigorating sea-breezes, the change was naturally 
 a trying one for all tlie household, but more especially 
 did it affect Elizabeth. Her health for years past had 
 been delicate — as she said herself, at fifteen she nearly 
 died — and now it gave way entirely. Instead of 
 rambling about Devonshire lanes, or gazing upon the 
 varying ocean, she sat and watched the sun, 
 
 Push out through fog with his dilated disk, 
 And startle the slant roofs and chimney pots 
 With splashes of fierce colour. Or I saw 
 Fog only, the great tawny weltering fog, 
 Involve the passive city, strangle it 
 Alive, and draw it off into the void, 
 Spires, bridges, streets and squares, as if a sponge 
 Had wiped out London. 
 
 Notwithstanding, or rather because of, her want of 
 health, Elizabeth devoted herself more and more to 
 poesy. She no longer contented herself with the 
 composition of poems, but began to send them for pub- 
 lication to contemporary periodicals. Chief among 
 the friends outside her own immediate family circle 
 whom she saw was John Kenyon, a distant relative. 
 Mr. Kenyon, West Indian by birth, but European by 
 education and choice, being in possession of ample 
 means, was enabled to select his own method of living. 
 Fond of literary and artistic society, and a dabbler in 
 verse himself, he devoted his time to entertaining and 
 being entertained by the makers of pictures and poems. 
 Crabb Robinson, who knew everybody of his time 
 worth knowing, describes Kenyon as having the face 
 of a Benedictine monk and the joyous talk of a good 
 fellow. He delights, he says, in seeing at his hos- 
 pitable table every variety of literary notabilities, and 
 was popularly styled the " feeder of lions." Coleridge, 
 
WOMANHOOD. 19 
 
 Wordsworth, and most of the best, as well as best 
 known, literary folk of the day were among Kcnyon's 
 most intimate assoeiates, and it was one among the 
 many pleasant traits of his character to seek to intro- 
 duce and make acquainted with each other such cele- 
 brities as he knew himself. Such was Kenyon, whom 
 it delighted Elizabeth Barrett to call '^ cousin/' and to 
 whom she naturally turned for advice in literary 
 matters. 
 
 It was Kenyon who introduced the young poetesa 
 to most of her earliest literary friends, and he was 
 the means of getting her poems accepted and works 
 noticed by the chief literary journals of the day. 
 Many of her earlier poems have, doubtless, been 
 lost sight of altogether, not so much on account of 
 their unworthiness as through their author's care- 
 lessness or forgetfulness of their existence. 
 
 " The Romaunt of Margret,'' which appeared in the 
 July part of the New Monthly Magazine, was a great 
 advance upon everything the poetess had as yet pub- 
 lished, and was well calculated to enhance her reputa- 
 tion, not only among those few literary acquaintances 
 who began to proclaim her as a rising star, but also with 
 the outside public. This fine ballad is based upon the 
 idea which permeates so many literatures, and has 
 excited the imagination of so many great poets, of the 
 possibility of man's dual nature; upon the possibility 
 of a mortal being enabled, generally just before death, 
 to behold the double or duplicate of himself. 
 
 Although here and there somewhat misty in the 
 filling up, as are, indeed, many of her later poems, 
 the " Eomaunt " is worthy of its author's most 
 matured powers. It has that weird, pathetic, inde- 
 scribable glamour often found pervading the older 
 
 2 * 
 
20 ELIZABEIJI BAliRETT BROWNING. 
 
 bullads, but rarely discoverable in those of modern 
 date, and is noteworthy as being tlic earliest known 
 speeimcn of Miss Barrett's use of the refrain, a 
 metrical, euphonic adornment which Elizabeth Barrett, 
 as well as her contemporary Edgar Poe, doubtless 
 adopted from, or rather had suggested, to them by, 
 Tennyson's resuscitation of it. 
 
 During May of this year, Miss Barrett formed the 
 acquaintance of Mary Busscll Mitford, whose friend- 
 ship and advice had no little influence on her future 
 literary career. Miss IMitford being up in London on 
 a visit, was taken by her friend Kcnyon sight-seeing ; 
 on the way they called at Gloucester Place, and, after 
 much persuasion, induced Miss Barrett to go out with 
 them. Miss Mitford described her as " a sweet young 
 woman who reads Greek as I do French, and hns 
 published some translations from ^sehylus, and some 
 most striking poems. She is a delightful young crea- 
 ture, shy and timid and modest." 
 
 The day following Miss Mitford dined at Kenyon's, 
 and there met several notabilities, including Words- 
 worth, described as " an adorable old man," Lauder, 
 *' as splendid a person as Mr. Kenyon, but not so full 
 of sweetness and sympathy," and chief of all, '^ the 
 charming Miss Barrett," who, so INIiss INIitford wrote 
 home, " has translated the most difficult of the Greek 
 plays — the Prometheus Bound — and written most ex- 
 quisite poems in almost every style. She is so sweet 
 and gentle, and so pretty, that one looks at her as if 
 she were some bright flower." Again, ]\riss?,Mitford 
 describes her as being at this time " of a slight, deli- 
 cate figure, with a shower of dark curls falling on 
 either side of a most expressive face, large tender eyes, 
 richly fringed by dark eye-lashes, a smile like a sun- 
 
WOMANHOOD. 2l 
 
 beam, and such a look of youtlifnlness that I had some 
 difficulty ill persuading a friend that the translatrcss of 
 yEschylus, the author of the Essay on Mind, was, 
 in technical language, ' out/ " 
 
 To another friend, INIiss Mitford described ISIiss 
 Barrett as "a. slight, girlish figure, very delicate, with 
 exquisite hands and feet, a round face with a most 
 noble forehead, a large mouth, beautifully formed and 
 full of expression, lips like parted coral, teeth large, 
 regular, and glittering with healthy whiteness, large 
 dark eyes, with such eye-lashes, resting on the check 
 when cast down, when turned upwards touching the 
 flexible and expressive eyebrow, a dark complexion, 
 literally as bright as the dark china rose, a profusion 
 of silky, dark curls, and a look of youth and of 
 modesty hardly to be expressed. This, added to the 
 very simple but graceful and costly dress by which all 
 the family are distinguished, is an exact portrait of 
 her." 
 
 Once introduced to each other, the acquaintanceship 
 between the two authoresses grew rapidly. '' I saw 
 much of her during my stay in town," writes Miss 
 ]\Iitford. *' We met so constantly and so familiarly 
 that, in spite of the difference of age, intimacy ripened 
 into friendship, and after my return into the country, 
 we corresponded freely and frequently, her letters 
 being just what letters ought to be — her own talk put 
 upon paper." 
 
 No sooner had Miss Mitford returned home to the 
 companionship of her idolized but extremely undeser- 
 ving father, than she commenced a constant and volu- 
 minous correspondence with her new friend Elizabeth 
 Barrett, confiding all her troubles to her, in return 
 being made acquainted with the young poetess's aspira- 
 
22 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 tions and achievements. The first letter from the 
 elder correspondent, soon after her return home, was 
 entrusted for delivery, "with some flowers, to Henry 
 Chorlcy, an author and influential critic, " who, if he 
 have the good luck to be let in, as I hope he may," says 
 Miss Mitford, "will tell you all about our doings. . . . 
 To be sure I will come and see you when next I visit 
 London, and I shall feel to know you better when I 
 have had the pleasure of being introduced to Mr. 
 Barrett, to be better authorized to love you, and to 
 take a pride in your successes — tilings which, at pre- 
 sent, I take the liberty of doing without authority." 
 Some not altogether needless advice to her young 
 friend on the fault of obscurity wound up the epistle. 
 
 A few weeks later Miss Mitford returned to the 
 charge saying, '* You should take my venturing to 
 criticise your verses as a proof of the perfect truth of 
 my praise. I do not think there can be a better test 
 of the sincerity of the applause than the venturing 
 to blame. It is also the fault, the one single fault 
 (obscurity) found by persons more accustomed to judge 
 of poetry than myself ; by Mr. Dilke, for instance 
 (proprietor of the Athenaeum) , and Mr. Chorley (one 
 of its principal writers). Charles Kemble once said 
 to me,^' says Miss Mitford, par exemple, " with 
 regard to the drama, ' Think of the stupidest person 
 of your acquaintance and, when you have made 
 your play so clear that you are sure that he would 
 comprehend it, then you may venture to hope that 
 it will be understood by your audience.' And really 
 I think the rule will hold good with regard to 
 poetry in general." Happily Miss Barrett did not 
 try to bring her poetry down to the level of the stupi- 
 dest person's comprehension, and, although she never 
 
WOMANHOOD. 23 
 
 did free it from occasional obscurity, fortunately it 
 never came within the category of "poetry in general." 
 
 In October, Miss Barrett contributed to the pages of 
 the New Montlily Magazine, her lengthy ballad of 
 *' The Poet's Vow." It certainly justified Miss 
 Mitford's hint that, though prepared to love ballads, 
 she was '^ a little biassed in favour of great directness 
 and simplicity." The poem, after opening with allu- 
 sions to the duality of most mundane things, proceeds 
 to recount, more or less directly, how a poet chose to 
 forego all human intercourse. He gave away his 
 worldly goods and spurned his bride expectant, in the 
 hope, apparently, that by casting off the trammels of 
 human sympathy he might escape the woes Adam had 
 entailed upon the human race. To comprehend the 
 nature of the vow and its result the poem must be 
 read in its entirety. 
 
 " The Poet's Vow '' is not only a beautiful poem but 
 is also one of the most characteristic and representative 
 Elizabeth Barrett ever wrote. It has not the grasp of 
 character of '^Aurora Leigh," nor the gush and glow 
 of passion which flows through the melody of " Lady 
 Geraldine's Courtship," but it has a mournful weird- 
 ness that haunts the memory long after the words of it 
 have been forgotten. That no sane man could make 
 such a vow, nor that making could" keep it, is beside 
 the question ; the problem being one in every respect 
 suitable for a poet to grapple with. 
 
 Poems of the mystical nature of the two last re- 
 ferred to were scarcely the class of writing to prove 
 attractive to the clear-minded, somewhat conventional, 
 kindly-hearted Miss Mitford, Miss Barrett's chief 
 correspondent. From time to time in the course of 
 her chatty epistles she cautions her young friend 
 
24 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 against lapses into obscurity, bidding her write *' poems 
 of human feeling and human aetion/' Such warnings 
 could not have hindered Elizabeth Barrett at any time 
 from writing as she felt, but they may have caused her 
 to feel occasionally that the human element should not 
 be quite overshadowed by the psychological. Some- 
 times when she turned her thoughts to incidents of 
 her daily life, she wrote with a simplicity and pathetic 
 tenderness as unparalleled in their way as were her 
 spiritualistic speculations in theirs. One such poem 
 as these, entitled *' My Doves," refers to a pair of 
 doves recently sent to her from tlie tropics as a pre- 
 sent. She wrote to Miss Mitford : — 
 
 Jly little doves were ta'en a^vay 
 
 From that glad nest of theirs, 
 Across an ocean rolling grey, 
 
 And tempest-clouded airs ; 
 My little doves, who lately know 
 The sky and wave by warmth and blue. 
 
 And now, within the city prison. 
 
 In mist and chillness pent, 
 With sudden upward look they listen 
 
 For sounds of past content, 
 For lapse of water, swell of breeze, 
 Or nut-fruit falling from the trees. 
 
 The doves formed quite a topic for the two 
 authoresses to dilate upon. Miss INIitford considered 
 that when she said that her father was quite charmed 
 with Miss Barrett's account of the little brown birdies, 
 she had, indeed, awarded high honour, and when she 
 heard that they had so far grown accustomed to the 
 strangeness of their new habitation as to build a nest 
 and lay their eggs therein, she sent her love to them, 
 with the hope that the eggs might be good. " It would 
 
WOMANHOOD. 25 
 
 be sueli a delight to you," she wrote, "to help the 
 parent birds to bring np tlicir young." 
 
 A few months after this incident !Miss Barrett had 
 a very diflerent theme to write upon, and upon it she 
 wrote in hot liaste. AVilliara the Fourth died on June 
 20th, 1837, and on July 1st the Athenccum contained 
 a poem on " The Young Queen," by E. B. B. 
 
 Why this poem, so characteristic of its author, 
 should not have been included in her Collected 
 Works, where several earlier and less worthy pieces 
 are given, it is difllcult to say ; but it is still less easy 
 to comprehend what principle or plan has guided the 
 editor's selection when /we find excluded from the 
 collection Miss Barrett's next production, "Victoria's 
 Tears," a poem even finer than " The Young Queen/' 
 published the week following in the Athenceum; one 
 quatrain of this poem has become quite a standard 
 quotation : — 
 
 They decked her courtly halls— 
 They reined her hundred steeds — 
 They shouted at her palace gates 
 "A noble Queen succeeds I" 
 
 About 1837, a publication entitled i^<«f/<?«'5 Tableaux 
 of National Cliaracter, Beauty and Costume, was 
 started by W. and E. Findcn. It was to be issued 
 in fifteen monthly parts, each part to contain four 
 plates, " designed and engraved by the most eminent 
 artists/' and " original talcs and poems, by some of 
 the most distinguished authors of the day." Mrs. S. 
 C. Ilall undertook the editorship of the new publica- 
 tion, and obtained the assistance of several well-known 
 writers as contributors. The illustrations were of that 
 ultra-sentimental type which adorned fashionable 
 annuals of fifty years ago ; and, although they would 
 
26 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 not in any way satisfy tlie more critical taste of the 
 present time, M'cre thought very highly of in those 
 days. Instead of the illustrations being made to 
 illustrate the text, writers had to manufacture, and 
 generally in hot haste, poetry and prose to eluci- 
 date or accompany the illustrations. This system, 
 unfortunately not yet abolished, was ruinous as a 
 rule to the production of anything of permanent value, 
 and yet, for various reasons, many truly high-class 
 authors submitted to its tyranny. Elizabeth Barrett, 
 strange to say, was one of those who did not deem it 
 prostrating her talents to patch up pieces to accompany 
 these pictorial shams, and, for Finderi's Tableaux, 
 wrote the introductory poem of *' The Dream." The 
 peg upon which she hung her lines was the picture of 
 a chubby Cupid surrounded by such conventional em- 
 blems as one would expect to see decorating a "Valen- 
 tine/' That her stanzas were unequal — that some 
 of them were unworthy of their authoress — is not 
 surprising, and the only matter for wonder is that she 
 could have been persuaded into doing such hack work. 
 
 For the third number of the Tableaux, to accom- 
 pany one of these commonplace pictures, Miss Bar- 
 rett wrote her ballad, " The Roraaunt of the Page." 
 The subscribers to the five-shillings part must, if they 
 were intellectually capable of appreciating it, have 
 been surprised at the power, originality, and beauty of 
 the poem thus given to them. 
 
 Notwithstanding many defects, partly due to the 
 nature of her inspiration, "The Romauntof the Page," 
 although not to be included among ner finest poems, 
 will always be a favourite one with Elizabeth Barrett's 
 readers, because it is free from metaphysical obscurity 
 and deals directly with the " human feeling and human 
 
WOMANHOOD. 27 
 
 action " Miss Mitford had so wisely recommended her 
 to resort to as theme for her poesy. This same ex- 
 perieEced counsellor, who had succeeded Mrs. Hall in 
 the editorship of the Tableaux, writing to her young 
 correspondent on 28th June, says : — 
 
 My Sweet Love— I want you to write me a poem in illustration of a 
 very charming group of Hindoo girls floating their lamps upon the 
 Ganges — launching them, I should say. You know that pretty super- 
 Btition. I want a poem in stanzas. It must be long enough for two 
 pages, and may be as much longer as you choose. It is for Finderi's 
 Tableaux, of which I have undertaken the editorship ; and I must 
 entreat it within a fortnight or three weeks if possible, because I am 
 limited to time, and have only till the end of next month to send up 
 the whole copy cut and dry. I do entreat you, my sweet young 
 friend, not to refuse me this favour. I could not think of going to 
 press without your assistance, and have chosen for you the very 
 prettiest subject, and, I think, the prettiest plate of the whole 
 twelve. I am quite sure that, if you favour me with a poem, it will 
 be the gem ol the collection. 
 
 To these highly complimentary expressions, Miss 
 Mitford added that the proprietor had given her thirty 
 pounds — '* That is to say, five pounds each for my six 
 poets (I am to do all the prose and dramatic scenes 
 myself) ; and with this five pounds ... I shall have 
 the honour of sending a copy of the work, which will 
 be all the prettier and more valuable for your assist- 
 ance. ... If you can give me time and thought 
 enough to write one of those ballad stories, it would 
 give an inexpressible grace and value to my volume. 
 Depend upon it the time will come when those verses 
 of yours will have a money value.''' 
 
 Miss Barrett agreed to write the required verses, 
 not, it may be assumed, for the money value, whatever 
 may have been her motive. The "prettiest plate," 
 according to the dexterous editorial description, was as 
 commonplice and conventional an engraving as one 
 
23 ELIZABETH BARRETT BBOWNIXG. 
 
 could meet A^itli, even in those days, depicting a group 
 of Hindoo girls, or ratlior women, following the tra- 
 ditional custom of testing their lovers' fidelity by 
 launching little lamps fixed in cocoa shells down 
 the Ganges. If the lover -were faitliful the symbol 
 biat floated away safely down the river ; but, if 
 otherwise, the tiny token quickly disappeared. That 
 " The llomance of the Ganges " was better than the 
 usual run of such " plate '' versification may be granted, 
 but, notwithstanding tlic fact that it is, as was all she 
 Avrote at this period of her life, replete wiih Miss 
 l^arrctt's idiosyncrasies, it is a poor specimen of her 
 skill, and scarcely worthy of the warm praise lavished 
 on it by Miss Mitford. 
 
 Whilst the editor was writing all sorts of laudatory 
 things to and of her favourite contrihutor, " the most 
 remarkable person now alive," and of her ballad, " The 
 Romaunt of the Page,*' as " one of the most charming 
 poems ever written/' that contributor's life seemed 
 hanging by a thread. At the very time that Miss 
 Mitford was describing Elizabeth Barrett as " a young 
 and lovely woman, who lives the life of a hermitess in 
 Gloucester Place . . . and who passes her life in 
 teaching her younger brothers Greek," that very person 
 was suffering from what looked like a mortal illness. 
 Whether she had broken a blood-vessel on the lungs, 
 as is frequently stated, is problematical; but, at any 
 rate, her lungs were affected, and her life, which had 
 so long appeared waning, seemed about to flicker out. 
 Notwithstanding the many poems she continued to 
 write, and the long hours of study she contrived to 
 undergo, nothing but her mind appeared to live ; her 
 body was almost helpless. 
 
 At this time, also, occurred a domestic affliction to 
 
WOMANHOOD, 29 
 
 rack the invalid's mind. It was the death of her uncle, 
 the only brother of Mr. Edward Moulton Barrett, and 
 who was^ says Elizabeth, *^in ])ast times more than au 
 uncle to me." As he died childless, the "s^'hole of his 
 considerable property devolved, it is believed, upon his 
 brother and his brother's family. 
 
 In the letter Miss Barrett wrote to Miss Mit- 
 ford, informing her of her uncle's deatli, alluding to 
 her own delicate health, she remarked — " The turning 
 to spring is always trying, I bjlicve, to affections such 
 as mine, and my strength flngs a good deal, and the 
 cough very little; but Dr. Chambers speaks so encou- 
 ragingly of the probable effect of the coming warm 
 weather, that I take courage and his medicines at the 
 same time, and ' to preserve the harmonics,^ and satisfy 
 some curiosity, have been reading Garth's 'Dispen- 
 sary,' a poem very worthy of its subject.'* 
 
 Unfortunately, the hopes which Dr. Chambers en- 
 deavoured to inspire his patient with were vain. The 
 warm weather was so long in coming that year (1838) 
 that even in the middle of May Miss Mitford wrote, 
 bitterly, that it seemed as if it would never come. 
 Shortly before that letter from Miss Mitford, jNIiss 
 Barrett said to her — " Our bouse in Wimpole Street 
 is not yet finished, but we hope to see the beginning of 
 April in it. You must not think I am very bad, only 
 not very brisk, and really feeling more comfortable than 
 I did a fortniglit since.*' The improvement fore- 
 shadowed, if not imaginary, was certainly not perma- 
 nent. Miss Barrett continued bodily ill, although her 
 mental vigour never faltered. In the midst of her 
 ailments she prepared a collection of her poems, and 
 arranged for their publication. Writing to Miss Mit- 
 ford, to thank her for some encouraging words, she 
 
80 ELIZABETH BABEETT BROWNING. 
 
 tells her the projected volume will include ** a principal 
 poem called the ' Seraphim,' -which is rather a dramatic 
 lyric than a lyrical drama." " I can hardly hope that 
 you will thoroughly like it," is her comment ; " but 
 know well that you will try to do so. Other poems, 
 longer or shorter, will make up the volume, not a word 
 of which is yet printed." 
 
 AYliy Miss Barrett feared that her friend would not 
 be altogether satisfied with the chief poem in her 
 volume will readily be understood by those acquainted 
 with Miss Mitford's ideas on the treatment of " sacred^' 
 themes. The preface was, in all probability, written 
 with a view of combating just such objections as those 
 of her way of thinking were likely to put forward. The 
 preface states : — 
 
 The subject of the principal poem in the present collection having 
 Bnggcsted itself to me, though very faintly and imperfectly, -when I 
 was engaged upon my translation of the "Prometheus Bound" . 
 I thought that had ^schylus lived after the incarnation and crnci- 
 fision of our Lord Jesus Christ, he might have turned, if not in moral 
 and intellectual, yet in poetic, faith from the solitude of Caucasus to 
 the deeper desertness of that crowded Jerusalem, where none had any 
 pity; from the "faded white flower" of the Titanic brow to the 
 " withered grass" of a Heart trampled on by its own beloved ; from 
 the glorying of him who gloried that he could not die, to the sublime 
 meekness of the taster of death for every man ; from the taunt stung 
 into being by the torment, to Ilis more awful silence, when the agony 
 Ptood dumb before the love I . . . . But if my dream be true that 
 JEschylus might have turned to the subject before us, in poetic in- 
 stinct, and if in such a case ... its terror and its pathos would have 
 shattered into weakness the strong Greek tongue, and caused the 
 conscious chorus to tremble round the thymele, how much more may 
 / turn from it, in the instinct of incompetence I . . I have written 
 no work, but a suggestion ... I have felt in the midst of my own 
 thoughts upon my own theme, like Homer's " Children in a Battle." 
 
 The at^ents in this poem are those mystic beings who are designated 
 in Scripture the Seraphim. ... I have endeavoured to mark in my 
 two Seraphic personages, distinctly and predominantly, that shrinking 
 
W03IANH00D. 31 
 
 from and repugnance to evil which, in my weaker Seraph, is expressed 
 hy fear, and in my stronger one by a more complex passion. ... To 
 recoil from evil is according to the stature of an angel ; to subdue it 
 is according to the infinitude of a God. 
 
 If the leading poem of her book failed to make the 
 impression on her readers Miss Barrett desired, it was 
 neither owing to her want of the requisite learning, nor 
 the poetic power to deal with her abstruse theme, but 
 rather that the public preferred to abstract spirituali- 
 ties such poems as Miss Mitford described — ** poems 
 of human feeling and human action." With respect 
 to the other shorter pieces in her book, the authoress 
 claimed that though if her life were prolonged she 
 would hope to write better verses hereafter, she could 
 never feel more intensely than at that moment ** the 
 sublime uses of poetry and the solemn responsibilities 
 of the poet." When it is considered that among the 
 poems thus referred to were, besides those already 
 spoken of, such examples of her genius as " Isabel's 
 Child,'' *'The Deserted Garden," " Cowper's Grave/' 
 and others equally representative of her various moods, 
 and all now become permanent glories of our language 
 and literature, the intensity of Elizabeth Barrett's 
 feelings in their production will not be doubted for a 
 moment by anyone having belief in " the sublime uses" 
 of her art, and in '^ the solemn responsibilities " alluded 
 to by their architect. 
 
S2 FLJZABETII BARRETT UEOWNINQ. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 TORQUAY. 
 
 Towards the autumn of 1838 Miss Barrett's condi- 
 tion grew critical. Almost as a last resource Dr. 
 Chambers, her medical adviser, recommended lier 
 removal to a warmer situation than Loudon. Whilst 
 on the one hand it was feared she could not survive the 
 winter in the metropolis, on the other a long journey 
 was hazardous. Ultimately, in preference to trying a 
 foreign climate, it was decided to risk a move as far as 
 Torquay, and her brother Edward, a brother, as JNIiss 
 Mitford says, "in heart and in talent worthy of such 
 a sister," constituted himself her guardian. INIiss 
 Earrett herself said that her beloved brother meant to 
 fold her in a cloak and carry her in his arras. 
 
 The journey to Torquay was accomplished in safety. 
 Comfortable apartments, with a fine view of the bay, 
 were obtained at the lower end of Brecon Terrace, 
 At first the mild breezes of the south coast appeared 
 to exercise a beneficial effect upon the invalid, and she 
 was enabled to continue her correspondence with 
 literary friends, especially with ]\Iiss Mitford. That 
 lady writes on November 5th, "My beloved Miss 
 
TORQUAY. 83 
 
 Barrett is better ... If she be spared to the world 
 and sliouhl, as she probably will, treat of such subjects 
 as afford room for passion and action, you will see her 
 passing all women and most men, as a narrative or 
 dramatic poet. After all," she adds, '' she is herself 
 in her modesty, her sweetness, and her affectionate 
 warmth of heart, by very far more wonderful than her 
 writings, extraordinary as they are." A few days after 
 these eulogistic lines their writer received a letter from 
 the subject of them, in which she remarks, " Whenever 
 I forget to notice any kindness of yours, do believe, 
 my beloved friend, that I have, notwithstanding, 
 marked the date of it with a white stone, and also with 
 a heart not of stone." Referring then to some precioui 
 seedlings which Miss Mitford, from her own luxuriant 
 little floral realm had sent her, she adds : " You said, 
 * Distribute the seeds as you please,' so, mindful of 
 'those of my own household,' I gave Sept. and Occy. 
 (Septimus and Octavius, her youngest brothers) ler.ve 
 to extract a few very carefully for their garden, com- 
 posed of divers flower-pots and green boxes a-gasping 
 for sun and air from the leads behind our house, and 
 giving the gardeners fair excuse for an occasional 
 coveted colloquy with a great chief gardener in the Re- 
 gent's Park. Yes, and out of a certain precious packet 
 inscribed — as Arabel (her sister Arabella) described it 
 to me— from Mr. Wurdsworlh — I desired her to re- 
 serve some for my very own self, because, you see, if 
 it should please God to permit my return to London, 
 I mean {' pwny don't waugh,' as Ibbit says, when she 
 has been saying sometiiing irresistibly ridiculous) — I 
 mean to have a garden too— a whole flower-pot to my- 
 self — in the window of my particular sitting-room; 
 and then it will be hard indeed if, while the flowers 
 
 3 
 
34 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 grow from those seeds, thoughts of you and the great 
 poet may not grow from them besides." 
 
 A page or two more of sueh innocent chatter follows, 
 and would seem to imply that the invalid's case was 
 not deemed so hopeless, at least by herself, as had been 
 imagined. Turning to more personal affairs, Miss 
 Barrett says : — 
 
 My beloved father has gone away ; he was obliged to go two days 
 ago, and took away with him, I fear, almost as saddened spirits as he 
 left with me. The degree of amendment does not, of course, keep up 
 with the haste of his anxieties. It is not that I am not better, but 
 that he loves mo too well ; there was the cause of his grief in going, 
 and it is not that I do not think myself better, but that I feel how 
 dearly he loves me ; there was the cause of my grief in seeing him go. 
 One misses so the presence of such as dearly love us. His tears fell 
 almost as fast as mine did when we parted, but he is coming back 
 soon — perhaps in a fortnight — so I will not think any more of them, 
 but of that. I never told him of it, of course, but, when I was last 
 so ill, I used to start out of fragments of dreams, broken from all parts 
 of the universe, with the cry from my own lips, " Oh, papa ! papa ! '' 
 I could trace it back to the dream behind, yet there it always was 
 very curiously, and touchingly too, to my own heart, seeming scarcely 
 of me, though it came fro7» me, at once waking me with, and wel- 
 coming me to, the old straight humanities. Well! but I do trust I 
 shall not be ill again in his absence, and that it may not last longer 
 than a fortnight. 
 
 This exposure of her inmost thoughts is thoroughly 
 characteristic of Elizabeth Barrett : the words not 
 only show what intense affection existed between her 
 and her father, but are representative of that semi- 
 mesmeric state which illness, confinement, and over- 
 study appear to have cast her into. Her religion was 
 so real, so intense, so much a part of her existence at 
 this period of her life, that it coloured everything about 
 her and caused, her to regard every incident for good 
 or ill as if it were a direct interposition of the Deity. 
 Seraphim and Cherubim, of whom she had recently 
 
TORQUAY. 85 
 
 written so much, were not the purely ideal personages 
 of her poetic fancy, but she held on to her helief in 
 them as strongly as if they were visually knowahle, 
 and she regarded Lucifer, Adam, Eve, and other 
 characters of the ancient scriptures as truly historical 
 as Ca3sar or Brutus, Antony or Cleopatra. Science 
 was little more than blasphemy, and that the world had 
 existed upwards of six thousand years the fancy at the 
 best of over-heated imagination. Such a woman could 
 be a poet of poets, a very woman of women, with a 
 lieart for all that suffers and exists, and yet, at times, 
 so bigoted and so blinded by excess of faith that she 
 could not rightly judge the motives and their main- 
 springs of many of the best about her. 
 
 Life at Torquay passed away quietly enough. The 
 invalid's physical state varied, yet on the whole a 
 gradual improvement was evidently taking place in her 
 physique. On the 3rd of December she is found writing 
 Miss Mitford one of her usual chatty epistles, discussing 
 with her wonted clarity their various literary and 
 personal matters of mutual interest, not, however, 
 without some slight allusions to her own foreboding 
 fancies. Referring to some disputes the editress of the 
 Tableaux was having with its proprietor. Miss Barrett 
 says, " You may make whatever use of me you please, 
 as long as I am alive, and able to write at all,^' and 
 that Miss Mitford did not fail to avail herself of this 
 permission is self-evident. After some remarks about 
 Mr. Kenyon, Miss Barrett observes, " So he won't have 
 anything to say to our narrative poetry in Finden ? 
 But he is a heretic, therefore we won't mind. After 
 all, I am afraid (since it displeases you) that what I 
 myself delight in most, in narrative poetry, is not the 
 narrative. Beaumont and Fletcher, strip them to their 
 
 3 * 
 
3G ELIZABETH BARRETT nBOWNING. 
 
 plots^ your own Beaumont and Fletcher, and you take 
 away their glory. Alficri is more mariccdly a poet of 
 action than any other poet 1 can think of, and how 
 he makes you shiver ! " 
 
 Speaking of the franking of her letter, slic says, 
 with the humour so frequently displayed in those 
 earlier days of her career : " Little thinks tlie Bishop, 
 whose right reverend autograph conveys my letter to 
 you, that he is aiding and abetting the intercourse of 
 such A'cry fierce radicals. Indeed, the last time I 
 thought of polities I believe I was a republican, to say 
 nothing of some perilous stuff o£ * sectarianism,' which 
 ■would freeze his ecclesiastical blood to hear of." The 
 ** fierce radicalism " of " dearest INIiss Mitford " was, 
 after all, scarcely strong enough to have disturbed 
 his Grace's equanimity, whatever her young corre- 
 spondent's would have done, had he learned aught 
 of it. 
 
 On the 5th of January 1839, Miss Barrett writes to 
 inform her friend that her wishes for a happy new year 
 are already fulfilled, for "papa has come!" Then, 
 speaking of certain family reports as to their friend 
 Kenyon not appearing to be in such good spirits as is 
 usual with him, she throws certain side-lights upon her 
 own character. " It must be that the life he (Kenyon) 
 leads,'' she observes, " will tell at last and at least on 
 his spirits. Only the unexcitable by nature can be 
 supposed to endure continual external occasions of 
 excitement. As if there were not enough — too much 
 — that is exciting from ivithin. For my own part, 1 
 can't understand the craving for excitement. Mine is 
 for repose. My conversion into quietism might be 
 attained without much preaching ; and, indeed, all my 
 favourite passages in the Holy Scriptures are tlioso 
 
TORQUAY. 37 
 
 whfcli express and promise peace, sucli as * The Lord 
 of peace Himself give you peace always and by all 
 means '; ' My peace I give you, not as the world givetli 
 give I '; and ' lie givcth His beloved sleep/' — all such 
 passnges. They strike upon the disquieted earth with 
 such a foreignness of heavenly music. Surely the 
 'variety/ the change, is to be unexcited, to find a 
 silence and a calm in the midst of thouglits and feel- 
 ings given to be too turbulent/' 
 
 In these remarks, so illustrative of her character at 
 this period, Miss Barrett, as is not unusual with her, 
 fails to appreciate the immense difference there is 
 between opposite dispositions, between the bright, 
 healthy, wealthy, much feted man of the world, and the 
 invalided, pious, somewhat superstitious " hermitess/* 
 ** I am tolerably well just now,'' is her significant con- 
 clusion, " and all the better for the sight of papa. 
 He arrived the day before yesterday/' 
 
 But even all the kind care, much less the sight o£ 
 dear ones, could not restore the invalid to health and 
 strength. Her studies and her poetry, her readings 
 and her correspondence, were carried on fitfully and 
 during intervals of longer or shorter duration as her 
 forces permitted. To her enthusiastic praises of some 
 foreign poetry, sent during this period to Miss IMitford, 
 that lady rejoins, in a letter of May 28th : ''After all, 
 to be English, with our boundless vistas in verse and 
 in prose, is a privilege and a glory ; and you are born 
 amongst those Avho make it such, be sure of that. I 
 do not believe, my sweetest, that the very highest 
 poetry does sell at once. Look at Wordsworth ! The 
 hour will arrive, and all the sooner, if to poetry, un- 
 matched in truth and beauty and feeling, you con- 
 descenl to add story and a happy ending, that being 
 
83 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 among the conditions of recurrence to every book with 
 the mass even of cultivated readers — I do not mean 
 the few." 
 
 Much as the poetess loved and admired this expe- 
 rienced correspondent, she never allowed her ideas or 
 advice to influence the thought or — save in the 
 Tableaux — even the theme of her works, and con- 
 tinued to "write poems in which the story, if any, 
 ■was subordinated to the sentiment, and in which the 
 ending was as far removed from happiness as possible. 
 
 The slow months dragged on at Torquay, and no 
 great improvement took place in the invalid's con- 
 dition ; indeed, she went from bad to worse, and at 
 last seemed scarcely to have any hold on life, so far 
 as physical power was concerned. According to 
 Miss ]\Iitford, writing in March 1810, since the 1st 
 of October she had not been dressed, " only lifted 
 from her bed to the sofa, and for the last month 
 not even taken out of bed to have it made. Yet 
 she still writes to me,'' says her friend, " and the 
 physicians still encourage hope ; but her voice has not 
 for six months been raised above a whisper." Then 
 again, writing about the same time to another corre- 
 spondent, Miss Mitford says of the invalid : " The 
 physicians at their last consultation said it was not 
 only possible, but probable, that she would so far 
 recover as to live for many years in tolerable comfort. 
 In the meanwhile she writes to me long letters at least 
 twice a week, reads everything, from the magazines of 
 the day to Plato and the Fathers, and has written {vide 
 the Athenaum of three weeks ago) the most magnificent 
 poem ever written by woman on the Queen's Marriage. 
 Great as is her learning, her genius is still more 
 remarkable, and it is beginning to be felt and acknow- 
 
TORQUAY. S9 
 
 ledged in those quarters where alone the recognition 
 of high genius is desirable.'^ 
 
 The poem thus higlily praised appeared ia tlic 
 AtherKBum of February 15th, 1840, as "The Crowned 
 and Wedded Queen." Marvellous a production as it 
 was, when the circumstances in which it was produced 
 are considered, and abounding though it does in felici- 
 tous expressions, it scarcely realises the pre-eminence 
 Miss Mitford claims for it. Grander poems had been 
 produced by women, had been produced by Miss 
 Barrett herself, who certainly surpassed it a few weeks 
 later by her most suggestive lines on "Napoleon's 
 Return," written on the conveyance of Napoleon's 
 body from St. Helena to Paris for reinterment in the 
 French metropolis. 
 
 During the whole of the winter of 1839, and the 
 first half of 1840, a constant exchange of correspon- 
 dence was carried on between the invalid at Torquay 
 and Miss Mitford and other correspondents, in which 
 all the leading literary and other topics of the day 
 were discussed in a way that proves, however pros- 
 trated by illness Miss Barrett may have been, her 
 mental powers retained all their vigour, and that she 
 still contrived to keep in touch, either by reading or 
 conversation, with the outer world. But a calamity 
 was impending that almost extinguished the dim spark 
 of vitality left in her, and, as she averred, " gave a 
 nightmare to her life for ever." 
 
 The advent of summer and the warm breezes of the 
 south coast had begun to effect some improvement in 
 her constitiition, and to cause her to regard the future 
 somewhat hopefully. She had been nursed through 
 the cold months with the utmost care and affection ; 
 of those devotine themselves to her, both in bodv and 
 
40 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 miud, none was more unwearied in attention and self- 
 sacrificing for her sake than her eldest brother, 
 Edward. Next to her father he was first ia her 
 heart and mind, and her affection for him was fully 
 reciprocated. lie seems to have been an amiable and 
 admired young man, known and liked amongst the 
 visitors and residents at Torquay. lie joined in the 
 general amusements of the place as often as he could 
 leave his sister's couch, and had formed acquaintance 
 with other young men of his own position in life at 
 Torquay. 
 
 July came. One Saturday, it was the lltli, Ed- 
 ward Barrett arranged to go for a sail with two com- 
 panions ; they were Charles Vanneek, the only son of 
 the Honourable Mrs. Gerard Vanneck, a young man 
 in his twenty-first year, and Captain Carlyle Clarke, 
 nick-named " Lion Clarke," on account of a narrow 
 escape he had from the clutches of a lion he killed in 
 Bengal. The three hired the Belle Sauvage, a small 
 pleasure yacht noted for its great speed, and as win- 
 ner o£ a large number of prize cups. They took with 
 them an experienced pilot named White, and started 
 for a few hours' trip, intending only to go as far as 
 Teignmouth. 
 
 Saturday passed, and tlie boat did not return ; Mr. 
 Barrett, Senior, was not at Torquay, and Miss Barrett 
 had to endure the agony of uncertainty and suspense 
 uneheered by her father's presence. Sunday came 
 and the boat did not return. The dreary agonizing 
 hours passed and no sign of the pleasure party. At 
 last a rumour reached Torquay, and found its way to 
 the heartsick watchers, that a boat corresponding in 
 appearance with the missing one had been seen to sink 
 off Teignmouth. The terrifying intelligence wanted 
 
TORQUAY. 41 
 
 confirmation; and as there still remained a possibility 
 that tlic young mca might have gone on to Exmouth, 
 searchers were s^nt to that place, as well as along the 
 coast, to make inc[uiries. Their efforts were vain ; 
 nothing could be heard of the lost ones. At last 
 full evidence of the worst was obtained ; two boat- 
 men, of Exraouth, deposed that they saw a yacht with 
 four men on board sink off Teignmouth. In conse- 
 quence of this information two boats, well manned and 
 armed with grapnels and other appliances, were 
 despatched to the spot where the yacht -was supposed 
 to have gone down, to search for the bodies. 
 
 How can the horror and misery of this time be 
 told. The dreadful suspense, which all the grief of 
 the terrible truth could scarcely intensify. A widowed 
 mother mourning for her only son ; a father and 
 brother for a brother and son, who had survived the 
 dangers of war and deadly climes only to sink into 
 the deep almost in sight of home ; and a sister, lying 
 helpless on a sick bed, wasting vain tears for the 
 beloved companion of her life, who was gone for ever, 
 whose corse even could not be wept over, and who, 
 horror of horrors ! but for the affection which had 
 brought him to her side, might still have been alive 
 and happy ! Thus thought Miss Barrett, as she lay 
 utterly prostrated with anguish and suspense; thus 
 she argued in* the midst of her terrible agony. 
 
 Mr. Barrett arrived, but his arrival seemed of little 
 value now. In conjunction with the other bereaved 
 persons he offered heavy rewards for recovery of the 
 bodies, but the days passed and no vestige could be 
 obtained. At last, on the 18th instant, it was an- 
 nounced that Captain Clarke's body had been picked 
 up by the trawler, about four miles from Dartmouth. 
 
42 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 and although several days had elapsed since the 
 accident, it was not in the least disfigured, and in tlie 
 button-hole of his coat Mere still the flowers which h* 
 had worn when he started on the pleasure trip. The 
 days still came and went, and again the sea cast forth 
 its dead. It was not until the 4th of August that the 
 body of Edward Barrett was discovered ; it had boen 
 seen floating near the Great Rock, Torbay, and was 
 picked up by a boatman and taken ashore. Mr. 
 Barrett identified his son's body, a Coroner's verdict 
 of *' Accidentally Drowned " was returned, and the 
 remains, together with those of Captain Clarke, and 
 subsequently of William White, the pilot, were in- 
 terred in the parish church of Tormohun, Torquay. 
 Whether Charles Vauneck's body was ever found is 
 doubtful. 
 
 The suspense was over, and " the sharp reality now 
 must act its part." Nor money, nor genius, nor love 
 were now of any avail, and the poor broken-hearted 
 invalid, lying half senseless on her couch, had neither 
 mind nor hearing for aught save the cruel sea beating 
 upon the shore, and sounding, as she afterwards said, 
 like nothing but a dirge for the untimely dead. " The 
 sound of the waves rang in her ears like the moans of 
 one dying." 
 
 For months Elizabeth Barrett hovered between life 
 and death : '* I being weak," as she said, " was struck 
 down as by a bodily blow in a moment, without having 
 time for tears." Everything that love and wealth 
 could do for her was done, and time and nature both 
 soothed and strengthened her in her affliction. Some 
 slight reflex of her feelings may be gained from a perusal 
 of her poem '* De Profundis," published only after death 
 had claimed her also. The earlier stanzas express the 
 
TOEQUAY, 43 
 
 depth of her despair ■when she was first cnaLlcd to 
 comprehend the certainty of her loss. After the full 
 heart has given vent to its wild passionate cry of utter 
 hopelessness a ray of light breaks in, the consolation 
 of rehgion is sought and found, and the weary heart, 
 as expressed in the remainder of the poem, is soothed 
 to rest by faith in Divine goodness. 
 
 During these months of misery, whilst the invalid's 
 life was hanging by a thread, there appeared the most 
 influential notice of her poetic efforts that had as yet 
 been published. In the September number of tlie 
 Quarterly Eeritw a criticism was given of the various 
 volumes of poetry she owned. The reviewer was 
 not altogether unjust nor unappreciative, although 
 Miss Barrett subsequently took an opportunity of con- 
 troverting his animadversions upon some of her man- 
 nerisms. Attention was called to her extraordinary 
 acquaintance with ancient classic literature, as also to 
 the daring nature of her themes. Her beautiful lines 
 on " Cowper's Grave " were selected for especial com- 
 mendation, and an extract from " Isobel's Child,'* a 
 poem the reviewer did not appear to recognise the full 
 value of, vras given as a " specimen of her general 
 manner and power.'' 
 
 T/ie Seraphim was noticed by the reviewer as a sub- 
 ject " Miss Barrett would not have attempted, if she 
 had more seriously considered its ahsolute unapproach- 
 ableuess," whilst her translation of Prometheus, al- 
 though pronounced " a remarkable performance for a 
 young lady," was deemed uncouth, unfaithful to the 
 original, and devoid of fire. Altogether the review 
 was calculated to improve Miss Barrett's position in 
 the world of letters, classing her, as it did, among 
 " modern English poetesses/' and manifestly to the dis- 
 
U ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 advantage of tliose ladies whose names and works were 
 coupled with hers. It was this classification, however, 
 that annoyed our poetess more than aught else in the 
 review. 
 
 Towards the end of November Miss Mitford M^as 
 enabled to report that her friend was somewhat better, 
 but I fear, she added, "we dare not expect more than 
 a few months of lingering life." But the vital spark 
 did not flutter out, and the improvement in the in- 
 valid's condition, if slow, was, with some fluctuations, 
 continuous. ^'I did not think/' she wrote some few 
 months later, '* to be better any more, but I have quite 
 rallied now, except as to strength, and they say that 
 on essential points I shall not suffer permanently — and 
 this is a comfort to poor papa." To another corre- 
 spondent Miss Barrett wrote, as an excuse for not 
 following up some literary labour : — 
 
 No — no ; the headache is no excuse. I have not frequent headaches, 
 and if just now I am rather more feverish and uncomfortable thaa 
 usual, the cause ia in the dreadful weather — the snow and east wind. 
 . . . These extreme causes do, however, aEFect me as little, even 
 less, my physician says, than mij^ht have been feared; and I think 
 steadily — hope steadily — for London at the end of May, so to attain a 
 removal from this place, which has been so eminently fatal to my 
 happiness. 
 
 The only gladness associated with the banishment here has been 
 your offered sjTupathy and friendship. Otherwise, bitterness has 
 dropped on bitterness like the snows more than I can tell, and inde- 
 pendent of that last most overwhelming affliction of my life, from the 
 edge of the chasm of which I may struggle, but never can escape. 
 
 Writing on the 17th of May 1841, to Richard II. 
 Home, the author of Orion and Cosmo de' Medici, with 
 whom she had already been a correspondent for some 
 time past, she says : — • 
 
 I shall bo more at ease when I have thanked you, dear Mr. Ilorne, 
 for your ass irance of sympathy, which, in its feeling and considerate 
 
TORQUAY. 45 
 
 expression a few days since, touclicd me so nearly and deeply. With- 
 out it I should have -written \shen I was able — I mean physically aLlo 
 — for in the exhaustion coneequcnt upon fever, I have been too weak 
 to hold a pen. As to reluctnr.cy of feeling, believe me that I must 
 change more than illness or grief can change me, before it becomes a 
 painful effort to communicate with one so very kind as you have been 
 to me. . . . Besides the appreciated sympathy, I have to acknow- 
 ledge four proofs of your remembrance, the seals of which lay 
 unbroken for a fortnight or more after their removal here. . . . 
 You have been in the fields — I know by the flowers — and found there, 
 I suppose, between the flowers and the life and dear Mrs. Orme, that 
 pleasant dream (for me I) about my going to London at Easter. I 
 never dreamt it. And while you wrote, what a mournful contrary 
 was going on here ! It was a heavy blow (may God keep you from 
 6uch I). I knew you would be sorry for me when you heard. 
 
 A few days later she resumed her correspondence 
 •with Home, chiefly with respect to his fine drama of 
 Gregory the Seventh, to which was prefixed an " Essay 
 on Tragic Influence " : — 
 
 I have read but little lately, and not at all until very lately ; but 
 two or three days ago papa held up Gregory before my eyes as some- 
 thing sure to bring pleasure into them. "Ah! I knew that would 
 move you." After all, I have scarcely been long enough face to face 
 with him to apprehend the full grandeur of his countenance. There 
 are very grand things, and expounded in your characteristic massive- 
 ness of diction. But it does so far appear to me that for the tragic 
 heights, and for that passionate singleness of purpose in which you 
 surpass the poets of our time, we shall revert to Cosmo and Marlowe. 
 Well, it may be very wrong — I must think over my thoughts. And 
 at any rate the " Essay on Tragic Influence" is full of noble philo- 
 sophy and poetry — perhaps the highest — and absolutely independent, 
 in its own essence, of stages ; which involve, to my mind, little more 
 than its translation into a grosser form, in order to its apprehension 
 by the vulgar. What Macready can touch Lear'? In brief, if the 
 union between tragedy and the gaslights be less incongruous and 
 absurd than the union between Church and State, is it less desecra- 
 tive of the Divine theory ? In the clashing of my No against your 
 yes, I must write good-bye. 
 
 Soon afterwards Miss Barrett commenced a scries 
 of most interesting letters to Home in connection with 
 
46 ELIZABETn BARRETT BROWNINa. 
 
 dramatic subjects. He had solicited her signature for 
 a memorial to Parliameut, petitioning the abolition of 
 the theatrical monopoly, and praying that " every 
 theatre should be permitted to enact the best dramas 
 it could obtain." In the most delicate yet determined 
 way possible, the invalid recluse declined to comply 
 ■with the request. "I tremble to do it/' she says; 
 " take a long breath before I begin, and then beg 
 you to excuse me about the signature." Alluding 
 to his belief that as soon as the monopoly was 
 abolished a career of glory would commence at 
 c?ice for the best drama and the best dramatists, and 
 that the public would immediately flock to those 
 houses where good plays and good actors only were 
 to be seen, Miss Barrett says, " As to the petition 
 . . . you are sure to gain the immediate object, 
 and you ought to do so, even although the ultimate 
 object remain as far off as ever, and more evidently 
 far. There is a deeper evil than licences or the want 
 of licences — the base and blind public taste. Multiply 
 your theatres and licence everyone. Do it to-day, and 
 the day after to-morrow (you may have one night) 
 there will come Mr. Bunn, and turn out you and 
 Shakespeare with a great roar of licr-s. Well ! we 
 shall see.^' 
 
 Reverting to more personal matters, this determined 
 and not to be persuaded invalid is found once more 
 looking with eager eyes to her home in the distant 
 metropolis. '* When do you go to Italy ? " she asks ; 
 ''for me, I can't answer. I am longing to go to 
 London, and hoping to the lust. For the present — 
 certainly the window has been opened twice, an inch — 
 but I can't be lifted even to the sofa without fainting. 
 And my physician shakes his head, or changes the 
 
TORQUAY. 47 
 
 conversation, which is worse, whenever London is 
 mentioned. But I do grow stronger ; and if it become 
 possible I shall go — ivill go! That sounds better, 
 doesn't it ? Putting it off to another summer is like 
 a 'never/ " 
 
 In her next letter, early in June, she informs Home 
 that she is 
 
 Revived just now — pleased, anxious, excited altogether, in the hopa 
 of touching at last upon my last days at this place. I have been up, 
 and bore it excellently — up an hour at a time, without fainting, and 
 on several days without injury ; and now am looking forward to the 
 journey. My physician has been open with me, and is of opinion that 
 there is a good deal of risk to be run in attempting it. But my mind 
 is made up to go ; and if the power remains to me I will go. To be 
 at home, and relieved from the sense of doing evil where I would 
 soonest bring a blessing — of breaking up poor papa's domestic peace 
 into fragments by keeping my sisters hero (and he won't let them 
 leave me) — would urge me into any possible "risk" — to say nothing 
 of the continual repulsion, night and day, of the sights and sounds of 
 this dreary place. There will be no opposition. So papa promised 
 me at the beginning of last winter that I should go when it became 
 "possible." Then Dr. Scully did not talk of "risk," but of certain 
 consequences. He said I should die on the road. I know how to 
 understand the change of phrase. There is only a " risk " now — and 
 the journey is " possible." So I go. 
 
 We are to have one of the patent carriages, with a liiousand springs, 
 from London, and I am afraid of nothing. I shall set out, I hope, in a 
 fortnight. Ah 1 but not directly for London. There is to be some 
 intermediate place where we all must meet, papa says, and stay for a 
 month or two before the final settlement in Wimpole Street — and he 
 names " Clifton," and I pray for the neighbourhood of London, because 
 I look far (too far, perhaps, for me), and fear being left an exile again at 
 those Hot Wells during the winter. I don't know what "the finality 
 measure " may be. The only thing fixed is a journey from hence. 
 
 Considering the condition Miss Barrett was in, and 
 that she had even to recline on her back whilst writing, 
 it is marvellous that she was enabled to write the 
 quantity, apart from the quality, of matter that she did 
 at this time. Besides her lengthv communications to 
 
48 ELIZABETH BAREETT BROWNING. 
 
 Home, Miss Mitford, and others, she was busy assisting 
 the first-named correspondent in sketehing out and 
 writing a Ijrieal drama. 
 
 Psyche Apocalypte, the name finally adopted, by the 
 two poets as the title of their joint drama, was to be 
 modelled on " Greek instead of modern tragedy/' The 
 correspondence which the suggestions and dual labour 
 on this drama gave rise to was most voluminous, and 
 although the work was never completed, there was 
 quite enough of it put together to justify Ilorne pub- 
 lishing the fair-sized pamphlet on it he eventually did. 
 
 Miss Barrett's original conception of the Avork is 
 shadowed forth in these words : — 
 
 My idea, the terror attending spiritual conFciousness — the man's 
 soul to the man — is something which has not, I think, been worked 
 hitherto, and seems to admit of a certain grandeur and wildness in the 
 execution. The awe of this soul-consciousness breaking into occasional 
 lurid heats through the chasm of our conventionalities has struck me, 
 in my own self-observation, as a mystery of nature very grand in 
 itself, and is quite a distinct mystery from conscience. Conscience has 
 to do with action (every thought being spiritual action), and not with 
 abstract existence. There are moments when we are startled at the 
 footsteps of our own being, more than at the thunders of God. 
 
 Horne accepted this psychological problem as the 
 basis for the drama, taking good care, however, in 
 his own practical way, to make it more comprehen- 
 sible, and humanising it by a fairly readable plot and 
 the introduction of numerous supernumerary per- 
 sonages, human and otherwise. ]\Iuch of it was already 
 written when Miss Earrctt's removal from Torquay and 
 journey to London caused a lengthy interregnum in the 
 work, and subsequent events intervened to prevent its 
 continuation and completion. 
 
 In her charming literary correspondence with Ilorne 
 Miss Barrett furnishes many interesting little i)ieccs o 
 
TORQUAY. 40 
 
 personal history. She does not refrain from jesting 
 about her own invalided condition, and, in the com- 
 munication just cited from, says : " How you would 
 smile sarcasms and epigrams out of the ' hood ' if you 
 could see from it what I have been doing, or rather 
 suffering, lately ! Having my picture taken by a lady 
 miniature-painter, who wandered here to put an old 
 view of mine to proof. For it wasn't * the ruling 
 j^assion strong in death/ ' though by your smiling you 
 may seem to say so/ but a sacrifice to papa." 
 
 A month later, and she, still a prisoned sprite, 
 ■writes : — 
 
 What made me write was, indeed, impatience — there is no denying 
 it — only not about the drama. Do you know what it is to be shut up 
 in a room by oneself, to multiply ona's thoughts by one's thoughts — 
 how hard it is to know what " one's thought is like " — how it grows 
 and grows, and spreads and spreads, and ends in talcing some super- 
 natural colour — just like mustard and cress sown on flannel in a 
 dark closet ? . . . I was very sorry about the cough. Do not neglect 
 it, lost it end as mine did ; for a common cough striking on an insub- 
 stantial frame began my bodily troubles ; and I know well what that 
 suffering is, though nearly quite free from it now. 
 
 The fortnight within which the invalid was to risk a 
 remove came and went, and still her letters bear the 
 post-mark of hated Torquay. On the 4th August she 
 writes : — " I am gasping still for permission to move 
 too; but papa bas gone suddenly into Herefordshire, 
 and I am almost sure not to hear for a week. Some- 
 thing, however, must soon be determined ; and in the 
 meantime, being tied hand and foot, and gagged, I am 
 wonderfully patient." Ten days later and still the 
 Barretts did not risk removal. On the 14th Elizabeth 
 wrote a characteristic letter to Home, wherein was 
 much playl'ul badinage, and the remark, in reference to 
 her childish epic — " Ah ! when I was ten years old, I 
 
 4 
 
50 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 beat you all — you and Napoleon and all — in ambition ; 
 but now I only want to get home." 
 
 ** I only want to get home ! " sueh had been the burden 
 of Elizabeth Barrett's wishes from mouth .to mouth ; 
 and at last, late in the summer of 1841, she was con- 
 veyed to her father's residcnee in Wirapole Street in 
 safety. All that is known of the journey is told by 
 Miss Mitford — a very imaginative person, be it remem- 
 bered, in some things. "My beloved Miss Barrett,'^ 
 she says, " accomplished the journey by stages of 
 twenty-five miles a-day in one of the invalide carriages, 
 where the bed is drawn out like a drawer from a table." 
 She had not been home many days before Miss Mitford 
 travelled up to London to visit her, and remarks — " I 
 found her better than I dared to hope." 
 
CHAPTER lY. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 ^Iiss MiTFORD found Elizabetli Barrett better tTian 
 she had dared to hope, yet still an utter invalid. 
 Speaking of her appearance now as contrasted "with 
 Avhat it was when she first met her, she says : — 
 
 She has totally lost the rich, bright colouring, which certainly made 
 the greater part of her beauty. She is dark and pallid ; the hair 
 is almost entirely hidden ; the look of youth Pone (I think she now 
 looks as much beyond her actual age as formerly she looked behind 
 it), nothing remaining but the noble forehead, the matchless eyes, and 
 the fine form of her mouth and teeth — even now their whiteness is 
 healthy. . . . The expression, too, is completely changed; the sweet- 
 ness remains, but it ia accompanied with more shrewdness, more 
 gaiety, the look not merely of the woman of genius — that she always 
 had — but of the superlatively clever woman. An odd effect of 
 absence from general society, that the talent for conversation should 
 have ripened, and the shyness have disappeared — but so it is. When 
 I first saw her, her talk, delightful as it was, had something too much 
 of the lamp — she spoke too well — and her letters were rather too 
 much like the very best books. Now all that is gone ; the fine 
 thoughts come gushing and sparkling like water from a spring, but 
 How as naturally as water down a hillside, clear, bright, and sparkling 
 in the sunshine. All this, besides its groat delightfulness, looks like 
 life, does it not ? Even in this weather — very trying to her — she has 
 been translating some hymns of Gregory Nazianzen . . . and is 
 talking of a series of articles for the At/tenceum, comprising critiques 
 on the Greek poets of the early Christian centuries, with poetical 
 
 4 * 
 
52 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNINO. 
 
 trannlations. I had rather she -wrote more " Cloud Houses," and have 
 told her so ; and, above all, I had rather see a groat narrative poem, 
 of an interest purely human (for one can't trust her wi<th the mystical). 
 
 *' The House of Clouds," alluded to by Miss Mit- 
 ford, had appeared in the Alhenaum of August 21st. It 
 ■was alone sufficient to have made a poetic reputation ; 
 no poet ever penned a purer or more poetic piece, or 
 one in which the music is wedded to the metre in more 
 ethereal beauty. A sample stanza is sufficient to show 
 what an artist in words Elizabeth Barrett could be at 
 licr best — 
 
 Cloud- walls of the morning's grey, 
 
 Faced -with amber column 
 Crowned with crimson cupola, 
 
 From a sunset solemn I 
 ]Ma3'-mists, for the casements, fetch, 
 
 Pale and glimmering ; 
 "With a sunbeam hid in each, 
 
 And a smell of spring ! 
 
 Who but will agree with ]\Iiss Mitford in her wish 
 that a poet who could indite such lovely lines should 
 continue so to write, instead of squandering her genius 
 over the hopeless task of trying to resuscitate the dry 
 bones of those irretrievably dead Greek Fathers of the 
 Church. But what Elizabeth Barrett willed she did, 
 and having made her mind up that the early Greek 
 Christians kept the torch of Hellenic poesy from 
 utterly fluttering out, she wrote a series of papers, 
 and translated a lot of mouldering verse, to prove it to 
 the public. These translations from, and articles on 
 *■* The Greek Christian Poets," duly appeared in the 
 Athcncsiim of the following year. They are now chiefly 
 memorable and valuable for their author's sake, and as 
 a specimen of her magnificent diction ; the opening 
 sentence of the first essay is a splendid example of the 
 
HOME. 6S 
 
 richness and verbal picturesqueness of English proas 
 in competent hands. 
 
 In the preceding Octobor, Miss Barrett had pub- 
 lislied in the Athenceum, to which she was a frequent 
 contributor, some charming, characteristic lines, en- 
 titled, " Lessons from the Gorse," and in many ways 
 displayed increased literary activity. With reviving 
 health her energies appeared to revive ; and althougli 
 she suffered much during the short frost which ushered 
 in the early winter of 1811, she recovered quickly. 
 Her correspondence with literary people increased and, 
 at rare intervals, friends were admitted into the darkened 
 chamber, in which she passed her time. She wag, 
 indeed, much better now that she had left behind tho 
 terrible, suggestive sound o£ the never-silent sea, and 
 had regained the calm seclusion of home. She wrote 
 continually, and read and studied unceasingly. With- 
 out these occupations for her mind, it has been sug- 
 gested, she never could have lived. Iler medical 
 attendant did not comprehend this phase of her con- 
 stitution, and remonstrated with her on her closo 
 application to her favourite Greek authors. To save 
 herself from his diatribes she had a small edition of 
 Plato bound up to resemble a novel. 
 
 Writing to Ilorne on the subject of her varied read- 
 ing, Elizabeth Barrett says : — 
 
 So you think I never read Fonblanque or Sydney Smith — or Junius, 
 perhaps ? Mr. Kenyon calls me his " omnivorous cousin." I read 
 •without principle. I have a sort of unity, indeed, but it amalgamates 
 instead of selecting — do you understand ? When I had read the 
 Hebrew Bible, from Genesis to Slalachi, right through, and was never 
 stopped by the Chaldean — and the Greek poets, and Plato, right through 
 from end to end — I passed as thoroughly through the flood of all 
 possible and impossible British and foreign novels and romances, with 
 sl'ces of metaphysics laid thick between the sorrows of the multitu- 
 
54 tJLIZABETn BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 dinons Celestinas. It is only useful knowledge and tho multiplication 
 table I have never tried hard at. And now — what now ? Is this 
 matter of exultation ? Alas, no ! Do I boast of my omnivorousness of 
 reading, even apart from tho romances? Certainly no ! never, except 
 in joko. It's against my theories and ratiocinations, which take upon 
 themselves to assert that we all generally err by reading too viuch, and 
 out of proportion to what wo t/imk. I should bo wiser, I am per- 
 Buadod, if I had not read half as much — should have had stronger 
 and better exercised faculties, and should stand higher in my own 
 appreciation. Tho fact is, that the ne plus ultra of intellectual in- 
 dolence is this reading of books. It comes next to what the Ameri- 
 cans call " whittling." 
 
 These ■wise and pregnant sentences are ^vell Avorth 
 reproduction and pondering over, altliougli it must be 
 confessed that Elizabeth Barrett, even if her reading 
 were so varied as slie humorously asserts, is an appa- 
 rent exception to the theory she propounds. Iler 
 large range of reading continually supplies her with 
 apt allusions and appropriate similes. Her letters, as 
 Miss Mitford exclaims, " are such letters ! " 
 
 Writing early in December 1841, that lady says she 
 has just been reading a favourite book oE Miss Barrett, 
 lent her by that dear friend. It is Stilling's Theory of 
 Pneumatology, and Miss Mitford faithfully describes it as 
 '* a most remarkable collection of ghost stories, dreams, 
 &c., very interesting for its singular mixture of credulity, 
 simplicity, shrewdness, and good faith." This letter 
 contains the first intimation of Miss Barrett's leaning 
 to a belief in apparitions, a belief which doubtless laid 
 the foundation of her future credulity in matters con- 
 nected with that modern imposture, Spiritualism. 
 
 Miss Mitford, in her voluminous correspondence 
 with Elizabeth Barrett, continued to make remarks 
 anent her spiritual theories. At first the elder lady 
 appeared to somewhat sympathise with her friend's 
 views; but as they became more pronounced, and 
 
WOMK n5 
 
 crerlence was given to the more oidrS forms of moderq 
 superstition, Miss Mitford retreated from the field. 
 
 In the following February one learns that Miss 
 Barrett is much better in health, and that she can 
 even walk from the bed to the sofa, quite a grand deed 
 for her. The report for the next month shows main- 
 tained improvement, and her friends are now quite 
 liopeful for her. Her reading continues to be as 
 varied and large as ever, ana her ietiers to be filled 
 with her clever comments upon what she reads. Her 
 chief correspondent was Miss Mitford, who encouraged 
 her to her utmost by praises of her great and growing 
 powers. She writes — 
 
 My lovo and ambition for yon often seems to be more like that of a 
 mother for a son, or a father for a daughter (the two fondest of 
 natural emotions), than the common bond of even a close friendship 
 between two women of different ages and similar pursuits. I sit and 
 think of you, and of the poems that you will write, and of that 
 strange, brief rainbow crown called Fame, until the vision is befoi-e 
 me as vividly as ever a mother's heart hailed the eloquence o! a 
 patriotic son. Do you understand this ? And do you pardon it ? You 
 mus' , my precious, for there is no chance that I should unbuild that 
 house of clouds ; and the position that I long to see you fill is higher, 
 firmer, prouder than ever has been filled by a woman. 
 
 Great as was Miss Barrett's improvement, and well 
 as she had borne the winter, we find that even by 
 April she is unable to do more than move into the 
 next room at the most, and that she is still unable to 
 receive any new visitors. Her interchange of letters 
 with Miss Mitford, however, becomes more incessant 
 than ever, and from them one is enabled to learn what 
 books the two ladies are reading, what their opinions 
 upon them and upon the leading literary topics of the 
 day are, and what each is doing as regards literature. 
 As for Miss Barrett. little snve literature seemed to 
 
5G ELIZABETH BARBETT BRO WNIKG. 
 
 her worth liviiif^ for. Books, books, books, were 
 almost the sole object of her life, and to read or write 
 them her only occupation. Almost the only unliterary 
 subject introduced is "Flush/^ a favourite spaniel 
 presented to the poetess by Miss Mitford. 
 
 The year 1812 passed away quietly for Elizabeth 
 Barrett. Her health's improvement — slow, very slow, 
 if sure — was the chief and most important event for 
 her. If she wrote much, she published little or 
 nothing beyond a few poems, and "The Greek Christian 
 Poets," already spoken of. But during this time 
 she was steadily preparing a new collection of poetry, 
 of priceless value, for the press. Writing to Home at 
 the end of December, she says, in her jesting way, 
 '^The world is better than I imagined, and since I 
 wrote to you about booksel'ers, I have had an inkling 
 of a reason for believing what I had not faith for 
 previously, that in the case of my resolving to deliver 
 up a volume of poems to my own former publisher, he 
 would print it without being paid for it." 
 
 The first few months of 1843, like the last few of 
 its predecessor, are almost a blank as far as any records 
 of Miss Barrett's career are available. In April, Miss 
 Mitford says she has a letter from her, " more cheer- 
 ful and healthy than any I have received for a very 
 long time." And on the 14th of June, the poetess 
 sends a more than usually humorous letter to Home, in 
 reference to the distribution of his grand epic of 
 Orion, published originally at the price of One 
 Earthing. This nominal price. Home says, was fixed 
 in order to save the author the trouble and expense of 
 sendmg copies to his numerous friends. Miss Barrett^s 
 first letter on the subject, which reads as if she were 
 pretending to be piqued with the poet, shows that, after 
 
HOME. S7 
 
 all, he did not escape cither gratuitous distribution or 
 literary correspondence in consequence. Certainly, if 
 all his correspondents had possessed the epistolary 
 talent of this one, he would have had nothing to regret 
 at the failure of his plan. She writes : — 
 
 I have road and forwarded your letter to Miss Mitford, •who tells 
 mo in a letter yesterday (a cross stitch) that, in spite of all I can say, 
 she is glad of having written to you, because you " will be obliged to 
 say something in your answer." Well 1 I also am glad that somebody 
 is curious besides myself; and I am not sorry that the somebody should 
 be herself, being jealous of her, " with Styx nine times round me," in 
 natural proportion to her degree of glory and victory and twenty-five 
 promised copies ! 
 
 Very well, Mr. Home I 
 
 " It is quite useless," said I to Miss Mitford, " that you should make 
 your application ! Uave I not asked for six copies, and been refused? " 
 Now carry the result of the application historically downwards — and 
 me with it ! 
 
 As to your suggestion about the compromise of her and my struggling 
 heroically for these spolia opima — really you can know little of what 
 heroes , female heroes, are made, to suggest such a thing ! I have told Miss 
 Mil ford (to disabuse you at once) that not if she and you asked me on 
 your four knees to touch a page of the twenty-five would I consent to 
 Buch a thing. I make feminine oaths against it. I don't choose to 
 DO IT. . . . Not in the least do I approve of your distributing the 
 second edition in the manner of the first. The cause of it, and the 
 object in it, are inscrutable to me, particularly as I don't hold to the 
 common opinion that much poetry has made the author mad. Papa 
 says, " Perhaps he is going to shoot the Queen, and is preparing 
 evidence of monomania " — an ingenious conjecture, but not altogether 
 satisfactory. 
 
 The letter from which these extracts are taken had 
 not been written long before the Avriter began to fear 
 that their humorous banter might be taken too 
 seriously, so she indited another epistle about 
 Orion, saying, " I am more sorry ... at having 
 written a very silly note to you. That it was simply 
 silly — meaning that it wasn't seriously silly — I beg you 
 to believe. I am apt to write, the thought or the jest 
 
58 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 as it may be, -which is uppermost — and sometimes, too, 
 ■when it is not uppermost. I struggle against a sadness 
 ■whicli is strong, by putting a levity in the place o£ it. 
 Now you will wonder what I have been writing if you 
 have not received the note yet, and so I will explain to 
 you that it was only some foolishness about the twenty- 
 five copies — about Miss Mitford's victory and my 
 defeat, k. t. \." 
 
 The tone of this and other letters written by Eliza- 
 beth Barrett is explained by what she writes in a 
 following communication to Home. Referring to her 
 great shyness in meeting strangers, she says, " But that 
 you won^t believe, because, as Mr. Kenyon says, I grow 
 insolent when I have a pen in my hand, and you know 
 me only * by that sign.' I sometimes doubt to myself 
 (do you know, besides) whether if I should ever be face 
 to face with you, the shame and the shyness would not 
 annihilate the pleasure of it to me I '' 
 
 That this shyness was real, no student of Elizabeth 
 Barrett's life and letters can doubt, and that that it was 
 which ofttimes forced her into writing somewhat over- 
 strained and bold epistles — so different to her retiring 
 ^nature — just as very bashful people often blurt out 
 more forcible and more courageous things than really 
 brave but more self-possessed persons would dare to. 
 
 As the year advanced, and there were no signs of the 
 invalid's falling back into her former sad condition, 
 ^liss Mitford, assisted by j\Ir. Kenyon, endeavoured to 
 impress upon !Mr. Barrett the advantages likely to 
 accrue to his daughter by her being got out of town; 
 but either he or the invalid herself feared the risk, 
 and nothing was done. Iler collection of poems, which 
 it was arranged Moxon should publish, was rapidly 
 approaching completion. It was to be in two volumes, 
 
nOMK BO 
 
 and not to contain anytliing included in tlic previous, 
 the 1838, collection. One important piece to be in 
 this new w ork had appeared in Blackwood for August, 
 under the title of "The Cry of the Children." It 
 liad been sug^gcsted by the Report of Home on "The 
 Employment of Children in iNIines and Manuf;\ctories." 
 lie had been appointed by the Government an Assis- 
 tant Commissioner to the Commission appointed to 
 inquire into the subject, and his evidence, sf<ys Miss 
 Earrett, excited licr to write the poem named "The 
 Cry of tlic Children." This poem, whicli Edj^ar Poc 
 well characterised as " full of a nervous unflinching 
 energy — a horror sublime in its simplicity — of which 
 Dante himself miglit have been proud " — created quite 
 a sensation on its appearance, and has been deemed, 
 with mucli show of probability, to have hastened and 
 helped the passing of the initial Act of Parliament 
 restricting the employment of children of tender 
 years. The poem is grand in its pathos and passion, 
 in the simplicity of its suffering children, and the 
 liardly restrained and lofty anger at their treatment. 
 Some stanzas should be cited, if only to show what a 
 lofty position their author had now achieved in the 
 realms of poetry : — 
 
 Do you hear the children weeping, my brothers, 
 
 Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 
 They are leaning their young heads against their mothcra' — • 
 
 And that cannot stop their tears. 
 The young lambs are bleating in the meadows ; 
 
 The young birds are chirping in the nest; 
 The young fawns are playing with the shadows ; 
 
 The young flowers are blowing towards the west— 
 But the young, young children, my brothers, 
 
 They are weeping bitterly I — 
 They are weeping in the playtime of the others, 
 
 In the country of the free. 
 
60 ELIZABETH EABUETT BROWN IN Q. 
 
 Do you qiiostion the young children in their sorrow, 
 
 Why their tears are falling so ? — 
 The old man may weep for his to-morrow, 
 
 Which is lost in Long Ago— 
 The old tree is leafless in the forest — 
 The old year is ending in the frost — 
 The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest — ■ 
 
 The old hope is hardest to bo lost: 
 But tho young, young children, my brothers, 
 
 Do you ask them why they stand 
 Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers 
 In our happy Fatherland ? 
 
 * * * « # 
 
 ' For all day the wheels are droning, turning, 
 Their wind comes in our faces, — 
 Till our hearts turn, — our heads with pulses buminjf, 
 
 And tho walls turn in their places — 
 Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling- 
 Turns tho long light that droppeth down the wall- 
 Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling- 
 All are turning, all the day, and we with alll 
 And all day, the iron wheels are droning ; 
 And sometimes we could pray : 
 
 * y© wheels ' (breaking out in a mad moaning), 
 
 ' Stop 1 be silent for to-day I ' ■' 
 
 * * # * « 
 
 Now tell the poor young children, my brothers, 
 
 That they look to Him and pray — 
 Bo tho blessed One who blesseth all tho others, 
 
 Will bless them another day. 
 They answer, " Who is God that He should hear u«, 
 
 While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred ? 
 When we sob aloud, the human creatures near ua 
 
 Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word I 
 And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) 
 
 Strangers speaking at the door ; 
 Is it likely God, with angels singing round Ilim, 
 
 Hears our weeping any more ? 
 
 •' Two words, indeed, of praying we remember. 
 And at midnight's hour of harm, — 
 
 • Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, 
 
 We say softly for a charm.* 
 
 • A fact rendered pathetically historical by Mr. Homo's Ucpon 
 of his Commission 
 
nOME. 61 
 
 We know no other worJs except ' Our Father,' 
 
 And we think that in some pause of angola' song 
 God may phick them with the silence sweet to gathor, 
 And hold both within His right hand which is strong. 
 ' Our Father 1 ' If He hoard us, lie would surely 
 (For they call him good and mild) 
 Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 
 ' Come and rest with mo my child.' " 
 * « « * • 
 
 Another piece included in the collection, "To Flush, 
 my Dog," is of a very different calibre, although 
 replete with excellence in its way. " Flush," the 
 many years canine companion and four-footed friend of 
 the poetess, was a gift from Miss Mitford and, says 
 Elizabeth Barrett, " belongs to the beautiful race she 
 has rendered celebrated among English and American 
 readers. The Flushes have their laurels as well as the 
 Caesars, the chief difference (at least the very head and 
 front of it) consisting, according to my perception, in 
 the bald head." 11: Miss Mitford made "Flush' 
 celebrated by her prose. Miss Barrett immortalised it 
 by her poesy. " Loving friend," she writes — 
 
 Loving friend, the gift of one, 
 Who, her own true faith hath run, 
 
 Through thy lower nature ; 
 Bo my benediction said 
 With my hand upon thy head. 
 
 Gentle fellow creature I 
 
 Like a lady's ringlets brown. 
 Flow thy silken oars adowa 
 
 Either side demurely. 
 Of thy silver-suited breast 
 Shining out from all the rest 
 
 Of thy body purely. 
 
 Darkly brown thy body is. 
 Till the sunshine, striking this, 
 Alchemise its dulness, — 
 
C3 ELIZABETH BABliETT BROWNING. 
 
 When the sleek curls manifold 
 Flash all over into gold, 
 With a burnibhcd fulness. 
 
 Underneath my stroking hand. 
 Startled eyes of hazel bland 
 
 Kindling, growing larger, — 
 Up thou loapost "with a spring, 
 Full of prank and curvetting, 
 
 Leaping like a charger. 
 
 Yet, my pretty sportive friend, 
 Little is 't to such an end 
 
 That I praise thy rareness 1 
 Other dogs may bo thy peers 
 Haply in these drooping ears. 
 
 And this glossy fairness. 
 
 But of thee it shall bo said. 
 This dog watched beside a bed 
 
 Day and night unweary, — 
 Watched within a curtained room, 
 Where no sunbeam brake the gloom 
 
 Round the sick and dreary. 
 
 Other dogs in thymy dew 
 
 Tracked the hares and followed through 
 
 Sunny moor or meadow — 
 This dog onlj'^, crept and crept 
 Xest a languid cheek that slept. 
 
 Sharing in the shadow. 
 
 * * * « » 
 
 And if cne or two quick te.ira 
 Dropped upon his glossy ears. 
 
 Or a sigh came double, — 
 Up he sprang in eager haste, 
 Fawning, fondling, breathing fast, 
 
 Li a tender trouble. 
 
 And this dog was satisfied. 
 If a pale thin hand would glido 
 
 Down his dewlaps sloping, — 
 V»"hich he pushed his nose within, 
 After, — platforming his chin 
 
 On the palm left 02:)cn. 
 
HOME. 63 
 
 Thereforo to this clog -will I, 
 Tenderly not scornfully, 
 
 Render praise and favour I 
 With my hand upon his head, 
 Ib my benediction said 
 
 Therefore, and for ever. 
 
 The allusion to the '^ other dogs in thymy dew '* who 
 " tracked the hare," is suggested by an incident told 
 the poetess by Miss Mitford in one of her chatty letters. 
 This lady's spaniel, the sire of the second *' Flush/' 
 does not appear to have been, at all times, so sedate as 
 his daughter. One evening, when his mistress was 
 taking her wonted walk, the one daily walk which she 
 said kept her alive, her Flush found a hare and quested 
 it for two miles. She says — 
 
 I heard him the whole time, and could follow by the ear every step 
 that they took, and called in desperate fear lest some keeper should 
 kill my pet. To be sure, as Ben (her servant) and my father said 
 when I returned and told my fright, •' Flush is too well known for 
 that." But you can comprehend my alarm at finding that the more I 
 called, the more Flushie would not come ; whilst he was making the 
 welkin ring with a tongue unrivalled amongst all spaniels that ever 
 followed game. Instead of pitying me, both my father and Ben were 
 charmed at the adventure. The most provoking part of it was that 
 when, after following the hare to a copse on the other side of the 
 avenue, he had at length come back to me, he actually, upon crossing 
 the scent again, as we were returning homeward, retraced his steps 
 and followed the game back to cover again. This, which was the 
 most trying circumstance of all to me, was exactly what, as proving 
 the fineness of his nose, Bon and his master gloried m. Indeed, Ben 
 caught him up in his arms, and declared that he would back him 
 against any spaniel in England for all that he was worth in the world. 
 So, I suppose, to-morrow he '11 run away again. 
 
 In further proof of the value of the Flush family, 
 Miss Mitford, on another occasion, recounts how a half 
 sister of Miss Barrett's Flush ** is so much admired in 
 Reading that she has already been stolen four times — 
 a tribute to her merit which might be dispensed with 
 
61 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWN INO. 
 
 — and her master, having upon every occasion offered 
 ten pounds reward, it seems likely enough that she will 
 be stolen four times more." 
 
 The dog-stealcrs were also the bane of Miss Barrett. 
 "Writing to Ilornc in October of tliis year, she says : — 
 
 Yes, I have recovered my pet. No, I have " idealised " none of the 
 dog-stealing. I had no time. I was crying v,-hile he was away, and I 
 was accused so loudly of " silliness and childishness " afterwards, that 
 I was glad to dry my eyes, and forget my misfortunes by way of rescu- 
 ing my reputation. After all, it was excusable that I cried. Flushie 
 is my friend, my companion, and loves me better than he loves the 
 sunshine without. Oh, and if you had seen him when he came home 
 and threw himself into my arms, palpitating with joy, in that dumb 
 inarticulate ecstasy which is so affecting — love without speech 1 " You 
 had better give your dog something to eat," said the thief to my 
 brother when ho yielded up his prize for a bribe, "for ho has tasted 
 nothing since he has been with us." And he had been with them for 
 three days, and yet his heart was so full when he came home that he 
 could not eat, but shrank away from the plate and laid down his head 
 on my shoulder. The spirit of love conquered the animal appetite even 
 In that dog. He is -worth loving. Is he not ? 
 
 In the letter containing the foregoing account of 
 riushic's return home from his unlawful detention, his 
 fond mistress had placed a very neat and character- 
 istic pen-and-ink portrait of little Flush, humorously 
 made to resemble herself. This sketch was jocularly 
 scut in lieu of her own portrait, which Ilorne had 
 solicited for insertion in his forthcoming work, A 
 Neiv Spirit of the Age, and was introduced by these 
 words : " Here I send you one of the ' Spirits of the 
 Age,' strongly recommending it to a place on your 
 frontispiece. It is Flush's portrait, I need scarcely 
 say ; and only fails of being an excellent substitute 
 for mine through being more worthy than I can be 
 counted." Later on, she writes : " INIr. Kenyon was 
 with me yesterday, and praised Orion most admir- 
 
HOME. 65 
 
 ingly. He accused me of the Athetimim paper,* and 
 convicted me against my will ; and when I could no 
 longer deny, and began to explain and ' pique myself 
 upon my diplomacy/ he threw himself back into his 
 chair and laughed me to scorn as the least diplomatic 
 of his acquaintance. ' You diplomatic !' " 
 
 In her correspondence with Home generally the 
 topics discussed were literary, and frequently referred, 
 to projects in which one or both were co-operating. 
 The following letter from her, dated August 31st, is, 
 however, more relative to her personal affairs than 
 usual: — 
 
 Ah, my dear Mr. Home, while you arc praising the ■weather — 
 Btroking the sleek sunshine — it has been, not exactly killing me, but 
 striking me vigorously with intent to kill. It was intensely hot, and 
 I went cut in the chair, and was over excited and over tired, I sup- 
 pose ; at least, the next day I was ill, shivering in the sun, and 
 lapsing into a weariness it is not easy for mo to rally from. Yet 
 everybody has been ill, which — in the way of pure benevolence — 
 ought to be a comfort to me ; and now I am well again. And the 
 weather is certainly lovely and bright by fits, and I join you in 
 praising the beauty and glory of it ; but then, you must admit that 
 the Jits, the spasmodic changes of the temperature from sisty-ono 
 degrees to eighty-one, and back again, are trying to mortal frames, 
 more especially to those conscious of the frailty of the "native mud," 
 in them. If I had the wings of a dove, and could flee away to the 
 Bouth of France, I should be cooing, peradventuro, instead of moan- 
 ing. Only I could not leave everything, even then ! I must stay, as 
 well as go, under any circumstances, dove or woman. 
 
 By the way, two of my brothers are on the Rhino at this moment. 
 They have gone, to my pain and pleasure, to see Geneva, and como 
 home at the end of six weeks, by Paris, to re-plungo (one of them) 
 into law. 
 
 It pleases me to think of dear Miss Mitford reading my "House 
 of Clouds "to you, with her "melodious feeling "for poetry, and the 
 sweeter melody of her kindliness ; and it moreover pleased mo to 
 know that you liked it in any measure. Mr. Boyd told me that " IIo 
 hxid read my papers on the Greek Fathers with the more satisfaction 
 
 * Miss Barrett's review of Onon in the Athenaum. 
 
66 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 because ho had iiifcncd from my ' JIouso of Clouds ' that illness had 
 impaired my faculties." Ah ! but I hope to do Bomething yet, better 
 than the past. I hope, and shall struggle to it. 
 
 I have had a great pleasure lately in some correspondence with 
 WisB JIartineau, the noblest female intelligence between the seas, 
 " as sweet as spring, as ocean deep." She is in a hopeless anguish 
 of body, and serene triumph of spirit, with at once no hope and all 
 hope ! To hear from her was both a pleasure and honour for mo. 
 
 It is a gratification to know that this high apprecia- 
 tion of one grcat-souled woman for another — another, 
 too, in many things so different ! — was fully recipro- 
 cated, and that shortly after the opinion just cited 
 was given, Harriet Martineau told Edward Moxon 
 she deemed " Miss Barrett the woman of women/' 
 and that there was nothing to be likened to her recent 
 two volumes of poems. 
 
 Not long after the publication of Chaucer Modern- 
 ized, in which he was greatly assisted by our poetess, 
 Ilurne projected, a work to be entitled A New Spirit 
 of the Aye. The title, if not the tlieme, was sug- 
 gested, by Hazlitt's well-known work, and, like that, 
 it was to be a work of criticism, but literary criticism 
 only. ''As in the case of Cliaucer" says Home, "the 
 work was to be edited and partly written by myself, 
 and the principal and most valuable of ray coadjutors 
 was Miss Barrett. The critique entitled " "William 
 "Wordsworth and Leigh Hunt,'^ he proceeds to tell us, 
 '' was written in about equal proportions by Miss 
 Barrett and myself." This was done at first in separate 
 manuscripts, and then each interpolated the work of 
 the other " as the spirit moved." It was written in 
 letters, and some of them of considerable length. 
 
 " 1 believe I am making public for the first time," 
 says Home, "the fact that the mottoes, which are 
 singularly happy and appropriate^ were for the most 
 
HOME. 67 
 
 part supplied by Miss Barrett and Robert Browning, 
 then unknown to each other." 
 
 The article on the merits of " Walter Savage 
 Landor/' Home is our authority for saying, was 
 maiuly the work of Miss Barrett. " It was forwarded 
 in two letters, which were carefully transcribed. 
 What she had done was preceded by a few bio- 
 graphical and other remarks, founded upon communi- 
 cations forwarded to me by Mr. Landor.'" That Miss 
 Barrett's observations on Landor are noteworthy needs 
 no confirmation; but that a portion^ at leasts of the 
 autobiographical informition in the article — such as 
 the marvellous anecdote of its hero's connection with 
 the First Napoleon, related by the man himself as an 
 instance of his " great hatred and yet greater forbear- 
 ance*' — was palpably evolved from pure imaginatioa, is 
 self-evident. 
 
 The classicism of Walter Savage Lander's style 
 was calculated to inspire Miss Barrett with admira- 
 tion for his undeniable genius, and, perhaps, to some 
 extent, to blind her to his many eccentricities. Iler 
 critique on his writings, and the cause of their slow 
 growth into popular favour, is not only a valuable 
 example of her marvellous clear insight into the real 
 nature of such things, but is a wonderful specimen of 
 her terse and trenchant prose. 
 
 The following lines written to Home by Miss Barrett 
 during the progress of his N^ew Spirit, and with 
 reference to it, are very interesting as proving, what our 
 readers may have already discovered, that there was a 
 light and humorous side to her personality : — • 
 
 You will conclude, from certain facts, that lam very like abrooinl — 
 not Lord Brougham, who only does a little of everything ; and not a 
 ■wheeled brougham, which will stop when it is bidden; and not a 
 
 n * 
 
68 ELTZABETII BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 new broom, which swoops clean and then has done with it ; but that bo- 
 witched broom in tho story, which, bcin;; sent to draw water, drew bucket 
 after bucket, until tho wholo house was in a flood. Jlontai^no says 
 somewhere that to stop gracefully is a sure proof of high race in a 
 horse. I wonder what not to stop at nil is proof of — in horse, man, or 
 woman? After all, I am not improving my case by this additional 
 loquacity ; and tho caso is bad enough . . . You asked mo to writo 
 fouror five pages for your work, and I have written what you see ! . . . 
 Indeed, I did not mean to write so much — I didn't think of writing 
 your wholo book for you ! 
 
 Miss Barrett's correspondence with Home, ranges 
 rapidly from grave to gay in its treatment of literary 
 and other themes^ during the latter months of 18i3 
 and the first quarter of 1844. Her letters, furnish 
 almost the only knowledge we have of their writer's 
 existence during the period named, and are chiefly due 
 to her co-operation in the New Spirit of the Age. As 
 an embodiment of Miss Barrett's untrammelled and 
 real opinion of her contemporaries they are replete 
 with interest; frequently with a few vitalizing words 
 furnishing a more vivid portrait of a celebrity or 
 notoriety of the day than an ordinary bookmaker will 
 in a volume. She possessed power of insight that 
 enabled her to penetrate through the mere action of 
 individuals and behold clearly their motives. With no 
 one, apparently, was she on more friendly terms than 
 with MissMitford, and yet frequently does she give proof 
 that she refrains from showing her heart to that ami- 
 able but extremely indiscreet lady, as, also, that she 
 comprehended thoroughly the limited range of that 
 correspondent's literary qualifications. Nevertheless, 
 Miss Barrett fought nobly on behalf of Miss Mitford 
 whenever she had the opportunity. It would be 
 difiicult to cull from any man's essay, however much 
 an experienced literary man of the world he might 
 
HOME. 69 
 
 be, a clearer, more condensed, and more impartially 
 
 worded critique on a fellow author than one on Miss 
 Mitford by Elizabeth Barrett, sent to the editor of The 
 New Spirit of the Age. 
 
 In the course of their correspondence anent the 
 various personages to be introduced in the projected 
 "work Home had desired his fair contributor to write 
 on one side only of her paper and to leave wide mar- 
 gins to her manuscript, in order, evidently, to permit 
 of his alterations and annotations. She replied : 
 " Very -well ! I "will be goad as I am fair — i.e. by 
 courtesy. And I will be very courteous to your right 
 honourable printers, who can't be at tLe trouble to turn 
 over a leal: or read from anything except large pnpcr, 
 and an inch of margin on each side ! Very well, they 
 shall have their will — although, to be sure, I have been 
 in the habit of writing for the press on the ordinary 
 long note paper, and on both sides the page, and never 
 heard a printer's murmur." 
 
 In her postscript she says, '' ' How I do go on in the 
 dark ! ' To be sure I do. The dark, you know, is 
 my particular province — even without the political 
 economy. That would have made me a Princess of 
 Darkness.'^ 
 
 Miss Barrett's allusion to the darkness will be 
 more readily comprehended, when it is known that 
 after the return to London she lived in a large darkened 
 chamber whence, for some years, she never went further 
 than the bed-room adjoining. She makes frequent 
 allusions to this solitary confinement in her poems and, 
 occasionally, in her correspondence, as in the following 
 letter to a fellow poet : — 
 
 I am thinking — lifting up my pen — what I can write which is likely 
 to be interesting to you. After .all I come to chaos and silence, and 
 
70 FLIZABETn BARRETT BEOWNINO. 
 
 even old Night, it is growins so dark. I livo in London, to be sure, 
 and except for the glory of it, I might live in a desert — so profound 
 is my solitudCj and so complete my isolation from things and persons 
 without. I lie all day, and day after day, on this sofa, and my windows 
 do not even look into the street. To abuse myself with a vain deceit 
 of niral life, I have had ivy planted in a bos — and it has flourished 
 and spread over one window, and strikes against the glass, with a 
 little stroke from the thicker leaves, when tlio wind blows at all 
 briskly. Then I think of forests and groves ... It is my triumph, 
 when the leaves strike the window pane. And this is not to sound like 
 a lament. Books and thoughts and dreams (too consciously t/reawe*/, 
 however, for me — the illusion of them has almost passed) and 
 domestic tenderness can and ought to leave nobody lamenting. 
 
 To Home — in reply to bis request that she would 
 furnish him with some biographical particulars of 
 herself, for use in bis article on her in the New Spirit 
 of the Age — she sajs : — 
 
 So yon think that I am in the habit of keeping biographical sketches 
 in my table drawer for the use of hypothetical editors ? 
 
 Once, indeed, for one year, I kept a diary in detail and largely ; and 
 at the end of the twelve months was in such a crisis of self-disgust 
 that there was nothing for me but to leave off the diary. Did you 
 ever try the effect of a diary upon your own mind ? It is curious, 
 cspeciallj- where clastic spirits and fancies are at work upon a fixity of 
 character and situation .... 
 
 My dear Mr. Home, the public do not care for me enough to care at 
 all for my biography. If you say anything of mo (and I am not 
 affected enough to pretend to wish you to be absolutely silent, if you 
 see any occasion to speak), it must be as a writer of rhymes, and not 
 as the heroine of a biography : you must not allow your kindness 
 for me to place mo in a prominency which I have to deserve — and do 
 not yet deserve. And then as to stories, my story amounts to the 
 knife-grinder's, witn notmng at an lor a caiascropuo. A bird in a 
 cage could have as good a story. Most of my events, and nearly all 
 my intense pleasures, hove passed in tUoughts. 
 
 " For the rest,'^ she adds, " you see that there is 
 nothing to say : it is a blank " ; and, considering that 
 up to this time, bow little she had done to startle the 
 world, that how few even of her better poems were 
 
HOME. 71 
 
 before it, it must be confessed that Home's request for 
 partieulars of her life seems to have been rather pre- 
 mature. Still she could not dismiss the idea from her 
 mind, and rcsumin-; the subject, says, " Yet I could 
 write an autobicgraphy, but r.ot now, and not for an 
 indifferent public ; of whom, by the way, I never did 
 and do not complain, seeing that they received my 
 * Seraphim ' with some kindness, and that everything 
 published previously by me I reject myself, and cast 
 upon the ground as unworthy. The ' Seraphim ' 
 has faults enough — and weaknesses, besides — but my 
 voice is in it, in its individual tones, and not 
 inarticulately." 
 
 Miss Barrett's projected paper on '' Wordsworth and 
 Leigh Hunt '•' for A Nciv Spirit, aroused a controversy 
 between the editor and contributor : they were fully 
 agreed as to the treatment of Wordsworth, but over 
 Leigh Hunt held a somewhat excited discussion. Hunt's 
 theological ideas did not come up to the standard of 
 !RIiss Barrett's faith, but, upon the assurance of Hornc 
 that the man was really " a religious man," only not 
 quite orthodox, she relented towards him, adding to 
 her remarks upon the tone of his poetry — " May I say 
 of myself that I hopo there is nobody in the world with 
 a stronger will and asj)iration to escape from sccla- 
 rianism in any sort or sense, when I have eyes to dis- 
 cern it, and that the sectarianism of the National 
 Churches, to which I do not belong, and of the Dis- 
 senting bodies, to which I do — stand together before 
 me on a pretty just level of detestation.^' 
 
 In a subsequent note, referring to the projected 
 paper on herself, after protesting that she will be 
 neither surprised nor disconcerted if the remarks arc 
 not of the pleasantest, she says : — '* For the rest, or 
 
72 ELIZA BETH BAUEETT EEOWNING. 
 
 rather under the -vvliole, if I myself am not ta7ne about 
 the ' Seraphim,' it is because I am tlie person interested. 
 I wonder to myself sometimes, in a climax of dissatis- 
 faction, how I came to publish it. It is a failure, in 
 my own eyes ; and if it were not for the poems of less 
 pretension in its company, would have fallen, both 
 probably and deservedly, a dead weight from the 
 press/' 
 
 In a further epistle, dated in December, she con- 
 fesses curiosity to know whom it is Mr. Home now, 
 with some mystery, is wishing her to write on. " Not 
 Dr. Pusey ! " she exclaims. " Thank you for the 'not.' 
 And not a political economist, I hope — not a mathe- 
 matician, nor a man of science — such a one as Babbage, 
 for instance, to undo me." " I am a little beset with 
 business just now,'^ she continues, " being on the verge 
 of getting another volume into print — with one or two 
 long poems struggling for completion at my hands, in 
 order to a subsequent falling upon the printer's."' 
 
 Later letters continue to discuss the merits and de- 
 merits of various authors omitted from, or commented 
 upon, in A New Spirit of the Age. Several female con- 
 temporary writers are passed in review, and then the 
 novelists come under notice. Here, as everywhere. 
 Miss Barrett does not hesitate to express her own 
 opinions, although they may differ widely from her 
 editor's. " It appears to me," she remarks, " that you 
 cultivate scorn for the novel-readers, or else have no 
 comprehension for them, dividing them into classes of 
 Godwin-readers, Fielding-readers, Hichardson-readers, 
 James-readers, and so forth. You have no sympathy 
 for persons who, when they were children, beset every- 
 body in the house, from the proprietor to the second 
 housemaid, to ' tell them a story,' and retain so much 
 
EOME. 73 
 
 of tieir cHldhood — green as grass — as that love of 
 stories." 
 
 Oh, that lovo for story -telling ! It may be foolish, to be sure ; it 
 loads one into ■waste of time and strong excitements, to be sure ; still, 
 how pleasant it is 1 How full of cuchantnient and dream-timo glad- 
 nesses 1 What a pleasant accompaniment to one's lonely cofTee-cup in 
 the morning or evening, to hold a little volume in the left hand and 
 read softly along how Lindoro saw Monimia over the hedge, and what 
 he said to her! After breakfast we have other matters to do — grave 
 " business matters," poems to write upon Eden, or essays on Carlyle, 
 or literature in various shapes to bo employed seriously on. But 
 everybody must attend to a certain proportion of practical aflairs of 
 life, and Lindoro and Monimia bring us ours. And then, if Monimia 
 behaves pretty well, what rational satisfaction we have in settling her 
 at the end of the book. No woman who speculates and practises " on 
 her own account " has half the satisfaction in securing an establish- 
 ment that we have with our Monimias, nor should have, let it be said 
 boldly. Did we not divine it would end so — albeit, ourselves and 
 Monimia were weeping together at the end of the second volume ? 
 Even to the middle of the third, when Lindoro was sworn at for a 
 traitor by everybody in the book, may it not be testified gloriously of 
 us that we saw through him, and relied implicitly upon an exculpating 
 fidelity which should be "in" at the finis, to glorify him finally? 
 What, have you known nothing, Mr. Editor, of these exaltations? 
 Indeed your note looks like it. 
 
 The correspondence with Home, in respect to matters 
 connected with the New Spirit, ran on into the new 
 year. One note in January contained some very appro- 
 priate and truthful words on Byron, one of Elizabeth 
 Barrett's childish idols, to whom, with her usual un- 
 iswerving tenacity, she held true in her maturity. 
 ** Home ! " she exclaims, " do you, too, call Byron 
 vindictive ? I do not. If he turned upon the dart, it 
 was by the instinct of passion, not by the theory of 
 vengeance, I believe and am assured. Poor, poor Lord 
 Byron ! Now would I lay the sun and moon against 
 a tennis-ball that he had more tenderness in one section 
 of his heart than * * * * has in all hers, though a 
 
74 ELIZABETn BARRETT BROWNIKG. 
 
 tenderness misunderstood and crushed, ignorantly, pro- 
 fanely, and vilely, by false friends and a pattern wife. 
 His blood is on our heads — on us in England.'^ 
 
 Many contemporaries included in or suggested for 
 A New Spi7-it of the Aye are criticised by Miss Barrett 
 with that independence of expression, that vigour — ■ 
 absurdly styled '' masculine vigour " — of thought ; but 
 enough has been said to prove that her mastery of 
 language was not confined to poesy only, and that her 
 thoughts could be told as fluently, yet as condenscdly, 
 in prose. With some few words from her letters on 
 Home's paper about herself, a paper of which she saw 
 nothing until it appeared in print, we can take leave of 
 A Ntw Spirit of the Age. To write about herself was, 
 as Home points out, a nice and delicate thing, but, 
 as he adds, " she gets through it with the ease of 
 any truthful person who believes in the truthfulness 
 of another.^' 
 
 It has been haunting mo all this morning that yon may bo drawing 
 the very last inference I should v.ish you to draw from my silence. 
 But I have been so unwell that I could not even read, and Iho writing 
 has been impossible, and jieoplo cry out even now, " Wby, surely you 
 are not going to write I " 
 
 I must write. It is on my miad and must bo off it. 
 
 First to thank you for the books, which it was such unnecessary 
 kindness for you to send — and then for the abundant kindness in 
 another way which will, at the earliest thought, occur to you. My 
 only objection to the paper is, that the personal kindness is too 
 evident. My objection, you will see, leaves me full of gratitude to 
 you, and fills to the brim that Venetian goblet of foimer obligations, 
 which never held any poison. 
 
 You are g'.alty of certain exaggerations, however, in speaking of mo, 
 against which I shall oppose my dele as you allow me. For instance, 
 I have not been shut up in one room for six or seven years — four or 
 five would be nearer ; and then, except on one occasion, I havo not 
 been for " several weeks together in the dark " during the courso of 
 ibem. And then there is not a single " elegant Latin verse" extant 
 from my hand. I never cultivated Latin verses. , . . 
 
nOAIK 75 
 
 There is notliing to alter — that is, nothing to add — in relation to 
 myself; but there are somo inaccuracies, as I have explained to you. 
 
 In a later letter Miss Barrett returns to tlie subject 
 of Home's paper on herself, saying — 
 
 Bear in your mind, then, -Brith regard to me, that I thor«nghly 
 understand the fulness both of yoiir kindness and your integrity. You 
 are my friend, I hope, but you do not on that account lose the faculty 
 of judging mo, or the right of judging me frankly. I do loathe tho 
 whole system of personal compliment as a consequence of a personal 
 interest, and I beseech you not to suffer yourself ever by any sort of 
 kind impulse from within, or extraneous influence otherwise, to say or 
 modify a word relating to me. The notice as it stands can be called 
 " inadequate " only in one way — that you enter on no analysis of my 
 poetical claims in it. In every other respect you know it is ex- 
 travagantly laudatory. You have rouged me up to the eyes. . . . 
 
 In any case of your approaching the subject of my poetry, you will 
 please me best by speaking out the truth as it occurs to you, broadly, 
 roughly, coarsely, in its whole dimensions. I set more price on your 
 sincerity than on your praise, and consider it more closely connected 
 with the quality called kindness. Recollect that these people who 
 offer a pin to mo that they may prick j'ou with it in passing, do nol 
 care a pin for me. ... I want kindness tho rarest of all nearly—* 
 which is truth. 
 
76 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 FAME. 
 
 As early as February 1813, Elizabeth Barrett liad pre- 
 pared another volume of poems for the press, but was 
 unable to find a publisher willing to undertake the 
 risk of publication. Moxon, "when applied to, declared 
 that Tennyson was the only poet he did not lose by. 
 
 In the spring of 1844 she tells Ilornc : '' I hope my 
 book Avill be out in a few weeks now. It fags me and 
 over-excites me too much. Perhaps you will think 
 me improved ? Perhaps — I seem to myself to have 
 more strength. I only wish that bodies and souls 
 would draw together." 
 
 Her hope notwithstanding, the poems remained un- 
 published all through the summer, and when at last 
 the collection appeared, it had grown into two well- 
 filled volumes which, after all, were issued by Moxon. 
 The work was inscribed to her father in as affec- 
 tionate terms as was her childhood's poetry, and the 
 Dedication is interesting as showing, apart from other 
 reasons, on what a footing she still lived with her sur- 
 viving parent. " My father," she writes — 
 
 ■When your eyes fall upon this page of dedication, and you start to 
 BOO to vrhom it is inscribed, your Crst thought will be of tho time far 
 off -when I was a child and wrote verses, and when I dedicated them 
 to you who were my public and my critic. Of all that such a recollec- 
 
FAME. 77 
 
 tion implies of saddest .and sweetest to both of us, it would become 
 neither of us to speak before the world ; nor would it bo possible for 
 us to speak of it to one another with voices that did not falter. 
 Enough that what is in my heart when I write thus will be fully known 
 to yours. 
 
 And my desire is that you, who are a witness how if this art of poetry 
 had been a loss earnest object to me, it must have fallen from ex- 
 hausted hands before this day — that you, who have shared with mo 
 in things bitter and sweet, softening or enhancing them, every day— 
 that you, who hold with me over all sense of loss and transiency, ono 
 hopo by one name — may accept from me the inscription of these 
 volumes, the exponents of a few years of an existence which has been 
 sustained and comforted by you as well as given. Somewhat moro 
 faint-hearted than I used to be, it is my fancy thus to seem to return to 
 a visible personal dependence on you, as if indeed I were a child 
 again; to conjure your beloved image between myself and the public, 
 BO as to be sure of one smile — and to satisfy my heart while I satisfy 
 my ambition, by associating with the great pursuit of rvj life its 
 tenderest and holiest affectioa 
 
 Her Dedication was followed by a lengthy Preface, 
 which was to no small extent a criticism on her own 
 collection, especially on the chief poem in it. After 
 stating that the collection now offered to the public 
 consisted of poems written since the publication of the 
 Seraphim volume, and which were now, with a few 
 exceptions, printed for the first time, she refers 
 to the '^ Drama of Exile," the initial piece, "as the 
 longest and most important work (to me!) which I 
 have ever trusted into the current of publication." 
 
 The theme of the " Drama of Exile " is so daring, and 
 the execution, despite innumerable faults, so excellent, 
 that either condemnation or praise is hard to award. 
 The great defect in what the poetess intended should 
 be her masterpiece is that — notwithstanding the intro- 
 duction of Adam and Eve, and the self-sacrificing love 
 of the latter for her partner in sorrow — it is almost 
 entirely devoid of human interest. Admiration is 
 frequently compelled by bursts of true lyrical beauty, 
 
^8 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 but the heart never throbs with hope nor thrills with 
 terror for the poetic phantasmata whose weeping and 
 wailing fill so many pages of the drama. There are, it 
 is true, some magnificent passages of poetry in the 
 work, notably Lucifer's description of the effect of the 
 curse upon animal creation. Reminding Adam of 
 '* when the curse took us in Eden," he says — 
 
 On a mountain peak, 
 Half sheathed in primal woods, and glittering 
 In spasms of awful sunshine, at tliat hour 
 A lion couched — part raised upon his paws, 
 "With his calm, massive face turned full on thine, 
 And his mane Hstening. When the ended ctirse 
 Left silence in the world — right suddenly 
 Ho sprang up rampant, and stood straight and stiff 
 As if the now reality of death 
 
 ^Yere dashed against his eyes — and roared so fierce, 
 (Such thick carnivorous passion in his throat 
 Tearing a passage through the wrath and fear)— 
 And roared so wild, and smote from all the hills 
 Such fast, keen echoes crumbling down the vales 
 Precipitately — that the forest beasts, 
 One after one, did mutter a response 
 In savage and in sorrowful complaint. 
 Which trailed along the gorges. Then, at once. 
 Ho fell back, and rolled crashing from the height. 
 
 This is a magnificent picture most grandiloquently 
 portrayed, but it is the finest passage in the Drama. 
 Its author appears to have felt that there was some- 
 thing wanting in her work, and, therefore, strives 
 to explain away what might be objected to, and to 
 deprecate criticism, by a lengthy Preface. 
 
 " The Vision of Poets,^' the second longest poem in 
 the collection, is referred to by her as an attempt to 
 express her view^ of the jjoet's mission, " of the self- 
 abnegation implied in it, of the great work involved 
 in it, of the duty and glory of what Balzac has beau- 
 
FAME. 70 
 
 tif ully and truly called la patience anf/eligue dii genie ; 
 and of the obvious tnith^ above all, that if knowledge 
 is power, sufl'ering should be acceptable as a part of 
 powei'/' Without in any way endorsing Miss Barrett's 
 theory, and, indeed, feeling that it is radically false to 
 nature and genius, and that no poet should humiliate 
 himself to the '^ world's use," or suffer unresistingly 
 the humiliation of the " world's cruelty," it must at 
 once be acknowledged that the grandeur and power of 
 the poem is likely to blind readers to its perverse doc- 
 trine. Apart from Dante and Shakespeare, it would 
 be difficult to meet with so great a condensation of 
 thought, such abridged yet complete characterisation, 
 as is frequently met with in this marvellous poem, 
 and yet, all things considered, it is not perhaps very 
 strange that the ^'Vision of Poets" has failed to elicit 
 the applause of critics, and indeed to find that many 
 of them have refrained from speaking of it at all. In 
 the whole range of literature it would be difficult to 
 j)arallel, in prose or verse, such concise yet descriptive 
 portraiture as the poem contains. It is replete with com- 
 pound words and epigrammatic sentences, but it must 
 be confessed that the *'' Conclusion " is out of tone 
 with the rest of the poem, and uncalled for. Every 
 poem should, as Elizabeth Barrett says herself, have 
 " an object and a significance " ; but her propensity to 
 drag in a moral, or to tag on a didactic dissertation 
 of some kind, even from an artistic point of view, dis- 
 figures her most beautiful work. 
 
 Her Preface to the collection concludes with the 
 hope that some of the faults which she had formerly 
 been reproached with may have been outgrown : — 
 
 Because some proj,'rcss in mind and in art every active thinker 
 anJ liuuost wriler must consciously or unconsciously makcj with the 
 
80 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 progress of existence and experience; and, in some sort — since "we 
 learn in sufTering what wo teach in song" — my songs may be fitter to 
 teach. But if it wore not presumptuous language on the lips of one 
 to whom life is more than usnally uncertain, my favourite wish for this 
 work would be, that it be received by the public as a stop in the right 
 track, towards a future indication of more value and acceptability. 
 I would fain do better — and I feel as if I might do better : I aspire to 
 do better. ... In any case, while my poems are full of faults — as I 
 go forward to my critics and confess — they have my heart and life in 
 them — they are not empty shells. . . . Poetry has been as serious a 
 thing to mo as life itself; and life has been a very serious thing: 
 there has been no playing at skittles for me in either. I never mistook 
 pleasure for the final cause of poetry ; nor leisure, for the hour of the 
 poet. I have done my work, so far, as work — not as mere hand and 
 head work, apa*4 from the personal being — but as tho complctcst 
 expression of that being, to which I could attain — and as work I offer 
 it to the public — feeling its shortcomings more deeply than anj' of my 
 readers, because measured from the height of my aspiration — but 
 feeling also that the reverence and sincerity with which tho work was 
 done should give it some protection with tho reverent and sincere. 
 
 The collection was received by quite an outburst of 
 applause. Althougli the critics, with their usual dread 
 of committing themselves too deeply, all found some- 
 thing to object to in the "work, one admiring what 
 another disliked, and the other disliking what the 
 former admired, they all arrived at the conclusion that 
 another true and great poet had arisen. " The critics," 
 says Miss Barrett, " have all, according to their mea- 
 sure, been kind and generous to me. For tho news- 
 papers, besides those I mentioned, the Examiner 
 sounded a clarion for mc. I am well pleased alto- 
 gether/' To Home she says, — 
 
 I have had a long and most kind letter from Ilarriet Martineau, 
 and from Mrs. Jameson, and a kind note from Mr. Lander, and others. 
 Now I do beseech you, by whatever regard you may feel for me (in 
 which I am ambitious to believe), to wrlle to mo a kind letter too — 
 that is, a sincere letter. Do not fancy yourself obliged to write 
 compliments to me — surely our friendship has outgrown such mere 
 
FAME. 81 
 
 gfeen -wood. I promise not to enact the Archbisliop of Granada if you 
 speak the truth to me. . . " The Drama of Exile," the longest 
 poem, hau been thrown aside by nearly all the official critics as 
 inferior to the rest — and perhaps, as a whole, is unsuccessful. "Lady 
 Geraldine's Courtship " appears to bo the popular favourite. Oh, for 
 life and strength to do something better and worthier than any of 
 them 1 I fool as if I could do it. 
 
 In this instance all must now agree that the popular 
 voice was the voice of justice. The " Drama of Exile," 
 evidently the author's favourite, her most ambitious 
 performance, and the work on which she had relied 
 for fame, is a failure ; a grand failure it is true, but 
 from the very nature of its theme, bound to be more 
 or less a failure, notwithstanding the fact that it con- 
 tains passages of extraordinary grandeur and is replete 
 with others of lyrical sweetness. 
 
 " Lady Geraldine's Courtship '' is, deservedly, one of 
 the most popular poems of the age. The best-known 
 legend connected with its composition was, doubtless, 
 originally promulgated by Miss Mitford to account 
 for its wonderful rush of glowing language, and. to 
 enhance the mystery of its authoress, of whose per- 
 sonality so few people knew anything. The poem, 
 making forty-two octavo pages, was averred to have 
 been written within the space of twelve hours, written 
 off at electric speed in order to make up the number of 
 sheets required by tlie American publisher of the poems. 
 How much of truth may be contained in this myth is 
 hard to say, but that Miss Barrett composed at times 
 with great rapidity is a fact. Much of the rugged 
 rhythm and apparent carelessness of construction which 
 characterises so many of her poems is doubtless due 
 to the speed at which they were evolved, and to the 
 same cause may be ascribed their occasional obscurity 
 and other defects, but that their defective or affected 
 
 6 
 
82 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 rhyming -was not due to this cause we have her own 
 words to prove. 
 
 Of "Lady Geraldine's Courtship" Edgar Poe, no 
 careless critic, said that, with the exception of 
 Tennyson's " Locksley Hall/' he had never perused a 
 poem "containing so much of the fiercest passion with so 
 much of the most ethereal fancy." " Lady Geraldine's 
 ^ Courtship ^' he somewhat too dogmatically pronounced 
 to be " the only poem of its author which is not de- 
 ficient, considered as an artistic whole. Her con- 
 structive ability," he added, "is either not very 
 remarkable, or has never been properly brought into 
 play. In truth, her genius is too impetuous for the 
 minuter technicalities of that elaborate art so needful 
 in the building up of pyramids for immortality.^' 
 
 It is but justice to Poe to tell that, after a full and 
 frank exposition of her faults and her fancied faults, 
 he gives ungrudging praise to her merits, not only 
 deeming her poetic inspiration to be of the highest, 
 the most august conceivable, but declaring it to be his 
 deliberate opinion, " not idly entertained, nor founded 
 on any visionary basis/' that she had " surpassed all 
 her poetical contemporaries of cither sex, with a single 
 exception/' the exception being Tennyson. Poe's 
 most enthusiastic admiration for Miss Barrett led 
 him to do his best to spread a knowledge of her 
 works in the United States, where, indeed, he was the 
 pioneer of her fame. He dedicated to her — " To the 
 noblest of her sex " — his last and most valuable volume 
 of poems. Something of what the lady thought of 
 him will be learned later on. 
 
 The story told in " Lady Geraldine's Courtship,'^ — 
 " A Romance of the Age/' as it is sub-titled — is 
 devoid of sensational episodes or romantic incidents. 
 
FAME. 83 
 
 It is almost barren of plot, and is founded on tlie 
 tlireaclLarc basis of being told by the chief actor in a 
 letter to a friend. The writer of the story is supposed 
 to be a poet named Bertram, a man of the people, who 
 lias Tvon a place in society by his poetic talent — 
 
 And bccaiiso I was a poet, and because llio people praised me, 
 With theii- critical deductions for the modern writer's fault ; 
 I could sit at rich men's tables, though the courtesies that raised mo 
 Still suggested clear between us the pale spectrum of the salt. 
 
 Lady Geraldine meeting him, invites him to her 
 country residence — Wj'combe Hall, in Sussex. She, 
 an earPs daughter, is proud and noble, and being 
 richly dowered with halls and castles, is beset by many 
 suitors, all of whom arc treated with disdain. Of course; 
 Bertram falls passionately in love with her — 
 
 Yet I could not choose but love her — I was born to poet uses — 
 To love all things set above me, all of good and all of fair. 
 
 Meeting and conversing with her daily, and reading 
 his own or other poets' writings to her, her hold upon 
 him becomes more and more intense, until at last he 
 cannot fly her presence, hopeless though he feels his 
 love to be, and knowing that the longer he lingers 
 near her the stronger grow his chains. Tangled in 
 love's meshes, Bertram follows in the retinue of his 
 fair hostess, wandering with her and her companions 
 about the glorious grounds. Lady Geraldine is thus 
 described as one day she stood : — 
 
 Thus, her foot upon the new-mown grass — bareheaded — with the 
 
 flowings 
 Of the virginal white vesture, gathered closely to her throat ; 
 "With the golden ringlets in her neck, just quiclvcned by her going, 
 And appearing to breathe sun for air, and doubting if to float, — 
 With a branch of dewy maple, which her right hand held above her, 
 And which trembled a green shadow in betwixt her and the skies, — 
 As she turned her face in going, thus, she drew me on to love her, 
 And to study the deep meaning of the smile hid in her eyes. 
 
et ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNINO. 
 
 Tims Bertram continues to linger, altliough he knows 
 Low hopeless his case must be ; he lingers still, like 
 the stag " that tries to go on grazing with the great 
 deep gunwound in his neck." And Lady Geraldine, 
 alihough she has many suitors, smiles upon them 
 " with such a gracious coldness that they could not 
 press their futures " upon her decision. Until one 
 day Bertram, accidentally placed in an inner chamber, 
 becomes the unintentional auditor of someone plead- 
 ing for the lady's hand : — 
 
 Well I knew that voice — it was an earl's, of soul that matched his 
 
 station — 
 Of a soul complete in lordship — might and right read on his brow: 
 Very finely courteous — far too noble to doubt his admiration 
 Of the common people — he atones for grandeur by a bow. 
 
 The poor poet, compelled to listen against his will, 
 liears the lady reject her noble suitor, it is true, but, in 
 ansAvcr to an inaudible remark from the earl, hears hei 
 respond — 
 
 And your lordship judges rightly. "Whom I marry shall be noble, 
 Ay, and wealthy. I shall never blush to think how ho was born. 
 
 When Bertram heard this, and knew that what- 
 ever foolish hopings against hope he may have 
 entertained were for ever dashed to the ground, he 
 forbore no longer, but rushed into her presence, as 
 her lordly suitor retreated, and "spake out wildly — 
 fiercely " : — 
 
 I plucked up her social fictions, bloody-rooted, though leaf verdant,— 
 Trod them down with words of shaming — all the purples and the 
 
 gold, 
 And the " landed stakes " and lordships — all that spirits pure and 
 
 ardent 
 Are cast out of lovo and reverence, because chancing not to hold. 
 
FAME. 85 
 
 " For myself I do not arguo," said I, " tlionj,'h I lovo yon, JIadam, — 
 But for better souls, that nearer to the height of yours havo trod — 
 And this ago shows, to my thinking, still moro infidels to Adam, 
 Than directly, by profession, simijlc infidels to God. 
 
 # # * # # 
 
 But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrating with thunder, 
 Which my soul had used. The silence drew her face up like a call. 
 Could you guess what word sho uttered ? She looked up as if in 
 
 ■wonder, 
 With tears beaded on her lashes, and said " Bertram ! " it was all. 
 
 If she had cursed me — and gho might have — or if even, with queenly 
 bearing, 
 
 Which at need is used by women, she had risen up and said, 
 
 "Sir, you are my guest, and therefore, I havo given you a full 
 hearing— 
 
 Now, beseech you, choose a name exacting somewhat less, in- 
 stead "— 
 
 I had borne it I — but that "Bertram" — "why, it lies there on tho 
 
 paper 
 A mere word, without her accents, — and you cannot judge tho weight 
 Of the calm which crushed my passion ! I seemed swimming in a 
 
 vapour, — 
 And her gentleness did shame me, whom her scorn made desolate. 
 
 After this what follows is not difficult to guess ; 
 and it does not come as a surprise to learn this solu- 
 tion of her words : — 
 
 Softened, quickened to adore her, on his knee ho fell before her — 
 And she whispered low in triumph — It shall be as I have sworn I 
 Very rich he is in virtues, — very noble — noble, certes ; 
 And I shall not blush in knowing, that men call him lowly bom ! 
 
 The poverty of the plot, the improbability of the 
 whole story, the author's frequent ignorance of worldly 
 matters, the faulty and too long deferred rhymes, lapses 
 in the rhythm and occasional commonplaces, all vanish 
 in the passionate glow of thought, in the rush of burn- 
 ing words, and the magnificent flood of imaginative 
 
SG ELIZABETH BARBETT BROWNING. 
 
 poctiy, tearing cvcrytliing along ^\ith it in a resistless 
 torrent of glory and grandeur, that fairly overpowers 
 and eonqucrs the most critical reader's judgment. 
 
 Besides the more prominent pieces already alluded 
 to, the 1844 collection contained several other pieces 
 of supreme merit. The sonnet, a condensed and 
 artificial form of poesy almost outside the fluent 
 muse of Elizabeth Barrett, had several pages 
 devoted to it, but their merits vrere less con- 
 spicuous, although studded with beauties, than was 
 usual A^ith her work. "The Soul's Expression/' as 
 an autobiographic revelation, is interesting; "Grief" 
 contains some fine thought, such as ** I tell you, hope- 
 less grief is passionless " ; and " The Prisoner " con- 
 cludes with a grand idea; but, as yet, her sonnets, 
 although vigorous, were somewhat unskilfully wrought, 
 and uncouth in expression. 
 
 The miscellaneous poems cannot be too highly 
 praised, nor too often perused ; fresh beauties burst 
 forth at every glance, " The Lay of the Brown 
 Rosarie'^ is replete with scintillations of true poetic 
 fervour; it is styled a ballad, but is of a purer tone 
 and a more ethcrcalised spirit than is generally pre- 
 valent in ballad poesy, ancient or modern. In its 
 circumscribed space the story is complete ; and 
 although undisfigured by the '^ moral" so frequently 
 and needlessly dragged in by Miss Barrett, is all 
 through its dramatic course illuminated by an undcr- 
 glow of sugrjcstcd meaning. 
 
 "The Duchess IMay," another ballad, of more heroic 
 mould, is less in sympathy with our century's way of 
 thinking. It contains grand lines and stirring 
 thoughts, but the narrative is improbable, the subject 
 not in unison with the age's tendencies, and, therefore, 
 
FAME. 87 
 
 unsuitcd to its author's own practical^ if passionate 
 miud. To "The Lost Bowcr,'^ interspersed as it is 
 with personal allusions, referenee has already been 
 made. It is replete with passages of the purest poesy, 
 and leaves an impression upon the reader's mind o£ 
 mingled melody and pathos — childish sim])licity and 
 womanly wisdom — time will vainly try to efface. The 
 following lines from " The Lost Bower " will, like 
 petals picked from a lovely blossom, suggest how 
 beauteous the complete bloom may be : — ' 
 
 Green the land is where my daily 
 
 Steps in jocund childhood played — 
 
 Dimpled close with hill and valley, 
 
 Dappled very close with shade ; 
 Summcr-snoAv of apple-blossoms, running up from glade to 
 glade 
 
 There is one hill I see nearer, 
 
 In my vision of the rest ; 
 
 And a little wood seems clearer. 
 
 As it climbeth from the west, 
 Sideway from the tree-locked valley, to the airy upland 
 crest. 
 
 Small the wood is, green with hazels, 
 
 And, completing the ascent, 
 
 "Where the wind blows and sun dazzles 
 
 Thrills in leafy tremblement : 
 Like a heart that, after climbing, beateth quickly though 
 content. . . . 
 
 Yet in childhood little prized I 
 That fair walk and far survey : 
 'Twas a straight walk, unadvised by 
 The least mischief worth a nay — 
 U|> and down — as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday I 
 
 But the wood, all close and clenching 
 Bough in bough and root in root, — 
 No more sky (for over-branching) 
 At your head than at your foot, — 
 Ob, the wood drew me within it, by a glamour past di3» 
 j.uto I V 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, 
 
 On a day, Ruch pastime keeping, 
 With a fawn's heart debonair, 
 Under-crawling, over-leaping 
 Thorns that prick and boughs that bear, 
 I stood suddenly astonicd — I was gladdened unaware J 
 
 From the place I stood in, floated 
 Back the covert dim and close ; 
 And the open ground was suited 
 Cai-])ct-smooth %Yith grass and moss. 
 And the blucljcirs purple presence signed it worthily acro&z. 
 
 Here a linden tree stood, brightoiaing 
 All adown its silver rind ; 
 For, as some trees draw the lightning. 
 So this tree, unto my mind. 
 Drew to earth the blessed sunshine, from the sky where it 
 was shrined. • . . 
 
 Tall tlic lindcn-irce, and near it 
 An old hawthorn also grew ; 
 And wood-ivy like a spirit 
 Hovered dimly round the two, 
 Shaping thence that Cower of beauty, which I sing of thus 
 to you. . . , 
 
 As I entered — mosses hushing 
 Stole all noises from my foot : 
 And a round elastic cushion, 
 Clasped within the linden's root, 
 Took mo in a chair of silence, very rare and absolute. , , i 
 
 So, young niuser, I sate listening 
 To my Fancy's wildest word — 
 On a sudden, through the glistening 
 Leaves around, a little stirred. 
 Came a sound, a sense of music, which was rather felt thaa 
 heard. 
 
 Softl}', finely, it inwound me — 
 '^rom the world it shut mo in, — 
 Like a fountain falling round me, 
 Which with silver waters thin 
 Clips a little marble Naiad, sitting smilingly within , , .. 
 
FAME. 89 
 
 I rose up in exaltation 
 And an inward trembling heat, 
 And (it seemed) in geste of passion, 
 Dropped the music to my feet, 
 Like a garment rustling downwards — such a Bilenco fol- 
 lowod it. . , 
 
 In a child-abstraction lifted. 
 Straightway from the bo\vcr I past ; 
 Foot and soul being dimly drifted 
 Through the greenwood, till, at last, 
 la the hill-top's open sunshine, I all consciously was cast, > , ] 
 
 I affirm that, since I lost it, 
 Never bower has seemed so fair — 
 Never garden-creeper crossed it, 
 With so deft and brave an air — 
 Never bird sung in the summer, as I saw and heard them 
 there. . . , 
 
 These stray extracts can give but a faint idea of the 
 pathetic beauty of the whole poem; of its gust of 
 melodious musical melancholy — which " resembles 
 sorrow only as the mist resembles rain.'' Haplessly, 
 like so many of its author's best pieces, the story is 
 burdened and drawn out by a lengthy, unneeded 
 " moral " being appended to it. 
 
 In " A Child Asleep " are to be found thoughts and 
 similes worthy of the highest poetic parentage; but one 
 idea, " Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open 
 ever do," is scarcely an improvement upon Coleridge's 
 beautiful verse, *' My eyes make pictures when they 
 arc shut." " The Cry of the Children,^' and some other 
 splendid pieces gathered into this collection have already 
 received notice ; but amid the remainder may be spe- 
 cially pointed out " The Fourfold Aspect," "A Flowei 
 in a Letter," " The Cry of the Human," with its terrible 
 opening — 
 
 " There is no God ! " the foolish saith, 
 Cut none, " There js no sorrow " ; 
 
00 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 And Nature oft, the cry of faith 
 
 In bitter need will borrow. 
 Eyes, vrhich the preacher could not schooli 
 
 By wayside graves are raised ; 
 And lips say " God bo pitiful," 
 
 Who ne'er said " God bo praised ! " — 
 
 **A Lay of tlic Early Rose," despite its obtrusive 
 moral, *' Bertha in tlie Lane/' "A Rhapsody of 
 Life's Progress/' that "most musical, most melan- 
 choly'' "Catarina to Camoens/' "The Romance of 
 the Swan's Nest/' and others of various kinds of excel- 
 lence, and all possessed of power and beauty sufficient 
 for each one separately to make the reputation of any 
 lesser poet. The peculiar pathos of " The Romance of 
 the Swan's Nest" dowers it -with some indefinable 
 fascination, and causes it to have for us a pre-eminence 
 of charm we have never been able to explain. It is as 
 sweet as the aroma from new-mown hay, yet as sad 
 as the ceaseless moan on the sea-bruised beach. It is 
 short, and all worthy of quotation in full : — 
 
 Little Ellie sits alone 
 Mid the beeches of a meadow, 
 
 By a stream-side, on the grass : 
 
 And the trees are showering down 
 Doubles of their leaves in shadow, 
 
 On her shinmg hair and face. 
 
 She has thrown her bonnet by ; 
 And her feet she has been dipping 
 
 In the shallow water's flow — 
 
 Now she holds them nakedly 
 In her hands, all sleek and dripping. 
 
 While she rocketh to and fro. 
 
 Little EUio sits alone, — 
 And the smile, she softly useth. 
 
 Fills the silence like a speech ; 
 
 While she thinks what shall be done,-^ 
 And the sweetest pleasure chooseth, 
 
 For her future within reach I 
 
FAME. 91 
 
 Littlo Ellie in licr smilo 
 Choosotli ..." I will lifivo a loTOr, 
 
 Eiding on a steed of steeds ! 
 
 lie shall lovo me without guilo ; 
 And to him I will discover 
 
 The swan's nest among the reeds. 
 
 "And the steed shall he red-roan, 
 And the lover shall he noble, 
 
 ^Yith an cj'o that takes the breath,— 
 
 And the lute he plays upon, 
 Shall strike ladies into trouble. 
 
 As his sword stikcs men to death, 
 
 *' And the steed it shall bo shod 
 All in silver, housed in azure, 
 
 And the mane shall swim the wincl 
 
 And the hoofs, along the sod, 
 Shall flash onward in a pleasure, 
 
 Till the shepherds look behind, 
 
 " But my lover will not prize 
 All the glory that he rides in, 
 
 Vi'hen he gazes in my face I 
 
 He will say, ' Love, thine eyes 
 Build the shrine my soul abides in ; 
 
 And I kneel hero for thy grace.' 
 
 " Then, ay, then — he shall kneel low,- 
 \\Hh. the red-roan steed anear him, 
 
 "Which shall seem to understand — 
 
 Till T answer, ' Rise, and go ! 
 For the world must lovo and fear him 
 
 "Whom I gift with heart and hand.' 
 
 " Then he will arise so pale, 
 I shall feel my own lips ti'emble 
 
 "With a yes I must not say — 
 
 Xathless, maiden-brave, 'Farewell,' 
 1 will utter and dissemble — 
 
 ' Light to-morrow, with to-da}^' 
 
 *' Then he will ride through the hilla 
 To the wide world past the river. 
 
 There to put away all wrong ! 
 
 To make straight distorted wills,— 
 And to empty the broad quiver 
 
 Vv'hich the wicked bear along. 
 
OJ ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNINQ. 
 
 " Throo times shall a young foot-pago 
 Swim tho stream, and climb the moiinlain, 
 
 And kneel down beside my fcet^ 
 
 ' Lo ! my master sends this gago, 
 Lady, for thy pity's eounting ! 
 
 What wilt thou exchange for it ? ' 
 
 " And the first time, I will send 
 A white rosebud for a guerdon, — 
 
 And tho second time, a glove I 
 
 Eut tho third time — I may bend 
 From my pride, and answer" — ' Pardon— 
 
 If he come to take my love.' 
 
 " Then tho young foot-page will run- 
 Then mj' lover will ride faster. 
 
 Till ho knecloth at my knco 1 
 
 ' I am a duko's eldest son ! 
 Thousand serfs do call me master, — 
 
 But, Love, I love but thee ! ' 
 
 " Ho will kiss mo on the mouth 
 Then, and lead me as a lover, 
 
 Through the crowds that praise his doeds \ 
 
 And, when soul-tied by one tioth, 
 Unto him I will discover 
 
 That swan's nest among the reeds." 
 
 Little Ellie, with her smile 
 Not yet ended, rose up gaily, — 
 
 Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe— 
 
 And went homeward, round a mile. 
 Just to sec, as sho did daily, 
 
 What more eggs were with the tico. 
 
 Pushing through the elm-tree copse 
 Winding by the stream, light-hearted, 
 
 Where the osier pathway loads — 
 
 Past the boughs she stoops — and stops 1 
 Lo ! tho wild swan had deserted — 
 
 And a rat had gnawed the roeu3. 
 
 Ellie went home sad and slow I 
 If she found the lover ever, 
 
 With his red-roan steed of steeds, 
 
 Sooth I know not 1 but I know 
 She could show him never — never. 
 
 That swan's nest among the reeda I 
 
PAMU. 93 
 
 Another remarkable and still more powerful poem 
 is " The Dead Pan/' with which the collection con- 
 cludes. In its beauties and, it must be acknowledged, 
 in its faults, this piece is thoroughly idiosyncratic of 
 its author. Tlie poem, says Elizabeth Barrett^ was 
 partly inspired by Schiller's Goiter Griechenlands , and 
 partly by the tradition recorded by Plutarch, that at 
 the moment of Christ's death on the cross a cry was 
 heard sweeping across the sea, " Great Pan is dead ! " 
 and that then and. forever all the oracles of heathen- 
 dom ceased. *' It is in all veneration to the memory 
 of the deathless Schiller/' says the poetess, "that I 
 oppose a doctrine still more dishonouring to poetry 
 than to Christianity/' 
 
 To John Kenyon, whose " graceful and harmonious 
 paraphrase of the German poem was the first occasion 
 of the turning " of her thoughts towards the theme, 
 she inscribed '^ The Dead Pan.^' Thoroughly typical 
 of her style is the opening invocation : — 
 
 Gods of Hcllas; gods of Hellas, 
 Can you listen in your silence? 
 Can your mystic voices tell U3 
 Where ye hide ? In floating islands, 
 "With a wind that evermore 
 Keeps you out of sight of shore ? 
 
 Pan, Pan is dead. 
 
 Of the many peculiar rhymes which Miss Barrett — 
 sometimes " without rhyme or reason '' — persistently 
 made use of in this and other of her poems, the quoted 
 stanza does not present an unfair example. Her 
 correspondence with Home on the subject is not only 
 amusing, but also characteristic of her unchangeable- 
 ness of will when she believed in her own ideas. She 
 had forwarded Home the manuscript of her poem, 
 
94 ELIZA BETn BARRETT BRO WNING. 
 
 and requested liis opinion npon it. What was his full 
 reply is uuknown^ but he reraarlvs : " Of course, I 
 admired its poetry and versification, but concerning 
 her vicTiVS of perfect and imperfect, or allowable 
 rhymes, in that, and several of her other productions, 
 I wished, once for all, to object, and give full reasons 
 for it/' " I took objection to many of the rhymes," 
 says Home. "I did not like ^ tell us' as a rhyme for 
 ' Hellas,' and still less ' islands ' as a rhyme for 
 'sibnec.'" Other still less excusable examples were 
 objected to, such as "rolls on" and "the sun'^; 
 " altars " and " welters " ; " flowing " and *' slow in " ; 
 "iron" and " inspiring"; "driven" and "heaving," 
 and so forth. What little cficct her brother poet's 
 animadversions -had upon Miss Barrett, the following 
 words will show : — 
 
 " My dear Mr. Ilorne, — Do you know I could not 
 help, in the midst of ray horror and Panic terror, 
 smiling outright at the naivete of your doubt as to 
 wdiether my rhymes were really meant for rhymes at all ? 
 That is the naivete of a right savage nature — of an 
 Indian playing with a tomahawk, and speculating as to 
 whether the white faces had any feeling in their skulls, 
 quand meme ! Know, then, that my rhymes are really 
 meant for rhymes, . . . and that in no spirit of care- 
 lessness or easy writing, or desire to escape d ifliculties, 
 have I run into them, but chosen them, selected them, 
 on principle, and with the determinate purpose of doing 
 my best. . . . What you say of a " poet's duty," no 
 one in the world can feel more deeply in the verity of 
 it than myself. If I fail ultimately before the public 
 — that is, before the people — for an ephemeral popu- 
 larity does not appear to me w^orth trying for — it will 
 not 1)3 because I have shrunk from the amount of 
 
FAME. 05 
 
 labour — wliere labour could do anytbing. I have 
 worked at poetry — it 1ms not been with me reverie, but 
 art. As tbe pbysician and lawyer work at their several 
 professions, so have I, and so do I, apply to mine. 
 
 "... "With reference to the double rhyming, it has 
 appeared to me employed with far less variety in 
 our serious poetry than our language would admit of 
 generally, and that the various employment of it would 
 add another string to the lyre of our Terpander. . . . 
 A great deal of attention — far more than it would take 
 to rhyme with conventional accuracy — have I given 
 to the subject of rhymes, and have determined in cold 
 blood to hazard some experiments. . . . 
 
 "And now, upon all this — to prove to you that I 
 do not set out on this question with a minority of one 
 — I take the courage and vanity to send to you a 
 note which a poet whom we both admire wrote to a 
 friend of mine, who lent him the manuscript of this 
 very "Pan.'' Mark! no opinion was asked about the 
 rhymes — the satisfaction was altogether impulsive — 
 from within. Send me the note back, and never tell 
 anybody that I showed it to you — it would appear too 
 vain. Also, I have no right to show it. It was scut 
 to me as likely to please me, and pleased me so much 
 and naturally on various accounts, and not the least 
 from the beauty of the figure used to illustrate my 
 rhymatology, that I begged to be allowed to keep it. 
 So send it back, after reading it confidentially, and 
 pardon me as much as you can of the self-will fostered 
 by it.'' 
 
 After such a response. Home, as will be readily 
 imagined, dropped the subject of allowable rhymes; 
 but, it is most interesting to learn, the poet whose 
 opinion had proved so satisfactory to Miss Barrett was 
 
06 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 !Mr. Robert Browning, at tliat time personally unknown 
 to her. 
 
 "Writing on tlic 3rcl December to Tlornc, j\Iis3 
 Barrett says : ** The volumes arc succeeding past any 
 expectation or hope of mine. ... I continue to have 
 letters of the kindest from unknown readers. I had 
 a letter yesterday from the remote region of Gutter 
 Lane, beginning, ' I thank thee ! ' . . . The American 
 publisher has printed fifteen hundred copies. I£ I am 
 a means of ultimate loss to him, I shall sit in sack- 
 cloth .'' 
 
 There was no need to have feared for 'the American 
 any more than for the English publisher — both found 
 Miss Barrett's poems a good investment. Her repu- 
 tation, indeed, was of almost as early a growth in the 
 United States as in Great Britain. Edgar Poe, if not 
 the first, was one of the first to introduce her to the 
 American public, issuing some of her earlier pieces 
 through the pages of Grahani's Magazine, which he 
 was then editing. 
 
 In a critique he subsequently wrote on Miss Barrett's 
 poetry, Poe alludes to certain shortcomings in the 
 technicalities of verse, especially bewailing her in- 
 attention to rhythm, an error that might have bsen 
 fatal to her fame ; but concludes with the declaration 
 that the pen is impotent to express in detail the 
 beauties of her work, " Iler poetic inspiration," he 
 remarks, "is the highest; we can conceive nothing 
 more august." Nevertheless, he perceives that her 
 sense of art, pure in itself, " has been contaminated 
 by pedantic study of false models — a study which has 
 the more easily led her astray, because she placed an 
 undue value upon it as rare — as alien to her character of 
 woman. The accident/'' he considers, " of her having 
 
FAME. 97 
 
 been long secluded by ill-licaltli from the world . . . 
 lias imparted to her ... a comparative independence 
 of men and opinions with which she did not come 
 personally in contact, a happy audacity of thought and 
 expression never before known in one of her scx.'^ 
 
 Lofty as was Poe's opinion and exalted his praise of 
 her, Elizabeth Barrett did not appear to care alto- 
 gether for his remarks. Writing to Ilorne in May, 
 1845, she says : " Your friend, Mr. Poe, is a speaker of 
 strong words ' in both kinds "... Mr. Poe seems to 
 me in a great mist on the subject of metre . . . But I 
 hope you will assure him from me that I am grateful 
 for his reviews, and in no complaining humour at all. 
 As to The Raven, tell me what you shall say about it ! 
 There is certainly a power, but it docs not. appear to me 
 the natural expression of a sane intellect in whatever 
 mood ; and I think that this should be specified in the 
 title of the poem. There is a fantasticaluess about 
 the ' Sir or Madam,^ and things of the sort, which is 
 ludicrous, unless there is a specified insanity to justify 
 the straws. Probably he — the author — intended it to 
 be read in the poem, and he ought to have intended 
 it. The rhythm, acts excellently upon the imagina- 
 tion, and the ' nevermore Mias a solemn chime in it 
 . , . Just because I have been criticised, I would not 
 criticise. And I am of opinion that there is an un- 
 common force and effect in the poem/^ 
 
 Writing subsequently to Poe on the subject of this 
 poem, Miss Barrett says : " The Raven has produced a 
 sensation — a ' fit horror' here in England. Some of 
 my friends are taken by the fear of it, and some by 
 the music. I hear of persons haunted by the * Never- 
 more,' and one acquaintance of mine, who has the 
 misfcrtune of possessing a * bust of Pallas,' never can 
 
OS mJZABETE BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 bear to look at it in the twilight. Our great poet, 
 Mr. Browning, is cntlmsiastic in his admiration of the 
 rhythm." 
 
 Eueouragcd by lier remarks, Poc sent her a copy of 
 a selection of his Tales, just published, and Miss 
 Earrett, writing to a friend, alludes to the story en< 
 titled 'The Fads in the Case of M. Vahlemar thus : 
 " There is a tale of his AViiich I do not find in this 
 volume, but which is going the rounds of the news- 
 papers, about mesmerism, throwing us all into most 
 admired disorder, or dreadful doubts as to whether it 
 can be true, as the children say of ghost stories. The 
 certain thing in the tale in question is the power of 
 the writer, and the faculty he has of making horrible 
 improbabilities seem near and familiar." 
 
 The great success of her latest literary venture 
 naturally brought Miss Barrett a large increase of 
 correspondence ; nevertheless, she contrived to maintain 
 epistolary chatter with such old friends as Miss Mitford 
 and Home. One prominent theme with her at this 
 period Avas the marvellous recovery of Harriet Mar- 
 tineau, after several years of confirmed illness. This 
 cure of a disease considered hopeless by orthodox medica! 
 men was ascribed to mesmerism. It naturally created 
 a lively sensation, even beyond the boundaries of medi- 
 cal and literary circles, and no one appears to have 
 been more deeply and permanently impressed by the 
 aflfair than Elizabeth Barrett, who was naturally in- 
 spired with admiration and interest for the sturdy 
 independence, in some respects akin to her own, of 
 her friend, correspondent, and contemporary, Harriet 
 ^Martincau. "Writing to an American friend, Miss 
 Barrett remarks, " Harriet ]\Iartineau's mesmeric ex- 
 perience ... is making a great noise and sensation 
 
PAMU. 9d 
 
 tere, and producing some vexation among her un- 
 believing friends. It was, however, worthy of herself, 
 having, according to her own belief, received a great 
 benefit from means not only questionable, but questioned, 
 to come forward bravely and avouch the truth of it. Do 
 you believe at all ? I do, but it is in the highest degree 
 repulsive to me as a subject, and suggestive of horror. 
 It is making great way in England, and, as far as I 
 can understand, is disputed more by the unlearned than 
 the learned.^' 
 
 Writing to Home in November, 18-14, she says : 
 "As you remind me. Miss Martineau is a great 
 landmark to show how far a recovery can go. She 
 can walk five miles a day now with ease, and is well, 
 she says — not comparatively well, but well in the 
 strict sense . . . She has an apocalyptic housemaid 
 (save the mark ! ) who, being clairvoyants, prophesies 
 concerning the anatomical structure of herself and 
 others, and declares * awful spiritual dicta ' concerning 
 the soul and the mind and their future destination ; 
 discriminating, says Miss Martineau, * between what 
 she hears at church and what is true' ... I am 
 credulous and superstitious, naturally, and find no 
 difHeulty in the wonder ; only pi*ecisely because I 
 believe it, I would not subject myself to this mystery 
 at the will of another, and this induction into things 
 unseen. ]\Iy blood runs the wrong way to think of 
 it. Is it lawful, or, if lawful, expedient? Do you 
 believe a word of it, or are you sceptical like 
 papa ? " 
 
 Miss Martineau, with her usual stern idea of duty, 
 considered it right that her cure and its cause should 
 be told to the public. Unfortunately, her medical 
 attendant, in order to co crovert her theory, departed 
 
 7 • 
 
100 ELTZABETH BAUUETT BBOWNINQ. 
 
 from the rules of his profession, ignored the rights 
 due to a patient, and made public particulars which he, 
 at least, should have kept private. Alluding to these 
 circumstances in a letter subsequent to the above. Miss 
 Barrett says : " Miss Martineau is astonishing the 
 world with mesmeric statements through the medium 
 of the AthencBum — and yet, it happens so that, I 
 believe, few converts will be made by her. The medical 
 men have taken up her glove brutally — as dogs might 
 do — dogs, exclusive of my Flush, who is a gentleman." 
 Later on she writes, " I hear that Carlyle won't 
 believe in mesmerism, and calls Harriet Martineau 
 mad. * The madness showed itself first in the refusal 
 of a pension ; next, in the resolution that, the uni- 
 verse being desirous of reading her letters, the universe 
 should be disappointed ; and thirdly, in this creed of 
 mesmerism.' I wish (if he ever did use such words) 
 somebody would tell him that the first manifestation, 
 at least, was of a noble phrenzy, which in these latter 
 days is not too likely to prove contagious. For my 
 own part, I am not afraid to say that I almost 
 believe in mesmerism, and quite believe in Harriet 
 Martineau." 
 
 Miss Mitford's correspondence with our poetess 
 was very voluminous during the greater part of 
 1844 and 1845, but little of personal incident enters 
 into it. The elder lady was enchanted to Icavn that 
 Miss Barrett intended in future " to write narrative 
 poetry, and narrative poetry of real lifc,^' and en- 
 deavoured to arouse in her mind, but with scant 
 success, an admiration for the first Napoleon. 
 
 That in literature, if in nothing else, woman should 
 not only compete with man on an equal footing, but 
 be judged by a similar measure, is a truth all right- 
 
FAME. 101 
 
 minded men would feel, one would think, and yet it is 
 a truth not very widely promulgated or generally 
 recognised. Elizabeth Barrett was not the woman to 
 feel and not assert her ideas on such a tliemc. " Please 
 to recollect," she says, writing to liorne on the suljject 
 of eminent women, ** that when I talk of women, 
 I do not speak of them as many men do, ... ac- 
 cording to a separate, peculiar, and womanly standard, 
 but according to the common standard of human 
 nature." 
 
 Her fidelity to a conviction could not be shaken by 
 any amount of popular prejudice or private influence. 
 Her ideal of a truth once conceived nothing could 
 destroy, or argument upset. She had formed strong 
 opinions with regard to Leigh Hunt's theology, and, 
 consequently, looked on his writings with suspicion. 
 ** There may be sectarianism in the very cutting off of 
 sectarianism,^' she says, and instances his omission in a 
 critical work upon poetry, '' of one of the very noblest 
 odes in the English language — that on the Nativity, 
 because — it is not on the birth of Bacchus." 
 
 Such remarks, and they abound in her characteristic 
 epistles, are of great biographical value, as throwing 
 light upon her firm and thoroughly independent mind. 
 By far the larger portion of her correspondence that 
 has as yet come to light is purely literary. Books and 
 their builders is her constant theme. The popularity 
 of her works in the United States caused her to receive 
 many letters from Americans, and sometimes drew her 
 into discussions with them on the social and other 
 aspects of their country. Writing to one of her New 
 England friends, she says : — 
 
 " The cataracts and mountains you speak of have 
 been — are — mighty di'eams to mej and the great 
 
102 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 people wliieli, proportionate to that scenery, is springing 
 up ill tlicir midst to fill a yet vaster futurity, is dearer 
 to me than a dream. America is our brother land, and, 
 though a younger brother, sits already in the teacher's 
 scat and expounds the common rights of our humanity. 
 It would be strange if we in England did not love and 
 exult in America. . . . It is delightful and encouraging 
 to mc to think that there, 'among the cataracts and 
 mountains/ which I shall never see — and there 
 is 'dream-land' — sound the voices of friends; and it 
 shall be a constant effort with me to deserve presently, 
 in some better measure, the kindness for which I 
 never can be more grateful than now. 
 
 " We have one Shakespeare between us — your land 
 and ours — have we not ? And one Milton? And 
 now we are waiting for you to give tis another. 
 Niagara ought, 
 
 "And music born of murmuring sound 
 Shall pass into his face." 
 
 In the meantime "we give honour to those tuneful 
 voices of your people, which prophesy a yet sweeter 
 music than they utter. . . . 
 
 ** You will wonder a good deal, but would do so less 
 if you were aw^are of the seclusion of my life, when I 
 tell you that I never consciouslj'^ stood face to face 
 "with an American in the whole course of it. I never 
 had any sort of personal acquaintance with an American 
 man or woman; therefore you are all dreamed dreams 
 to me — 'gentle dreams' I may well account you." 
 
 In another characteristic letter, written about this 
 time to her American correspondent, Miss Barrett 
 says : — 
 
 " Poor Hood is dying, in a state of perfect preparation 
 
FAMK 103 
 
 and composure, among the tears of his friends. His 
 disease has been consumption — is, in fact ; but the dis- 
 ease is combined with water on the chest, which is ex- 
 pected to bring death. To a friend who asked him 
 the other morning how it was with him, he answered 
 with characteristic phiyful pathos, * The tide is rising, 
 and I shall soon be in poit,' It is said of him that 
 he has no regrets for his life, except for the unborn 
 works which he feels stirring in his dying brain — a 
 species of regret which is peculiarly affecting to rac, 
 as it must be to all who understand it. Alas ! it is 
 plain that he has genius greater than anything he has 
 produced, and if this is plain and sad to us, how 
 profoundly melancholy it must be to him. The 
 only comfort is that the end of development is not 
 here/' 
 
 The light reflected on her own mental organization 
 by these excerpts is profoundly interesting, and affords 
 a deeper insight into her character than could possibly 
 be obtained by the study of her works written solely 
 for the public eye. In a lighter mood, and somewhat 
 as a relief to the more sombre shades of thoughts lately 
 displayed, one may revert to some of her playful but 
 not less idiosyncratic sayings about her dog Flush. 
 Writing to the American correspondent just referred 
 to she says : — 
 
 *' As to Flush, I thank you for him, for being glad 
 that he has not arrived at the age of ' gravity and 
 baldness,' and I can assure you of the fact of his not 
 being yet four years old (the very prime of his life), 
 and of his having lost no zest for the pleasures of the 
 world, such as eating sponge cake and drinking coffee 
 a la creme. He lies by me on the sofa, where I lie and 
 write. He lies quite at ease between the velvet of my 
 
lot ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 gown and the fur of ray couvre-pied ; and has no 'wicked 
 dreams, I can answer for it, of a liare out of breath, 
 or of a partridge shot through the whirring wiug; if 
 lie sees a ghost at all it is of a little mouse which he 
 killed once by accident. lie is as innocent as the first 
 dog, when Eve patted him/' 
 
 In Miss Barrett's correspondence with another lite- 
 rary friend of this period, the late Thomas Westwood, 
 of poetic repute, the name of Flush frequently figures. 
 On one occasion, says Mr. Westwood, she had ex- 
 pressed regret at the increasing plumpness of her pet. 
 Apparently the gentleman had suggested starvation as 
 a remedy, for her rc^dy runs thus : — 
 
 " Starve Flush ! Starve Flush ! My dear Mr. 
 Westwood, what are you thinking of ? And besides, 
 if the crime were lawful and possible, I deny the 
 necessity. He is fat, certainly ; but he has been 
 fatter. As I say, sometimes, with a sigh of sentiment 
 — he has been fatter, and he may therefore become 
 thinner. And then, he does not eat after the manner 
 of dogs. I never saw a dog with such a ladylike 
 appetite, nor knew of one by tradition. To eat two 
 small biscuits in succession is generally more than he 
 is inclined to do. When he has meat it is only once a 
 day, and it must be so particularly avcU cut up and 
 oflered to him on a fork, and he is subtly discriminative 
 as to differences between boiled mutton and roast 
 mutton, and roast chicken and boiled chicken, that 
 often he walks away in disdain, and 'will have none of 
 it.' He makes a point, indeed, of taking his share of 
 my muffin and of my coffee, and a whole queen's cake 
 when he can get it ; but it is a peculiar royalty of his 
 to pretend to be indifferent even to these — to refuse 
 them when offered to him — to refuse them once, twice. 
 
FA3IE. 105 
 
 and thrice — only to keep liis eye on tliem, tliat they 
 should not vanish from the room by any means, as it 
 is his intention to have them at last. My father is 
 quite vexed with me soraetimeSj and given to declare 
 that I have instructed Flush in the art of giving him- 
 self airs, and, otherwise, that no dog in the world 
 could be, of his own accord and instinct, so like a woman. 
 But I never did so instruct him. The ^ airs ' came as 
 the wind blows. Pie surprises me just as he surprises 
 other people — and more, because I see more of him. 
 His sensibility on the matter of vanity strikes me most 
 amusingly. To be dressed up in necklaces and a turban 
 is an excessive pleasure to him ; and to have the glory 
 of eating everything that he sees me eat is to be 
 glorious indeed. Because I offered him cream cheese 
 on a bit of toast and forgot the salt, he refused at once. It 
 was Bedreddin and the unsalted cheese-cake over 
 again."^ And this although he hates salt, and is con- 
 scious of his hatred of salt ; but his honour was in 
 the salt, according to his view of the question, and he 
 insisted upon its being properly administered. Now, 
 tell me if Flush's notion of honour and the modern 
 world's are not much on a par. In fact, he thought 
 I intended by my omission to place him bcloiv the 
 salt. 
 
 " My nearest approach to starving Flush (to come 
 to an end of the subject) is to give general instructions 
 to the servant who helps him to his dinner * not to press 
 him to eat.' I know he ought not to be fat — I know 
 it too well — and his father being, according to Miss 
 Mitford's accoumt, square at tliis moment, there is an 
 
 * Tho crimo for which poor Bcdrcddia Hassan had to suffer -was 
 leaving pc;)/)er ouf; of tTie cheeso-cakes. according to our version of the 
 Arabian Nights, 
 
lOG ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 hereditary reason for fear. So he is not to be ' pressed '; 
 and, in the meantime, "with all the incipient fatness, 
 he is as light at a jump, and as quick of spirits as ever, 
 and quite well.'' 
 
 In a subsequent letter, she again refers to her pet, 
 thus: — 
 
 " INIay I tell you that I have lost and won poor 
 Flush again, and that I had to compound with the 
 thieves and pay six guineas in order to recover him, 
 much as I did last year — besides the tears, the tears ! 
 And when he came home he beffan tu cry. His heart 
 was full, like my own. Nobody knows, except you 
 and me and those who have experienced the like affec- 
 tions, what it is to love a dog and lose it. Grant the 
 love, and the loss is imaginable, but I complain of the 
 fact that people, M'ho will not or cannot grant the love, 
 set about wondering how one is not ashamed to make 
 such a fuss for a dog. As if love (whether of dogs or 
 man) must not have the same quick sense of sorrow. 
 For my part, my eyelids have swelled and reddened 
 both for the sake of lost dogs and bii'ds — and I do not 
 feel particularly ashamed of it. For Flush, who loves 
 me to the height and depth of the capacity of his own 
 nature, if I did not love him, I could love nothing. 
 Besides, Flush has a soul to love. Do you not believe 
 tl.at dogs have souls ? I am thinking of writing a 
 treatise on the subject, after the manner of Plato's 
 famous one. 
 
 " The only time almost that Flush and. I quarrel 
 seriously, is when I have, as happens sometimes, a 
 parcel of new books to undo and look at. He likes 
 the undoing of the parcel, being abundantly curious; 
 but to see me absorbed in what he takes to be admira- 
 tion for the new books is a different matter^ and makes 
 
FAME. 107 
 
 Lira superlatively jealous. I have two long ears flapping 
 into my face immediately from the pillow over my 
 head, in serious appeal. Poor Flushie ! The point of 
 this fact is, that when I read old books he does not 
 care." 
 
 Nowhere was the name of Elizabeth Barrett now 
 more honoured, or lauded than in the United. States, 
 and many were the Americans who strove to obtain 
 her co-operation in their schemes, philanthropic or 
 otherwise. The Abolitionists were the most energetic 
 and successful. There were evident reasons why the 
 daughter of Edward, the niece of Samuel, Barrett 
 should not take any prominent part in public questions 
 connected with slavery, but Elizabeth could not but 
 feel deeply for all enduring sorrow or oppression, and 
 such, she was persuaded, were the negroes in America. 
 Her aid was obtained, she wrote a poem on the subject, 
 a poem intended, to further the abolition of slavery, and 
 sent it to America. She appeared to have repented 
 subsequently of the work, and exjiressed a hope that 
 the lines would not be published. They appeared how- 
 ever, in 1845, in The Liberty Bell as "A Curse for a 
 Nation.'' 
 
 Her friendly tone notwithstanding, the lines appear 
 to have created some soreness, and to one American 
 correspondent who had remonstrated with her about 
 them she wrote: — "Never say that I have cursed 
 your country, I only declared the consequences of the 
 evil in her, and which has since developed itself in 
 thunder and flame. I feel, with more pain than many 
 Americans do, the sorrow of this transition time ; but 
 I do know that it is a transition ; that it is a crisis, and 
 that you will come out of the fire purified, stainless, 
 having had the angel of a great cause walking with 
 
108 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 you ill the furnace." These prophetic "words, referring 
 to the result of the great conflict in America, she did 
 not live to sec verified. 
 
 During 18i5, INIiss Barrett continued a fitful corre- 
 Bpondence with Miss IMitford and Home. The latter 
 she had not as yet seen personally, but INIiss INIitford 
 visited her from time to time, occasionally travelling 
 up from Reading in the morning and returning home 
 the same evening, a great fatigue for the elderly lady, 
 as she admitted. Miss Barrett's health now seemed to 
 have permanently improved, and there Avas only the 
 English winter to fear. On the 29th September she 
 ■writes to Home : — 
 
 "My foot is in the air — balanced on the probability 
 of a departure from England, for some land of the sun 
 yet in the clouds. Italy perhaps, Madeira possibly , 
 there to finish my recovery, or rather to prevent my 
 yearly rechute in the wintry cold — so let me hear from 
 you quickly. ... I am likely to go very soon if at all 
 — the uncertainty is dominant — and I have been long 
 and continue still in great vexation and perplexity from 
 this doubtfulness. ... If I go to Italy, it will be by 
 sea, and high authorities among the doctors promise 
 me an absolute restoration in consequence of it — and 
 I myself have great courage and hope when I do not 
 look beyond myself. I have been drinking life at the 
 sun all this summer (and that is why the fountains 
 of it have seemed so dry to you and the rest of the 
 world), but, though in improved health and courage, 
 I am sometimes a very Jacques for melancholy, and go 
 moralising into a thousand similes half the uses of the 
 day. . . . Miss Mitford proposed kindly coming to see 
 me before I left England, but I have no spirits just now 
 to make farewells of. When I set up my Republic 
 
PAMD. 100 
 
 Against Plato's, nobody shall say good-bye in it, except 
 
 the ' good haters ' one to another." 
 
 A saddening and in other ways distressing event 
 which took place soon after the above letter was written 
 rendered the hoped for journey still more needful. How 
 it earae about was thus. Somewhere in the autumn of 
 1837, Miss Mitford had forwarded Elizabeth Barrett 
 a note introducing Haydon, the artist, remarking, 
 " Miss Arabel will like his vivacity and good spirits,'' 
 An acquaintanceship was formed, apparently by corre- 
 spondence, between the poetess and the artist, and con- 
 tinued till the death of the latter. In 18-12, Haydon 
 forwarded to Miss Barrett, for her acceptance, a 
 portrait he had painted of Wordsworth on Helvcllyn, 
 and her acceptance of the valuable gift ran thus : — 
 
 " My intention was to return by your messenger, 
 when he should come for the picture, some expression 
 of my sense of your very great kindness in trusting it 
 with me, together with this sonnet, but having since 
 beard from my sister (Arabel) that it may be almost 
 as long as I wisli (no ! it can't be so long) before you 
 send such a messenger, I cannot defer thanking you 
 beyond to-day, lest you should fancy me either struck 
 dumb with the pleasure you conferred, or, still worse, 
 born an ungrateful person. Nay, dear Sir, believe how 
 dififerent is the reality from the last supposition. 
 
 ** I have indeed looked at your pictui'e until I lost 
 my obligation to you in my admiration of your work, 
 but in no other way have I been ungrateful. How 
 could I be so ? I have seen the great poet who 
 ' reigns over us ' twice, face to face, and by you I see 
 liim the third time. You have brought me Words- 
 worth and Helvcllyn into this dark and solitary room. 
 , . . You will judge the sonnet too, and will probably 
 
no ULTZABUTH HAURETT BROWNING. 
 
 not acquit it. It confesses to speaking unworthily and 
 ■weakly the feeling of its writer, but she is none the 
 less your obliged^ Elizabeth Bakuett." 
 
 The sonnet, which can scarcely be deemed a success, 
 that is, a success for Miss Barrett, appeared in the 
 Athenmim of October 9th. Together with the portrait 
 that had been the source of its inspiration, Haydon 
 sent the poetess a sketch of his projected picture of 
 Curtius leaping into the gulf, and several little cour- 
 tesies appear to have passed between the two during 
 the two or three succeeding years. Ilaydon, who was 
 in a chronic state of pecuniary embarrassment, appears 
 to have occasionally troubled INIiss Barrett by leaving 
 in her charge pictures that might otherwise have 
 passed into the possession of the law, or the law^s 
 officers. He was also whimsical, eccentric, and often 
 maddened by his treatment by the public. JMiss 
 Mitford records how he had painted a portrait of her, 
 " far bigger than life, and with equal excess of colour, 
 but otherwise like." Her father did not praise this 
 production enough to please the artist, who felt that 
 it was not considered a success. He took it home and 
 cut out the head, which, however, he preserved. Some 
 days before his melancholy death he sent this portrait 
 to INIiss Barrett, because, as he said, he knew she 
 would value it. The next day he called on her at 
 "NVimpole Street, to say that he could not part with 
 the portrait, he could only lend it to her. This was 
 three days before his death. The circumstances at- 
 tending the unfortunate artist's fate are well known. 
 To endeavour to attract some share of the notice the 
 public "was bestowing upon less worthy objects, he 
 exhibited one of his most ambitious paintings in a 
 room opposite to where " General Tom Thumb " was 
 
PAMR 111 
 
 displaying himself. The result was disastrous j 'vvliilst 
 the natural phenomenon was visited by thousands^ the 
 painting was utterly deserted, and its unhappy ex- 
 hibitor, in despair, put an end to his own existence. 
 " Tlie grotesque bitterness of the antagonism,^' says 
 Miss Barrett, "was too mueh for Playdon — the dwarf 
 slew the giant." 
 
 Besides the shock which the news of Ilaydon's 
 suicide was to ISliss Barrett, she was placed in a sad 
 state of trouble by the information that by taking 
 charge of his manuscripts and papers whilst he was in 
 an insolvent state she had in some way infringed the 
 law, and might find herself entangled in controversy 
 with his creditors. Happily this fright proved ground- 
 less, as did also the fear that she was expected to edit 
 or have anything to do with the twenty-six large 
 volumes o£ Diary he had left in her charge. " I take 
 it that they will be very interesting,'' says Miss Mit- 
 ford, '' not so much about art, but about poetry and 
 literature, and the world in general, poor Haydon 
 having been the friend of almost every eminent 
 man for the last forty years; but he was so keen 
 and close an observer, and so frank and bold a 
 writer, that the publication of the Memoirs will be 
 terribly dangerous, and Avould have killed Elizabeth 
 Barrett." 
 
 The letter in which Miss Barrett communicated her 
 own account of her feelings on this occasion is suffi- 
 ciently explicit. She says :— 
 
 "The shock of poor Mr. Ilaydon's death overcame 
 me for several days. Our correspondence had ceased 
 a full year and a half; but the week preceding the 
 event he wrote several notes to me; and, by his desire, 
 1 have under my care boxes and pictures of his, which 
 
112 ELIZABETH BAliRETT BROWNING. 
 
 l)c brought himsclE to tlic door. Never did I imagine 
 that it -was other than one of the passing embarrass- 
 ments so unhappily frequent •\yith liim. Once before 
 he had asked me to give shelter to things belonging to 
 him, which, when the storm liad blown over, he had 
 taken back again. I did not suppose that in this 
 storm he was to sink — poor, noble soul ! 
 
 "And be sure that the pecuniary embarrassment 
 was not what sank him. It was a wind still more 
 east ; it was the despair of the ambition by which he 
 lived, and without which he could not live. In the 
 self-assertion which he had struggled to hold up 
 through life he went down into death. He could not 
 bear the neglect, the disdain, the slur east upon him 
 by the age, and so he perished. . . . His love of 
 reputation, you know, was a disease Avitli him ; and, 
 for my part, I believe that he died of it. That is my 
 belief. 
 
 " In the last week he sent me his portrait of you 
 (Miss Mitford) among the other things. When he 
 proposed sending it, he desired me to keep it for him ; 
 but when it came, a note also came to say that he 
 * could not make up his mind to part with it ; he would 
 lend it to me for a while ' ; a proof, among the rest, 
 that his act was not premeditated — a moment of mad- 
 ness, or a few moments of madness : who knows ? I 
 could not read the inquest, nor any of the details in 
 the newspapers. '^ 
 
 Beyond the shock the news of this tragedy gave 
 !Miss Barrett she suffered no other ill-effects from it. 
 Poor Haydon's effects were handed over to his legal 
 representatives, and the poetess released from all fur- 
 ther trouble about them. She was not, however, suc- 
 cessful in getting away on her projected journey during 
 
FAME. 113 
 
 the succeeding winter, but tlic dreaded relapse did not 
 befall her, Iler health continued to improve beyond 
 all hopes, whilst the foretoken of a great coming happi- 
 ness must have kept her in a fantasy of joy brighter 
 than she could, have ever, or for long past years, have 
 looked for. 
 
lU ELIZABETH JiABRETT J^ROWNING, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MARllIAGE. 
 
 The early summer of 18-10 brought Elizabeth Barrett 
 into somewhat close communion with a new friend, 
 Anna Jameson. Kenyon, apparently, was the medium 
 by which these two talented women were introduced 
 to each other. Mrs. Jameson was visiting at 51, 
 Wimpole Street, next door to our poetess, and seems 
 to have made more efforts than one to obtain an inter- 
 view with her neighbour. INIiss Barrett writes : — 
 
 " She overcame at last by sending a note to me from 
 the next house. Do you know her? She did not 
 exactly reflect my idea of Mrs. Jameson. And yet it 
 would be both untrue and ungrateful to tell you that 
 she disappointed me. In fact, she agreeably surprised 
 me in one respect, for I had been told that she was 
 pedantic, and I found her as unassuming as a woman 
 need be — both unassuming and natural. The tone of 
 her conversation, however, is rather analytical and. 
 critical than spontaneous and impulsive, and for this 
 reason she appears to me a less charming companion 
 
MABEIAQE, 115 
 
 tlian our fricnJ of Three INIile Cross, wlio * wears her 
 heart upon her sleeve,' and shakes out its perfumes at 
 every moment. She — Mrs. Jameson — is keen and 
 calm, and reflective. She has a very light complexion 
 — pale, lucid eyes — thin, colourless lips — fit for in- 
 cisive meanings — a nose and chin projective witliout 
 breadth. She was here nearly an hour, and, though 
 on a first visit, I could perceive that a vague thought 
 or expression she would not permit to pass either from 
 my lips or her own. Yet nothing could be greater 
 than her kindness to me, and I already think of her as 
 a friend." 
 
 When once Miss Barrett had permitted anyone to 
 gain the sanctuary of her presence she became, if the 
 visitant satisfied her expectations, a firm friend and a 
 trusty believer in the entire goodness of the new addi- 
 tion to her limited circle. Mrs. Jameson came as the 
 authoress of several well-known works ; as a woman who 
 had suffered, and as a distinguished woman who earnestly 
 sought her acquaintance. These qualifications bore 
 fruit, and a close intimacy was the result. *' This early 
 period of their acquaintance," says Mrs. Jameson's 
 biographer, "produced a multitude of tiny notes in 
 fairy handwriting, such as Miss Barrett was wont to 
 indite to her friends, and which are still in existence. 
 Some of these are most charming and characteristic, 
 and illustrate the rise and rapid increase of a friend- 
 ship tliat never faltered or grew cool from that time up 
 to the death of Mrs. Jameson." 
 
 One of these characteristic little notes, quoted by 
 the biograpber, alludes, in Miss Barrett's usual 
 humorously exaggerated style, to her loss of voice, and 
 the inconveniences resulting from it. " I am used to 
 lose my voice and find it again," says INIiss Barrett, 
 
116 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 ''until tlic vicissitude comes to appear as natural to 
 rne as the post itself. . . . You are not to think that I 
 should not have been delighted to have you in a 
 monodrama, as I heard Mr. Kcnyou one morning when 
 he came and talked for an hour, as he can talk, while 
 the audience could only clap her hands or shake her 
 head for the yea and nay. I should have been de- 
 lighted to be just such an audience to you, but with 
 you I was too much a stranger to propose such a thing, 
 and the necessary silence might have struck you, I 
 thought, a.s ungrateful and uncomprehending. But 
 now I am not dumb any longer, only hoarse, and 
 whenever I can hear j/nur voice it will be better for 
 me altogether." 
 
 In the correspondence which was now carried on 
 between the two ladies, the same subjects whieli were 
 being discussed with Miss INIitford and Home, formed 
 the staple themes. Mrs. Jameson, with energetic, 
 humanitarian feelings, more akin to Miss Barrett's 
 towards the seething humanity around us than to the 
 optimistic contentment of Miss Mitford, felt herself 
 stirred by the Report of the Commissioners on the 
 Employment of Women and Children, Even as 
 Elizabeth Barrett had been inspired to write her poem 
 " The Cry cf the Children," so Anna Jameson was 
 moved to express her feelings on the topic in a prose 
 article published in the columns of the Athenaum, 
 Here was a subject both women could converse upon, 
 and sympathize with ; but in the marvellous recovery 
 l)y mesmerism of a third friend they, apparently, had 
 reason for differing. " I am more and more bewildered 
 l)y the whole subject," said Miss Barrett. "I wish I 
 could disbelieve it all, except that Harriet Martineau 
 ii ncli.^' 
 
irABRIAGE. 117 
 
 Mrs. Jameson's interest in the poetess increased 
 with time. Her own literary engagements rendered it 
 necessary for her to visit France and Italy, but 
 learning that it was deemed essential for JNIiss Barrett's 
 health she should winter abroad, she generously offered 
 Mr. Earrett to take charge of his daughter and 
 accompany her to Italy. Tiie offer was not accepted, 
 but the object of the elder lady's solicitude, in ten- 
 dering her her thanks, said, " Not only am I grateful 
 to you, but happy to be grateful to you ; ■" adding, 
 " First I was drawn to you, then I was, and am, bound 
 to you." When Mrs. Jameson left England, she was 
 bade farewell in another little note, in which Miss 
 Barrett deplored her inability to call and bid good-bye 
 in person, as she was "forced to be satisfied with the 
 sofa and silence." 
 
 But neither the sofa nor silence was destined to be 
 the lot of Elizabeth Barrett. The most momentous 
 event of her life, the turning-point of her destiny was 
 at hand. Among the few living poets of whom she 
 •was wont to speak and write with admiration was 
 Eobert Browning. He had been characteristically 
 mentioned in " Lady Geraldine's Courtship," and from 
 that time forward his name and reputation found fre- 
 quent mention in her correspondence. Browning's 
 father had been an old schoolfellow of Kenyon ; it was, 
 therefore, the most natural thing in the world that the 
 wealthy man of the world should take a more than 
 usual interest in the rising young poet. 
 
 Kenyon was wont to take all the best new books to 
 his cousin, and to introduce to her, as far as her health 
 and inclination allowed, the most noteworthy of their 
 authors. Browning Avas so fortunate as to be included 
 among the latter. He had travelled and had seen 
 
118 ELIZABETn BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 personally ^liat Elizabeth Barrett had only read of or 
 dreamed abont. It is uo -wonder that a feeling 
 stronger and deeper than had as yet stirred the depths 
 of her heart should grow up and impel the poetess 
 towards the poet. With so many themes and 
 thoughts in common as they had, it is no matter for 
 surprise that the correspondence which they com- 
 menced, and for a long time continued, should grow 
 and deepen into something warmer and more sympa- 
 thetic than the usual interchange of literary manu- 
 scripts arouses. 
 
 IIow their friendship waxed, how their affection in- 
 tensified, and how, finally, they cast in their lots 
 together is a sweet romance the world knows not, and 
 never can know, the record of, beyond what they, the 
 two dramatis pcrsonce, chose to tell themselves. " If 
 you would know what she w'as,^' says a friend, ** read 
 ' One Word more.' He made no secret of it ; why 
 should another?" In that piece, originally appended 
 to his collection of poems styled Men and Womenf 
 Erowning so far took the world into his confidence as 
 to tell it, as if the telling had been needed, who his 
 *' moon of poets '' was. And, indeed, through many of 
 his works from that time henceforth does the thought 
 of one beloved wind like a golden thread through the 
 woof of his multi-coloured imagination. 
 
 The time has not come — can scarcely ever come — 
 when their story may be told fully ; but Robert 
 Browning has told, in his poet-speech, how his heart 
 had realised an ideal, and Elizabeth Barrett has contri- 
 buted her share towards the glorification of eternal 
 Love in her exquisitely beautiful Sonnets from the 
 Portugvese. These sonnets, this delicate confession of 
 a pure woman's love, were written, it is averred, some 
 
MABEIAGK 119 
 
 time before lier marriage, and were not shown to her 
 husband until after they were wed. Of course, they 
 are not translations, and the fietion that tliey were to 
 be found in any language but her own was but the last 
 thin veil with which Elizabeth Barrett faintly concealed 
 the passion she was so proud of. 
 
 Miss Barrett, although personally unacquainted with 
 Mr. Browning until a compararatively short time before 
 their marriage, had previously been his admirer and 
 correspondent. Writing to an American correspondent 
 in the spring of 1845, she had said, " Mr. Browning, 
 with whom I have had some correspondence lately, is 
 full of great intentions ; the light of the future is on 
 his forehead . . . he is a poet for posterity. I have 
 a full faith in him as poet and prophet.^' 
 
 Their personal knowledge of each other had not, 
 evidently, existed long before they discovered the 
 strength of their regards for one another. To the lady, 
 at any rate, this revelation must have bsen a startling 
 discovery. Advanced into her thirty-eighth year, she 
 had little prospect and probably little inclination to 
 depart from the course in life she believed marked 
 out for her. Hitherto her personal acquaintances had 
 been so few that love and marriage can scarcely have 
 entered into her schemes for life : as she says in the 
 Sonnets : — 
 
 I lived with visions for my company. 
 
 Instead of men and -women, years ago, 
 
 And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know 
 
 A sweeter music than they played to me. . . , 
 
 Then Tnou didst come ... to be, 
 Beloved, what they seemed. 
 
 Heavy griefs and precarious health had been hers, it 
 is true ; but her sorrows, saddening though they were. 
 
120 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 liad 1)ccii soothed by kindness and all that wealth could 
 provide. Had she been enabled, like the majority of 
 the world's women, to enter into the labours and 
 struggles of the life around her, she would have plaeed 
 her sorrow on one side ; but, separated as she was both 
 from the activity and ordinary anxieties of life, she 
 nursed her griefs as if they had been petted babes, and 
 fed her favourite sorrows with unceasing tears. She 
 sang — 
 
 A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borno 
 From year to year until I saw thy face, 
 And sorrow after sorrow took the place 
 Of all those natural joys. 
 
 But all these long-hoarded and much-cherished griefs 
 • — truly become, through lapse of time, but ideals — now 
 became as visionary and transient as dreams. A sud- 
 den change had taken place : '* The face of all the 
 world is changed, I think,^' she wrote. The ideas of 
 Death — which she had long regarded as near — were 
 transformed, and a restless energy took the place of 
 her ancient langour. Most truly does she image forth, 
 in the first of her love Sonnets, the change which had 
 taken place in her whole being : — 
 
 I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, 
 
 The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, 
 
 Those of my own life, who by turns had flung 
 
 A shadow across mo. Straightway I was 'ware, 
 
 So weejiing, how a mystic shape did move 
 
 Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair, 
 
 And a voice said, in mastery, while I strove, 
 
 " Guess now who holds thoo ? " " Death 1 " I said. But, there, 
 
 The silver answer rang, " Not Death, but Love 1 " 
 
 Henry Chorlcy, a literary friend, who made the 
 acquaintance of Miss Barrett through the me'Pium of 
 
MABRIAGR 121 
 
 ^liss Mitford^ said her marriage -with the author of 
 Paracelsus was more like a fairy-tale than anything in 
 real life he had ever known. Charming and appro- 
 priate as the union of the two poets seemed to many, 
 there was one, and he the most interested and first to 
 be consulted in the matter, who would not look upon 
 it in such a light. To the outer world the persistent 
 and lasting antagonism of Mr, Barrett to the marriage 
 of his daughter with Mr. Browning may seem absurd 
 and unnatural ; yet, without prying too deeply into the 
 private motives which inspired his dislike to the match, 
 the few glimpses which are obtainable of his passionate 
 yet obstinate nature render his behaviour with regard 
 to this matter far from inexplicable. Mr. Barrett's 
 immovable will, his determination not to falter from a 
 resolution when once formed, was a salient trait of 
 character inherited by his favourite and famous child. 
 Elizabeth Barrett had been her father's idol : appa- 
 rently a confirmed invalid, whom Death might claim at 
 any time, he had lavished upon her everything love or 
 wealth could afford. The space left vacant in his pas- 
 sionate heart by the death of his wife had been largely 
 refilled by his adoration of his daughter. The fame 
 she had created for herself was partly reflected upon 
 him — her father and protector. The affection and 
 pride which had prompted him to publish her childish 
 productions must have appeared amply justified by her 
 present success. And now, after all the long years of 
 anxiety and affection had begun to produce their reward 
 in improved health and widespread reputation, she, bis 
 own favourite child, proposed to leave her home and 
 endow a stranger with ?ill the fruits of her fame and 
 the hours of her recovered health. No ! the anger of 
 Mr. Barrett towards his so much beloved daughter is 
 
122 ELIZABETH BARRETT BUOWNING. 
 
 neither unique nor singular, •when his temperament is 
 considered. 
 
 "Writing to Home just after her marriage, our 
 poietess states her experience that all her maladies 
 came from without, and " the hope that if unprovoked 
 by English winters, they would cease to come at all. 
 The mildness of the last exceptional winter," she 
 remarks, " had left me a different creature, and the 
 physicians helped me to hope everything from Italy." 
 "Winter, with all its accumulative terrors, was rapidly 
 nearing ; on one hand was " the sofa and silence " of 
 home, shared with an estranged father and a probable 
 relapse into illness, and on the other, Hope, Italy and 
 Love ! The contest between Love and Duty, if severe, 
 could not last long or be doubtful. " Our plans,'' 
 said the lady to Home, ** were made up at the last in 
 the utmost haste and agitation — precipitated beyond 
 all intention." 
 
 On the 12th September, 1846, Elizabeth Barrett 
 was married, at the Marylebone parish church, to 
 Robert Browning, and immediately after the newly- 
 wedded pair started for Italy, by way of Paris. 
 
 The marriage was an intense surprise for all those 
 who only knew Elizabeth Barrett as a chronic invalid, 
 hovering between life and death. Henry Chorley, 
 who was selected as one of the trustees of Mrs. Brown- 
 ing's marriage settlement, says, " I cannot recollect 
 when I have been more moved and excited by any 
 surprise, beyond the circle of my immediate hopes and 
 fears," than when '' she married, after an intimacy 
 suspected by none save a very few, under circum- 
 stances of no ordinary romance, and in marrying whom 
 she secured for the residue of her life an emancipation 
 from prison and an amount of happiness delightful to 
 
MARRIAGE. 323 
 
 Ihiuk of, as falling to tlic lot of one wlio, from a 
 darkened chamber, bad still exercised sucb a power of 
 deligbting otbers." 
 
 Miss Mitford, Home, and other friends expressed 
 equal surprise, but none of them bad the wonder 
 brought home to them so startlingly as Mrs. Jameson. 
 She had left her friend unable to accompany her 
 abroad — '^forced to be satisfied with the sofa and 
 silence" — and directly afterwards, almost as soon as 
 she had reached Paris, she received a note from Mr. 
 Browning, telling her that he had just arrived from 
 England, and that he was on his way to Italy with his 
 wife, the same " E.B.B.'" she had just taken leave of ! 
 "My aunt's surprise," says Mrs. Macpherson, '^ was 
 something almost comical, so startling and entirely un- 
 expected was the news." 
 
 Mrs. Jameson, of course, called on the Brownings, 
 and persuaded them to leave the hotel they were 
 staying at for a quiet pension in the Rue Ville I'Eveque, 
 where she was residing. They remained together ia 
 Paris for a fortnight, during which period Mrs. Jame- 
 son wrote to a friend: "I have also here a poet and a 
 poetess — two celebrities who have run away and mar- 
 ried under circumstances peculiarly interesting, and 
 such as render imprudence the height of prudence. 
 Both excellent ; but God help them ! for I know not 
 how the two poet heads and poet hearts will get on 
 through this prosaic world. I think it possible I may 
 go on to Italy with them.'' 
 
 The possibility came about, and the whole party, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Browning and Mrs. Jameson and niece, 
 travelled slowly southwards to Pisa, where the newly- 
 married couple proposed living for a while at least. 
 How Mrs. Browning contrived to endure all tho 
 
12-1 ELIZA BETH BARR ETT BBO WNING. 
 
 anxieties and labours of the jcurney seems incompre- 
 licnsihle. ** My poor invalid friend/' •writes Mrs. 
 Jameson, " snflcred much from fatigue ; and, con- 
 sidering that she had passed seven (sic) years without 
 ever leaving her room, you can imagine what it 
 was to convey her from Paris to Pisa. Luckily our 
 journey was nearly over before the heavy rains cora- 
 mcnced.^' 
 
 Miss Mitford, telling one of her correspondents of 
 Elizabeth Barrett's marriage, adds : " Love really is the 
 wizard the poets have called him : a fact which I 
 always doubted till now. But never was such a mira- 
 culous proof of his power as her travelling across 
 France by diligence, by railway, by Rhone-boat — any- 
 how, in fact ; and, having arrived in Pisa so much 
 improved in health that Mrs. Jameson, who travelled 
 with them, says, * she is not merely improved but 
 transformed.' I do not know Mr. Browning ; but this 
 fact is enough to make me his friend.^' 
 
 Mrs. Maepherson, speaking of the enchanting 
 memories of that journey from Paris to Pisa, spent in 
 such companionship, says, " The loves of the poets 
 could not have been put into more delightful reality 
 before the eyes of the dazzled and enthusiastic 
 beholder ; " but she only permits herself, in the 
 life of her aunt, to recall in print one scene among 
 many of this wonderful journey. She says: "We 
 rested for a couple of days at Avignon, the route 
 to Italy being then much less direct and expedi- 
 tious, though I think much more delightful, than 
 now ; and while there we made a little excursion, a 
 poetical pilgrimage, to Vaucluse. There, at the very- 
 source of the ' chiare, fresche e dolci acque,' Mr. 
 Browning took his wife up in his arms, and carrying 
 
MABBIAGE. 125 
 
 her across the shallow, curling water, seated her on a 
 rock that rose throne-like in the middle of the stream. 
 Thus love and poetry took a new possession of the 
 spot immortalised by Petrarch's loving fancy." Mrs. 
 Browning herself alluded to the pilgrimage to Vau- 
 eluse, " where the living water gushes up/' she says, 
 " into the face of the everlasting rock, and there is no 
 green thing except Petrarch's memory. Yes there is, 
 the water itself — that is brightly green — and there are 
 one or two little cypresses." 
 
 Three weeks were spent by Mrs. Jameson and her 
 niece travelling with the Brownings, and another three 
 weeks with them in Pisa, where, says Mrs. Macpher- 
 son, *^ the poet pair, who were our closest associates, 
 added all that was wanted to the happiness of this 
 time." Well may INIrs. Macpherson, who was only 
 sixteen then, have recalled those times and their 
 associated memories as a golden oasis in her exist- 
 ence. 
 
 The Brownings settled in Pisa for several months, 
 intending to winter there, it having been recommended 
 as a mild, suitiible residence for Mrs. Browning. In 
 a letter to Korue, dated December 4th, she says : — 
 " We are left to ourselves in a house built by Vasari, 
 and within sight of the Leaning Tower and the Diiomo, 
 to enjoy a most absolute seclusion and plan the work 
 lit for it. I am very happy and very well. . . . We 
 have heard a mass (a musical mass for the dead) in 
 the Campo Santo, and achieved a due pilgrimage to 
 the Lanfranchi Palace to walk in the footsteps of 
 Byron and Shelley. ... A statue of your Cosmo 
 looks down from one of the great piazzas we often pass 
 thiough on purpose to remind us of you. This city is 
 very beautiful and full of repose — ' asleep in tlic sun,' as 
 
i2o ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 Dickens said.'' Mr. Browning, in a note attaehed to 
 his wife's letter, says, " Siie is getting better every day 
 •^stronger, better wonderfully, and beyond all our 
 hopes." 
 
 The newly-married pair spent the winter in Pisa, at 
 the Collegio Ferdinando, in a street terminated by the 
 palace in whieh Cosmo the Great, Home's hero, slew 
 his son. The change was in every way beneficial for 
 our poetess, a change, as she told an American cor- 
 respondent in the beginning of 1847, " from the long 
 seclusion in one room to liberty and Italy's sunshine ; 
 for a resigned life I take up a happy one." Apolo- 
 gising for a lengthy silence, she adds : — 
 
 " I shall behave better, you will find, for the future, 
 and more gratefully, and I begin some four months 
 after the greatest event of my life by telling you that 
 I am well and happy, and meaning to get as strong in 
 the body by the help of this divine climate as I am in 
 the spirit — the spirits ! So much has God granted 
 me compensation. Do you not see already that it was 
 not altogether the sight of the free sky which made 
 me fail to you before. . . . My husb.md's name will 
 prove to you that I have not left my vocation to the 
 rhyming art in order to marry ; on the contrary, w^e 
 mean, both of us, to do a great deal of work, besides 
 surprising the world by the spectacle of two poets 
 coming together without quarrelling, wrangling, and 
 calling names in lyrical measures. . . . We live here 
 in the most secluded manner, eschewing English 
 visitors and reading Vasari, and dreaming dreams of 
 seeing Venice in the summer. Until the beginning 
 of April we are tied to this perch of Pisa, as the 
 climate is recommended for the weakness of my 
 chest, and the repose and calmness of the place are 
 
MARRIAGE. 127 
 
 by no means unpleasant to those who, like ourselves, 
 do not look for distractions and amusements in order 
 to be very happy. Afterwards we go anywhere but 
 to England. — we shall not leave Italy at present. 
 If I get quite strong I may cross the desert on a 
 camel yet^ and see Jerusalem. There's a dream for 
 you — nothing is too high or too low for my dreams 
 just now." 
 
 For some time before and for a long time after her 
 marriage, Mrs. Browning did not publish anything of 
 importance. But, need it be said, neither her pen nor 
 brain were idle, nor, indeed, was her zest for literary 
 matters dormant. Poetic aspirations still swayed her 
 thoughts ; to an American proposition to issue a selec- 
 tion from her poems she lent a pleased attention, only 
 wisliiug to have a voice in the selection. To the sug- 
 gestion of a prose volume she gave a decided negative, 
 for the time at least. She continued to enjoy literary 
 gossip about her favourite authors, and being informed 
 that Tennyson, then in Switzerland, was "disappointed 
 with the mountains,^' expressed her wonder that any- 
 one could be disappointed Avith anything in Nature. 
 ** She always seems to me,''' was her remark, " to leap 
 up to the level of the heart." 
 
 In her political feelings Mrs. Browning continued to 
 be somewhat ahead of her contemporaries, and did 
 not increase her popularity by the readiness with 
 which she gave expression to ideas generally antagon- 
 istic to the views of the majority. As yet she had not 
 obtained a very intimate knowledge of the aspirations 
 for liberty with which the hearts of the Italians around 
 her were burning, but was greatly roused by "the 
 dreadful details from Ireland. Oh ! when I write 
 against slavery," she exclaimed to an American friend. 
 
123 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 *' it is not as one free from the curse, * tlie curse of 
 CrorawcU ' falls upon us also ! Poor, poor Ireland ! 
 But nations, like individuals, must be * perfected by 
 suffering,' " was her comment, to which she added the 
 hope that " in time we shall slough off our leprosy of 
 the pride of money and of rank, and be clean, and 
 just, and righteous." 
 
 It is a pleasant surprise to learn that Mrs. Brown- 
 ing had her old friend and favourite. Flush, Avith her 
 at Pisa. " He adapts himself,'^ she says, "to the sun- 
 shine as to the shadow, and when he hears me laugh 
 lightly, begins not to think it too strange." And 
 whilst referring to her faithful dog, a few words may be 
 devoted to the remainder of his history. After the 
 marriage of his dear mistress, w'ith her he forsook the 
 sofa and silence to see the world. He accompanied 
 her to France and Italy, and, as Mr. Westwood in- 
 forms us, " wagged his tail in Casa Gu'idi Windoivs; had 
 one or two perilous adventures — lost his coat, and 
 became a dreadful guy in the warm climate ; but he 
 lived to an advanced old age, and was beloved and 
 honoured to the end." 
 
 Towards the spring Pisa became unsuitable in various 
 ways as a residence for the Brownings. Apart from 
 climatic considerations it was, doubtless, found to 
 be insufferably dull. To a friend Mrs. Browning 
 wrote: — 
 
 *' As to news, you will not expect news from 
 me now ; until the last few days, we had not for 
 mouths even seen a newspaper, and human faces 
 divine are quite rococo with me, as the French would 
 say." 
 
 From Pisa the Brownings removed to Florence. To 
 Home ]Mrs. Browning wrote that in June they left 
 
MAUBTAGE. 129 
 
 the latter city for Ancona, in order to be cooler^ and 
 found that they were '* leaping right into the cauldron. 
 The heat was just the fiercest fire of your imagination, 
 and I seethe to think of it at this distance. But we 
 saw the whole coasts from Ravenna to Loretto, and had 
 wonderful visions of beauty and glory in passing and 
 re-passing the Apennines. At Ravenna we stood one 
 morning, at four, at Dante's tomb, with its pathetic 
 inscription, and seldom has any such sight so moved 
 me. Ravenna is a dreary, marshy place, with a dead 
 weight of melancholy air fading the faces of its in- 
 habitants ; and its pine-forest stands off too far to 
 redeem it anywise." 
 
 Florence grew to be a second, home and. a domestic 
 shrine to Mrs. Browning. Her first impressions of it 
 were pleasant, and the pleasure became permanent. 
 Writing from the Tuscan capital to Home, she 
 says: — 
 
 '^Here we live for nothing, or next to nothing, 
 and have great rooms, and tables and chairs thrown in ; 
 and although hearing occasionally that Florence is to 
 be sacked on such a day, and our Grand Duke de- 
 posed on such another, I have learnt to endure meekly 
 all such expectations, and to hold myself as safe as 
 you in your garden through them all. One thing is 
 certain — that the Italians won't spoil their best sur- 
 touts by venturing out in a shower of rain through 
 whatever burst of revolutionary ardour, nor will they 
 forget to take their ices through loading of their guns." 
 
 And later on she says : " All I complain of at 
 Florence is the dilficulty of getting sight of new books, 
 which I, who have been used to a new ^sea-serpent' 
 every morning, in the shape of a French romance, 
 care still more for than my husband docs. Old books 
 
 
 
130 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 we can arrive at, and besides, our own are coming 
 over the sea." Then, lapsing from badinage to a more 
 serious tone, she adds : " So used am I to be grateful 
 to you that it scarcely can be a strange thing to read 
 those most kind words in which you promise a 
 welcome to my husband's poems — only you will 
 believe that kindness in that shape must touch me 
 nearest." 
 
 When they finally settled in Florence, the Brown- 
 ings removed to a romantic old palace known as Casa 
 Guidi, and here, with some short intervals of absence, 
 the poetess passed the remainder of her life. She 
 kept up her correspondence with friends in England, 
 but rarely received any English people into her resi- 
 dence, her chief visitors being American and Italian. 
 Mr. Browning being well versed, not only in Italian 
 "iterature and lore, bnt in the political needs and 
 /rongs of the people, his wife, also, naturally studied 
 and masteredthe whole subject and became, if possible, 
 more Italian than the Italians themselves. With all 
 the strength of her character, with that indomitable 
 determination which all through life inspired her, 
 she took up and adopted, and with heart and brain 
 fought for, the cause of Italy. In the Casa Guidi 
 Italian patriots found a sympathetic WTlcome, and a 
 rallying place. Americans, also, found there a genial 
 deception and an enthusiastic admirer of their country ; 
 it is from them chiefly, indeed, almost exclusively, that 
 we know how Mrs. Browning looked and lived and 
 laboured in her happy Elorcntinc home. 
 
 One American author who visited the poetess and 
 her husband in Casa Guidi, in 1847, records of his 
 visit that in the evening Mr. Browning presented him 
 to his wife : — " The visitor saw seated at the tea-tablQ 
 
MARRIAGE. 131 
 
 in the great room of the palaee in whieli tliey were 
 living, a very small, very slij^lit ^vonlan, Avitli very long 
 curls drooping forward, almost across the eyes, 
 hanging down to the bosom, and quite concealing the 
 pale small face, from which the piercing, enquiring 
 eyes looked out sensitively at the stranger. Rising 
 from her chair she put out cordially the thin, white 
 hand of an invalid, and in a few moments they were 
 pleasantly chatting, while the husband strode up and 
 down the room, joining in the conversation with a 
 vigour, humour, eagerness and affluence of curious lore 
 which, with his trenchant thought and subtle sympatliy, 
 made him one of the most charming and inspiring of 
 companions/' 
 
 This same Transatlantic informant talks of having 
 been, a few days later, with the Brownings and one or 
 two others, to Vallombrosa, the whole party spending 
 two days there together. " Mrs. Browning was still 
 too much of an invalid to walk, but she sat under the 
 great trees upon the lawn-like hillsides near the con- 
 vent, or in the scats of the dusky convent chapel, 
 wliile Robert Browning at the organ chased a fugue, 
 or dreamed out upon the twilight keys a faiut throbbing 
 toccata of Galuppi." 
 
 In an undated letter to Miss Mitford, Mrs. Browning 
 tells of a visit, doubtless the same just referred to, she 
 made to the monastery of Vallombrosa, and of being 
 dragged there in a grape basket, without wheels, drawn 
 by two oxen, remarking that she and her maid were 
 turned away by the monks "for the sin of woman- 
 hood.^' 
 
 " In all the conversation,^' continues the American 
 acquaintance of Mrs. Browning, ^' she was so mild, 
 and tender, and womanly, so true and intense and rich 
 
132 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 with rare learning, there was a girl-like simplicity and 
 sensitiveness and a womanly earnestness, that took the 
 heart captive. She was deeply and most intelligently 
 interested in America and Americans, and felt a kind 
 of enthusiastic gratitude to them for their generous 
 fondness of her poetry." 
 
 Another account throwing some light upon that 
 home in the Casa Guidi, as it appeared in those days, 
 is furnished by Mr. George Stillman Ilillard. Mr. 
 HiHard, also an American, says : — 
 
 *' One of my most delightful associations with 
 Florence arises from the fact that here I made the 
 acquaintance of Robert and Elizabeth Browning. . , , 
 A happier home and a more perfect union than theirs 
 it is not easy to imagine ; and this completeness 
 arises, not only from the rare qualities which each 
 possesses, but from their adaptation to each other. . , 
 !Mrs. Browning is in many respects the correlative 
 of her husband. As he is full of manly power, so is 
 she the type of the most sensitive and delicate woman- 
 hood. She has been a great sufferer from ill-health, 
 and the marks of pain are stamped upon her person 
 and manner. Her figure is slight, her countenance 
 expressive of genius and sensibility, shaded by a veil 
 of long brown locks ; and her tremulous voice often 
 flutters over her words like the flame of a dying 
 candle over the wick. I have never seen a human 
 frame which seemed so nearly a transparent veil for a 
 celestial and immortal spirit. She is a soul of fire 
 enclosed in a shell of pearl. Ilcr rare and fine genius 
 needs no setting forth at my hands. She is, also, 
 what is not so generally known, a woman of uncom- 
 mon, nay, profound learning, even measured by a 
 masculine standard. Nor is she more remarkable for 
 
MARRIAGE. 133 
 
 genius and learning tlian for sweetness of temper, 
 tenderness of heart, depth of feeling, and purity of 
 spirit. It is a privilege to know such beings singly 
 and separately ; but to sec their powers quickened, 
 and their happiness rounded, by the sacred tie of mar- 
 riage, is a cause for peculiar and lasting gratitude. A 
 union so complete as theirs — in which the mind has 
 nothing to crave, nor the heart to sigh for — is cordial 
 to behold and cheerinnr to remember." 
 
134. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 CHAPTER yir. 
 
 CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 Thus in quiet happiness lived in tlieir pleasant Italian 
 home the two poets, Robert and Elizabeth Browning. 
 They continued to write their immortal poems, eheercd 
 by caeh other's society, but published little or nothing, 
 and saw little of the outer world. Few Englishmen 
 found their way into the interior of Casa Guidi, the 
 majority of visitors still being Americans and Italians. 
 ]\Ir3. Browning continued to correspond with Miss 
 Mitford and other friends in both New and Old Eng- 
 land, and she repeatedly alluded to her domestic 
 liappiness, the only cloud which now rested upon her 
 life, save perhaps her chronic constitutional delicacy, 
 being the rupture with her father. lie appears never 
 to have forgiven her for her marriage, and persistently 
 refused to open her letters or even to allow her name 
 to be mentioned to him. 
 
 An event was about to happen, however, to draw 
 the poet pair still closer together and to still further 
 wean the poetess from the painful memories of the 
 " sofa and silence " of her old home. On the 8th 
 February 1840, ]\Iiss Mitford received a letter from 
 
CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 135 
 
 Mrs. Browning wliicli, besides giving licr an aceount 
 o£ the civic troubles of Florence, prepared her for 
 the happy news shortly to be communicated. On 
 the 9th of March 1849, Mrs. Browning's only child, 
 a son, named after his two parents Robert Barrett 
 Browning, was born. 
 
 Italy, Florence, above all Casa Guidi, had now 
 stronger and unbreakable ties for the heart as well as 
 the powerful brain of Elizabeth Browning. Was not 
 her child, " my own young Florentine," a native of 
 the land she had. learned to love so well, the land of 
 her married happiness ! It was in that new home, 
 ■where the three happiest years of her womanhood, had 
 passed, was born her 
 
 Blue-eyed prophet ; thou to whom 
 
 The earliest ■world- day light that ever flowed 
 Through Casa Guidi Windows, chanced to come ! 
 
 The boy grew and prospered, and with its growth 
 grew the mother's health and joy. " How earnestly I 
 rejoice, ray beloved friend,^' wrote Miss Mitford this 
 year, " in your continued health I and how very, very 
 glad 1 shall be to see you and. your baby. Remember 
 me to Wilson (Mrs. Browning's maid) and tell her 
 that I am quite prepared to admire him as much as 
 "will even satisfy her appetite for praise. How 
 beautifully you describe your beautiful country 1 " 
 exclaims Miss Mitford. " Oh 1 that I were with you, 
 to lose myself in the chestnut forests, and gather grapes 
 at the vintage 1 If I had. but Prince Hassan's 
 carpet, I would, set forth and leave Mr. May (her 
 medical adviser) to scold and wonder, when he comes 
 to see me to-moirow . , . Kiss baby for me, and pat 
 Flush." 
 
13(3 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 The letter just quoted from intimates a probability 
 oE Mrs. Browning's visit to England. Indeed, for all her 
 love for Italy she could not quite forego her affection for 
 the old country and, as she had previously told Home 
 in 1848, " We haven't given up England altogether — • 
 we talk of spending summers there, and have a scheme 
 of seeing you all next year, if circumstances should 
 permit of it." Circumstances did not, however, work 
 together happily for this scheme, and instead of 
 summer in England, the autumn was spent at the Baths 
 of Lucca. An intention to winter in Rome was, also^ 
 given up, and Christmas was spent in Florence, where 
 Mr. Browning completed for publication his poem, 
 Christmas-Eve and Easter Bay, and his wife wrote the 
 first part of her poem, Casa Guidi Windows, although 
 the second portion of it was not written until two years 
 later, the complete work being published in 1851. 
 
 It is, apparently, this restful period of Mrs. Brown- 
 ing's life that is referred to by Mrs. Ritchie, when 
 she remarks, " Those among us who only knew Mrs. 
 Browning as a wife and as a mother have found it 
 difficult to realise her life under aiiy other condition, so 
 vivid and complete is the image of her peaceful home, 
 of its fire-side where the logs are burning, and the 
 mistress established on her sofa, with her little boy 
 curled up by her side, the door opening and shutting 
 meanwhile to the quick step of the master of the 
 house and to the life of the world without, coming to 
 find her in her quiet corner. We can recall the slight 
 figure in its black silk dress, the writing apparatus by 
 the sofa, the tiny inkstand, the quill-nibbed penholder, 
 the unpretentious implements of her work. * She was a 
 little woman ; she liked little things.' Her miniature 
 editions of the classics are, with her name written 
 
CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 137 
 
 in each in her sensitive fine handwriting, and always 
 her husband's name added above her own, for she 
 dedicated all her books to him; it was a fancy she had.'* 
 
 In the spring the Brownings appear to have visited 
 Rome, and there was again some talk of their visiting 
 England, passing through Paris on the way, but for the 
 present the project was abandoned. Wordsworth died 
 in April and a suggestion was made by the Alhenamm 
 that the vacant laurcatcship should be given to INIrs. 
 Browning. " "We would urge/' says the journal, " the 
 graceful compliment to a youthful queen which would 
 be implied in the recognition of the remarkable literary 
 place taken by women in her reign." 
 
 A notable circumstance happened in May, and one 
 that cannot have failed to have made a marked im- 
 pression upon Mrs. Browning's highly sensitive nature. 
 Margaret Fuller and her husband, Count d'Ossoli, 
 spent their last evening on shore with the Brownings, 
 previous to their departure for the United States. The 
 vessel they sailed in was wrecked, and they never 
 touched land again alive. Margaret Fuller was not, 
 probably, a women with whom our poetess could ever 
 be much in sympathy, but her tragic death and the 
 circumstance of her last night on shore having been 
 passed in her company must have left an indelible im- 
 pression upon the mind of Mrs. Browning. Another 
 acquaintanceship probably formed about this time was 
 that of Isa Blagden, whose sympathy with some sub- 
 iects should have drawn her towards the mistress of 
 Casa Guidi. On Italian aspirations for liberty, on the 
 Napoleonic myth, and upon the mysteries of mesraerisrj 
 — which latter subject continued to greatly exercise 
 Mrs. Browning's mind — they must have been in full 
 accord. Other Florentine friends were W. W. Story, 
 
138 ELIZABETH BABRETT BEO IVNINO. 
 
 the American sculptor, and his wife. Tliey were the 
 most intimate friends of the Brownings, and for several 
 summers visited and lived with them in Siena. Story's 
 reminiscences of Mrs. Browning during the latter 
 period of her life are among the most interesting 
 extant of her, and will have to be largely cited from. 
 
 This 1850 passed aw^ay undisturbedly so far as the 
 poetess was concerned. Besides her domestic tics she 
 was busy with lier pen, preparing for publication in a 
 complete form her poem of Casa Gaidi JVindows. The 
 poem never was and never will be popular. It contains 
 little likely to arouse the sympathies of its author's 
 usual readers, and to most Italians is, naturally, a scaled 
 book. INIrs. Browning, living amid a people whom she 
 came to regard to no little extent as fellow countrymen 
 and friends, was naturally intensely impressed by their 
 wrongs and moved by their aspirations for liberty. As 
 was customary Avith her, her feelings found vent in 
 song. Casa Guidi Windoivs was the result of her im- 
 pressions *' upon events in Tuscany of which she was a 
 witness;" but despite its powerful passages and occasional 
 felicities of speech, it is impossible to regard it as a 
 success. 
 
 " It is a simple story of personal impression," says 
 Mrs. Browning, but that is just Avhat it strikes the 
 reader as not being. It is full of recondite allusions, 
 comprehensible only to those fully conversant with 
 Florentine literary and political history. It deals with 
 numerous political things unsuited to poesy, however 
 worthy of prose, from which indeed, despite some out- 
 bursts of sweetest song, the work through a great 
 portion of its length is barely discernible. As Mrs. 
 Browning's work it will be read with interest, although 
 interest of a somewhat languid type, but at the present 
 
CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 13J 
 
 day it 'will be difficult to discover readers who can he 
 moved to any great amount of entlmsiasra by the 
 author's passionate and evident sincerity. She claimed 
 for it only that it portrayed the intensity of " her warm 
 affection for a bcautilul and unfortunate country/' 
 and that the sincerity with which the feeling was 
 manifested indicated "her own good faith and freedom 
 from partisanship." She also considered the discrepancy 
 which the public \vca.ld see bet»veen the two parts of 
 the poem — " the first was written nearly three years 
 ago, while the second resumes the actual situation of 
 1851 " — a sufficient guarantee to her readers of the 
 fidelity of her contemporary impressions. The causes 
 which gave rise to her singing are no longer operative ; 
 her prophecy of Italy's future has been fulfilled, and 
 her poem, as of all political poems, can now only be of 
 value for, and only judged by, its poetic worth. Un- 
 fortunately, when judged by the only standard now 
 possible to gauge it by, Casa Guidi Whidows cannot be 
 regarded as one of its author's successes, any metrical 
 music it contains being but too frequently chiefly con- 
 spicuous by the harshness of the long passages of prose 
 by which it is overwhelmed. Probably the sweetest 
 lines in the work are those with -which the posra 
 opens : — 
 
 I heard last niglit a little child go singing 
 
 'Xeath Casa Guidi windows, by the church, 
 hdia /iberta, belfa ! stringing 
 
 The same words still on notes he went in search 
 So high for, you concluded the upspringing 
 
 Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch 
 Must leave the whole bush in a tremble green, 
 
 And that the heart of Italy must beat. 
 While such a voice had leave to rise serene 
 
 'Twixt church and palace of a Florence street I 
 
] 10 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 Of course there are many quotable lines in the poem 
 and some grand thouglits, notably that referring to 
 Charles Albert, who, " taking oil' his erown, made 
 visible a hero's forehead." 
 
 The temporary repression of liberty in Tuscany and the 
 neighbouring states undoubtedly had a very depressing 
 cfTeet ujDon IMrs. Browning, and rendered her more than 
 ever desirous of leaving Florence for a time. A longing 
 to see her native landouee more, doubtless possessed her, 
 besides which business matters necessarily rendered 
 occasional visits to England almost unavoidable. 
 
 Accordingly, in the summer of 1851, accompanied by 
 her husband, she left Florence for England. Among 
 the places visited on the homeward journey was Venice, 
 and Miss Mitford, alluding to a letter she had received 
 from her from that city, says i\Irs. Browning is so well, 
 " she was to be found every evening at half-past eight 
 in St. Mark's Place, drinking coffee and reading the 
 French papers, whence they adjourned to the opera, 
 where they had a box upon the best tier for two shillings 
 and eight-pence English." 
 
 The Brownings took Paris in their way, finally 
 reaching London after an absence of nearly four years. 
 Mrs. Browning returned to England full of fame — fame 
 not only on her own account but on account of her 
 husband — a happy wife, a devoted mother, and 
 ajjparently restored to healtli. What a contrast to her 
 departure on that autumn four years ago, when, 
 almost like a fugitive, the supposed chronic invalid had 
 escaped from her " sofa and silence " across the waters 
 to an unknown fate. 
 
 One of the first to call and welcome her was Miss 
 Clifford, who says : " I have had the exquisite pleasure 
 of seeing her once more in London, with a lovely boy 
 
CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 141 
 
 at her knee, almost as well as ever, and telling talcs of 
 Italian rambles, of losing lierself in chestnut forests, 
 and scrambling ou muleback up the sources of extinct 
 volcanoes." 
 
 Not only were old friendships revived, but new friend- 
 ships formed upon this pleasant return to her native 
 land. Among those who now made her acquaint- 
 ance was Bayard Taylor, the well-known American 
 author and traveller. His reminiscences of the 
 poetess and her surroundings are replete with interest. 
 lie says : — 
 
 " In the summer of 1851 a mutual friend offered me 
 a letter to Browning, who was then with his wife tem- 
 porarily in London. . . . Calling one afternoon in 
 September, at their residence in Devonshire Street, I 
 ■was fortunate enough to find both at home, though on 
 the very eve of their return to Florence. In a small 
 drawing-roora on the first floor I met Browning, who 
 received me with great cordiality. In his lively, 
 cheerful manner, quick voice, and self-possession, he 
 made upon me the impression of an American rather 
 than an Englishman. He was then, I should judge, 
 about thirty-seven years of age, but his dark hair was 
 already streaked with gray abaut the temples. His 
 complexion was fair with, perhaps, the faintest olive 
 tinge, eyes large, clear, and gray, and nose strong and 
 well-cut, mouth full and rather broad, and chin 
 pointed, though not prominent. . . . He was about 
 the medium height, strong in the shoulders, but slender 
 at the waist, and his movements expressed a combi- 
 nation of vigour and elasticity." 
 
 After this graphic, if somewhat interviewer style of 
 describing Mr. Browning, Bayard Taylor proceeds to 
 give an equally characteristic sketch of another not-'ible 
 
14-2 ELIZABETH BABRETT BROWNING. 
 
 personage present — of a man, also^ closely councclccl 
 Avith the story of our poetess. 
 
 " III the room sat a very large gentleman of between 
 fifty and sixty years of age. His large, rosy faee, 
 bald head and rotund body, would have suggested a 
 ])rosperous brewer, if a livelier intelligence had not 
 twinkled in the bright, genial eyes. This unAvicldy 
 exterior covered one of the warmest and most generous 
 of hearts. . . . The man was John Kenyon, who, 
 giving up his early ambition to be known as an author, 
 devoted his life to making other authors happy. . . . 
 His house was open to all who handled pen, brush, or 
 chisel. . . . He had called to say good-bye to his 
 friends, and presently took his leave. * There,' said 
 Browning, when the door had closed after him, ' there 
 goes one of the most splendid men living — a man so 
 noble in his friendships, so lavish in his hospitalit}'-, so 
 large-hearted and benevolent, that he deserves to be 
 known all over the world as Kenyon the Magnificent.' " 
 
 Mrs. Browning now entered the room, and the 
 American visitor says her husband ran to meet her with 
 boyish liveliness. He describes her as " slight and 
 fragile in appearance, with a pale, wasted face, shaded 
 by masses of soft chesnut curls, which fell on her 
 cheeks, and serious eyes of bluish-gray. Her frame 
 seemed to be altogether disproportionate to her soul. 
 . . . Her personality, frail as it appeared, soon exer- 
 cised its power, and it seemed a natural thing that she 
 should have written The Cry of the Children, or Lady 
 Geraldine' s Courtship.''^ 
 
 Both the husband and wife, says Taylor, expressed 
 great satisfaction with their American reputation, 
 adding that they had many American acquaintances in 
 Florence and Rome. " In fact," said Mr. Browning, 
 
CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. Ii3 
 
 "I believe that if wc ■srere to make out a list of our 
 best and dearest friends, we sliould find more Araericau 
 tlian English names." 
 
 Mrs. Browning having expressed a desire to hear 
 something from their guest as to the position of Art in 
 America, and having, in the course of conversation, de- 
 clared her belief that a Republican form of government 
 is unfavourable to tlie development of the Fine Arts, 
 Bayard Taylor dissented, and had a powerful ally in 
 Mr. Browning, who declared that '^no artist had ever 
 before been honoured with a more splendid commission 
 than the State of Virginia had given to Crawford." 
 ** A general historical discussion ensued," says the 
 American, " which was carried on for some time with 
 the greatest spirit, the two poets taking directly oppo- 
 site views. It was good-humouredly closed at last, and 
 I thought both of them seemed to enjoy it. There is 
 no fear that two such fine intellects will rust : they will 
 keep each other bright.''' 
 
 Their child, " a blue-eyed, golden-haired boy of two 
 years old,^^ was now brought into the room, and intro- 
 duced. '' He stammered Italian sentences only/' says 
 Taylor ; " he knew nothing, as yet, of his native 
 tongue.'* 
 
 A few days after this interview the Brownings left 
 England. It was impossible for Mrs. Browning to 
 think of undergoing the risk of wintering in her native 
 land ; so, as soon as the year began to chill into autumn, 
 she had to seek a refuge abroad. Writing to her old 
 friend Home, on the 24-th of the month, to ask his 
 acceptance of the new editions, recently published, of 
 her own and her husband's poems, she says, " We 
 leave to-morrow for Paris." They appear to have win- 
 tered in the French capital, and whilst there happened 
 
144 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 one of the most ])lcasant and interesting incidents in 
 Mrs. Browning's life — her interview with George Sand. 
 
 As early as 1841' tlie iioctess had styled her famous 
 contemporary " the greatest female genius the world 
 ever saw.'' Naturally, from her thoroughly English 
 nature and temperament, Mrs. Browning contemned, 
 with all the intensity of her soul, much that was in- 
 nately natural to George Sand, but she fully recognised 
 her humanity and genius, and felt urged to pay homage 
 to both. Comparing her to Sappho, she deemed that, 
 like her prototype, she had "suffered her senses to 
 leaven her soul — to permeate it through and through, 
 and make a sensual soul of it,'' but she indulged the 
 hope that George Sand was " rising into a purer atmo- 
 sphere by the very strength of her wing.'' 
 
 Inspired by such views, Mrs. Browning wrote lier 
 two sonnets on George Sand — "A Desire" and ''A 
 Recognition," and included them in the 1844 edition 
 of her poems. Of course, she had not then met this 
 'Marge-brained woman and large-hearted man," and it 
 was not until the winter of 1851-2 that the interview — 
 they had but one — took place between the two chief 
 women of their age. 
 
 Introduced by a letter from Mazzini, and accom- 
 panied by her husband, Mrs. Browning called on her 
 French contemporary, who had come to Paris in order 
 to intercede with the President of the Republic (after- 
 wards Napoleon the Third) for a condemned prisoner. 
 !Mrs, Browning found George Sand iu quite a lowly 
 room, with a bed in it, after a fashion common in 
 France. Upon seeing the famous Frenchwoman, INIrs. 
 Browning could not refrain from stooping to kiss her 
 hand, but George Sand threw her arms round her 
 visitor's neckband kissed her on the lips. What passed 
 
CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 145 
 
 at that interview may not be told ; and although what 
 impression our poetess may have made upon the novelist 
 is unknown, George Sand inspired Mrs. Browning with 
 extremely favourable ideas. She described her as not 
 " taller than I am/' and Elizabeth Browning, we know, 
 was very short and small. George Sand's complexion 
 appeared to her a pale olive, her hair dark, nicely parted 
 and gathered into a knot or bunch behind. She tells of 
 her dark glowing eyes, low voice, noble countenance, 
 quiet simple manners, restrained rather than ardent, 
 graceful and kind behaviour, and simple attire. 
 Altogether a most charming person, and one well 
 worthy the friendship even of England's pure and noble 
 poetess. They parted, never to meet again. 
 
 The Brownings appear to have prolonged their stay 
 in Paris for some months, and Miss Mitford received 
 occasional letters from Mrs. Browning, as full of vivid 
 word-painting as of yore when, as she says — " Before 
 Mr. Browning stole her from me, we used to write to 
 each other at least twice a week, and by dint of inti- 
 macy and frequency of communication could, I think, 
 have found enough matter for a correspondence of 
 twice a day. It was really talk, fireside talk, neither 
 better nor worse, assuming necessarily a form of per- 
 manence-gossip daguerreotyped.'" 
 
 Notwithstanding Mrs. Browning's " terrible Repub- 
 licanism," as Miss Mitford terms it, she acquired a 
 truly marvellous belief in Louis Napoleon's goodness 
 and genius. This belief once planted in her mind, 
 nothing could erase or shake it; and as Miss Mitford, 
 after having believed in an idealized First Napoleon, 
 was fully prepared to see her ideal realised in a Third 
 Napoleon, Mrs. Browning continued to fill her letters 
 to her old friend with presumed evidences of the great- 
 
 10 
 
146 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 ness and magnaaimity of her latest hero. She endea- 
 voured to eonvert her friends to her views, and, declares 
 Miss ]\Iitford, in April of this year, says that " every- 
 body in Paris '' is coming round to an opinion similar 
 to that she holds of the Prince President. 
 
 Some time in the summer of 1852 the Brownings 
 returned to England, and stray notices of their 
 appearance in London are in existence. Crabb Robin- 
 son records in his Diary, under date of October Gth, 
 that he met them at dinner at Kenyon's. lie remarks 
 that Mrs. Browning, whom he had never seen before, 
 was not the invalid he had expected. He describes 
 her as having ** a handsome oval face, a fine eye, 
 and altogether a pleasing person.'' lie suggests 
 that " she had no opportunity of display, and, appa- 
 rently, no desire, Avhilst her husband," he deems, "has 
 a very amiable expression. There is a singular 
 sweetness about him/' 
 
 The Brownings Avere not able to prolong their stay 
 in England into the autumn, on account of the delicate 
 health of the poetess. The sudden setting in of cold 
 weather brought on a recurrence of her trying cough, 
 and compelled her to fly from her native laud. la 
 company with her husband she spent a week or two in 
 Paris, and then they left for Italy, leaving a promise 
 to revisit England in the summer. Mrs. Browning 
 was greatly exercised in ber mind as to whether the 
 publication of her recent work on Casa Guidi Windows 
 might not incite the Florentine authorities to exclude 
 her from the city, and thus keep her out of her home, 
 and away from her household gods. There is no 
 evidence, however, to hand to show that she had any 
 difficulty in re-entering either the city or her residence ; 
 indeed, as Miss Mitford remarked, there was not so 
 
CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 147 
 
 much danger of her being turned away as of her being 
 retained against her will. 
 
 In correspondence with Miss Mitford, early in 1853, 
 !Mrs. Browning, after referring to the fact that her 
 husband's drama, Colombe's Birthday, was to be pro- 
 <luced at the Ilaymarlcet in April, with Miss Helen 
 Faueit (now Lady Martin) in the character of the 
 heroine, recurs to her admiration for Napoleon III. 
 Many people find it difficult to comprehend how a 
 woman of Mrs. Browning's calibre could ever have 
 admired and trusted the author of the coup d'etdt, but 
 an analysis o" her mental temperament renders a com- 
 prehension of her ideas on this subject comparatively 
 easy. In the first place must be borne in mind the 
 tenacity with which she clung to a belief when once 
 she had accepted it. She had regarded the First 
 Napoleon as the mighty doer of a divine mission, and 
 the Third as his successor in that line, but as unsullied 
 with the crimes of the first Emperor. The aid and 
 maintenance which he gave to the cause of Italian 
 liberty, crowned the third of the Bonapartes in her 
 eyes with a halo of glory, and completed the subjuga- 
 tion of her mind; henceforth, all that he did was 
 justified in her sight. Not unnaturally, the mist of 
 glory in which she beheld her hero enveloped, sur- 
 rounded and included his entourage. To Miss Mitford. 
 she says of the Emperor : " I approve altogether, none 
 the less that he has offended Austria, in the mode of 
 arrangement ; every cut of the whip in the face of 
 Austria being a personal compliment to me — at least, 
 so I consider it. Let him head the democracy, and do 
 his duty to the worlds and use to the utmost his great 
 opportunities. Mr. Cobden and the Peace Society are 
 pleasing me infinitely just now in making head against 
 
 10 * 
 
148 ELIZABETH BAEKETT BROWNING. 
 
 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. Tiic Empress, I heard 
 the other day from the best authority, is charming and 
 good at heart. She was educated at a respectable 
 school at Bristol, and is very English, wliicli does not 
 prevent her shooting witli pistols, leaping gates, driving 
 four-in-hand, or upsetting the carriage, when the frolic 
 demands it — as brave as a lion, and as true as a dog. 
 Her complexion is like marble, white and pale and 
 pure ; her hair light, inclining to sandy — they say she 
 powders it with gold-dust for effect; but her beauty 
 is more intellectual and less physical than is commonly 
 reported. She is a woman of very decided opinions. 
 I like all this — don't you ? and I like her letter to the 
 Prefect, 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 indifference." 
 Another subject alluded to by Mrs. Browning in the 
 same communication — a subject which was largely 
 influencing her mind, and almost rivalling Italy in her 
 thoughts — was that singular manifestation of human 
 credulity known as " spirit-rappings." Although not 
 altogether a modern invention or superstition, it avus 
 not until about this period that this phase of " Spiritua- 
 lism " acquired any large or widely- spread popularity. 
 The fashion or mania for this form of superstition 
 sprang into existence in the United States of America, 
 rapidly spread to Great Britain and, in more or less 
 violent shapes^ infected many surrounding countries. 
 
CASA GVIDI WINDOWS. 149 
 
 One of the most important victims to the new epidemic 
 was Mrs. Browning. Her letters of this period are 
 filled with allusions to Spiritualism, and its strangest 
 development, " spirit-rappings.^' 
 
 To a woman of such strong common sense as Miss 
 Mitford, her friend's belief in such things as these 
 " manifestations/' appeared almost incomprehensible. 
 Writing in March of this year to Fields, the American 
 publisher, she remarks, "Mrs. Browning is most 
 curious about your rappings — of which, I suppose, you 
 believe as much as I do of the Cock Lane ghost, whose 
 doings they so much resemble." And then again, 
 about a month later, she writes, '' Only think of Mrs. 
 Browning giving the most unlimited credence to every 
 * rapping ' story which anybody can tell her." Some 
 weeks subsequent she again writes, "Mrs. Browning 
 believes in every spirit-rapping story — all — and tells 
 me that Robert Owen has been converted by them to 
 a belief in a future state"; whilst directly afterwards 
 she reiterates, " Mrs. Browning is positively crazy about 
 the spirit-rappings. She believes every story, European 
 or American, and says our Emperor consults the 
 mediums, which 1 disbelieve." 
 
 Elizabeth Browning's strong credence in Spiritua- 
 lism is not more difficult to dissect and understand 
 than is her belief in Louis Napoleon. The great 
 charm in Spiritualism for her was that, if true, it 
 proved there was a life hereafter. To a woman of 
 her intense religious cast of thought, a woman who 
 clung with the sternest tenacity to dogmas she so often 
 had to hear refuted and contemned, this revelation was 
 at once a weapon and a shield. She was only too eagerly 
 ready to accept the new doctrine and, once accepted, 
 she was, as is already manifest, not the woman to 
 
150 ELIZABETH BAliRETT BBOWNING. 
 
 relinquish it again. Chorlcy, who had long been her 
 intimate friend, alludes to the fact that her friendship 
 for him, though it continued through life, was inter- 
 rupted by " serious differences of opinion concerning a 
 matter which she took terribly to heart — the strange, 
 weird questions of Mesmerism, including clairvoyance, 
 — for all these things were combined and complicated 
 with the mysteries of Spiritualism." *'To the marvels 
 of these two phenomena (admitting both as incomplete 
 discoveries)," says Chorley, "she lent an ear as 
 credulous as her trust was sincere and her heart high- 
 minded. But with women far more experienced in 
 falsity than one so noble and one who had been so 
 secluded from the = world as herself, after they have 
 once crossed the threshold, there is seldom chance of 
 after retreat. Only they become bewildered by their 
 tenacious notions of loyalty. It is over these very 
 best and most generous of their sex that impostors 
 have the most power." 
 
 " I have never seen one more nobly simple, more 
 entirely guiltless of the feminine propensity of talking 
 for eff'ect, more earnest in her assertion, more gentle 
 yet pertinacious in differences, than she was,'' pursues 
 Chorley ; adding, "like all whoso early nurture has 
 chiefly been from books, she had a child's curiosity 
 regarding the life beyond her books, co-existing with 
 opinions accepted as certainties, concerning things of 
 which (even with the intuition of genius) she could 
 know little. She was at once forbearing and dogmatic, 
 willing to accept differences, resolute to admit no argu- 
 ment; without any more practical knowledge of social 
 life than a nun might have when, after long years, she 
 emerged from her cloister and her shroud," 
 
 E. D(owden?), writing with respect to Mrs. Brown- 
 
CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 151 
 
 ing's apparently inscrutable admiration for the "Napo- 
 leonic regime^ utters views so corroborative of Cliorlej'', 
 and, save some exaggeration, coincident with our own, 
 that they may be cited from the article in Maanillan's 
 Magazine : " All her feelings on political subjects were 
 intensified not only by her woman's impetuosity, but 
 by the circumstances of her secluded life. To me her 
 judgments, both for good and bad, seemed oftentimes 
 like those of a dweller in some city convent. Out of 
 the cloister windows she could see the world moving 
 ■without, but in its active life she had neither share nor 
 portion. For many years past the days had been few 
 in number, almost to be counted upon the fingers, 
 throughout the long year, on which she was carried 
 down into the open air, to gaze upon the world from a 
 carriage-seat. All, indeed, that one of more than 
 common intellect, and who watched over her with 
 more than a woman's care, could bring her of glean- 
 ings from the outer world, she had to aid her in her 
 thoughts ; all that books, written in almost every 
 modern language, could bring her of instruction, she 
 sought for eagerly ; but still no aid of books or friends 
 could supply what daily contact with active life alone 
 can give. It was thus that the views of the w^orld had 
 something of the unreality of cloister visions. '^ 
 
 Mrs. Browning's interest in the cause of Italian 
 freedom continued to increase with her increase of 
 knowledge of the people. To her English friends she 
 wrote in the hopes of arousing in them something of 
 the sympathy she felt for her unfortunate neighbours, 
 hut as yet with slight success. To Miss Mitford she 
 said, " I see daily a people who have the very life 
 crushed out of them, and yet of their oppressions the 
 English press say's nothing;" and Miss Mitford's 
 
I5'i ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 comment to a friend on these and similar complaints 
 was " fancy !Mrs. Browning thinking Louis Napoleon 
 ought to take up the cause of those wretched Italians ; 
 and I hear from all quarters that they get into corners 
 and slander each other. It is an extinct people, send- 
 ing up nothing better tiian smoke and cinders and 
 ashes; a mere name, like the Greeks." 
 
 Such opinions as this conservative old English lady 
 uttered were entertained by the great majority of her 
 country-people, and by the people of most countries, 
 and the aspirations of Mrs. Browning and her Italian 
 friends regarded as the idle dreams of poets. The 
 poets' time was as yet to come. 
 
 During the hot summer of 1853 the Brownings 
 sojourned at the Baths of Lucca. They returned to 
 Florence in the autumn, and thence proceeded to Rome 
 for the winter. Their stay in the latter city was some- 
 what prolonged, and their son, the little Robert, 
 suffered from malaria, but seems to have rapidly 
 recovered. During this stay in Rome Mrs. Browning 
 became acquainted with Harriet .Hosmer, the well- 
 known American sculptor. Miss Hosmer was a 
 favourite pupil of Gibson, and allowed to occupy a 
 portion of the English sculptor's studio wliere, during 
 work time, she might be found, " a compact little 
 figure, five feet two in height, in cap and blouse, whose 
 short, sunny, brown curls, broad brow, frank and 
 resolute expression of countenance, gave one at the 
 first glance the impression of a handsome boy" 
 Naturally, Mrs. Browning informed ]\Iiss ^litforu of 
 the new acquaintance she had made, and that dear, 
 prejudiced, insular-minded old lady wrote in a horrified 
 tone to a correspondent, "JNIrs. Browning has taken 
 a fancy to an American female sculptor — a girl 
 
CASA GUini WINDOWS. 153 
 
 of 22 — a pupil of Gibson, wnj gO(^s with t]i3 rest of 
 the fraternity of the studio to oreaiviast and dine n,^ a 
 cafcj and keeps her c/iaracter ! " 
 
 The Brownings returned to the quietude of tlieir 
 Florentine home, and during the remainder of the 
 year made no history to speak of. In December, Miss 
 Mitford speaks of having been advised by the poetr'ss 
 to try mesmerism for her health, which was n^^ con- 
 pletcly broken up, and on tlie 10th of the iolloww;g 
 January, 1855, the poor, kindly-hearted, if time- 
 serving old lady, was released from her long suffering. 
 The death of her old friend and correspondent must 
 have been a severe blow for JNIrs. Browning, but her 
 hands and brain were now so full of her longest and 
 most important poem that doubtless her sorrow was 
 mitigated, if not stifled, by the excitement of the 
 work's approaching completion. 
 
154 BLIZABETB BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 The original conception of a celebrated poem can 
 rarely be traced. The " most mature '^ of her works, 
 as Mrs. Erownirig terms Aurora Leigh, liad evidently 
 been germinating in its author's mind for several 
 years before it was deemed fit to face the fierce glare 
 of publication. As early as 1843^ Mrs. Browning in- 
 timated to Home the possibility that she could and, 
 in certain circumstances might, write her own auto- 
 biography. Did not those words embody the germ idea 
 of the '^ fictitious autobiography " which, after so many 
 years and modified by so many causes, she called 
 Aurora Leigh? 
 
 Years before her work saw the lisrht or, indeed, was 
 much beyond the embryo stage, Mrs. Browning had 
 given intimation of her intentions with respect to it, 
 to friends. Early in 1853 Miss Mitford had men- 
 tioned to Fields, the American publisher, that Mrs. 
 Browning was engaged upon " a fictitious autobio- 
 graphy in blank verse, the heroine a woman artist, I 
 suppose singer or actress," says the old lady, " and 
 
AVBOBA LEIGE. 155 
 
 the tone intensely modern.'^ Whether Miss Mitford 
 had seen or heard any passages from the poem so as 
 to know what the tone was, or whether she derived her 
 impression from what the poetess had said, is un- 
 known ; but at any rate she was kept advised as to its 
 progress, and in July, 1851, wrote to the same Mr. 
 Fields, saying Mrs. Browning asked her to inquire if 
 he would like to bring out the new poem. The pub- 
 lisher, with a lack of aeumen not unparalleled in his 
 profession, let the opportunity slip, and the work was 
 seeured by a New York rival. A few months later 
 Miss Mitford, after telling a eorrespondent that Mrs. 
 Browning's poem, whieh has been three years in hand, 
 and of which four thousand lines are already written, 
 has never been seen, not a word of it, by its authoress's 
 husband : " A strange reserve ! " she exclaims. 
 
 During the years the work was in progress it seems 
 to have been written at odd moments, and when her 
 maternal cares were called for the manuscript was laid 
 down, or if a visitor came it was thrust away out of 
 sight. It was not until March 1856 that Mrs. Brown- 
 ing let her husband see any of the work, and then she 
 placed the first six books of it in his hands. The 
 remaining three books were written much more rapidly 
 than the others, and the whole work was completed 
 and transcribed in 185G in London, in the house of 
 Mrs. Browning's friend and kinsman, John Kenyon, 
 to whom the book was dedicated as a "sign of esteem, 
 gratitude, and affection." 
 
 "With as much of the manuscript of Aurora Leigh as 
 was ready the Brownings left Italy for England, and 
 at Marseilles, so Mrs. Ritchie tells us, ** by some over- 
 sight the box was lost in which the manuscript had 
 been packed. In this same box were also carefully 
 
156 EllZABETII BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 put away certain velvet suits and lace collars in 
 ■svhich tlic little son was to make his appearance among 
 liis English relatives. Mrs. Browning's chief concern 
 ■was not for her manuscripts;, but for the loss of her 
 little boy's wardrobe, which had baen devised with so 
 much tender motherly care and pride. Happily one 
 of her brothers was at jNIarseillcs, and the box was 
 discovered stowed away in som3 cellar at the Customs 
 there." 
 
 At Paris the Brownings again met Bayard Taylor, and 
 the American remarks atjout the forthcoming poem, that 
 it is entirely new in design, and that the authoress 
 " feels a little nervous about it." The nervousness 
 was natural, but needless ; probably no long poem ever 
 met with so enthusiastic a reception. Tiie success of 
 Aurora Leigh was immediate and wide, and its pub- 
 lication invoked a chorus of praise th:it time has some- 
 what modified, the tone of. Barry Cornwall, alluding 
 to it as '' the most successful book of the season," adds, 
 " it is, a hundred times over, the finest poem ever 
 written by a woman.'" Landor, writing of it to John 
 Forster, says, in many pages, " there is the wild ima- 
 gination of Shakespeare. ... I had no idea that 
 anyone in this age was capable of so much poetry. I 
 am half drunk with it.''' Other equally laudatory 
 tilings were said by the choicest spirits of ths time, and 
 Mrs. Browning was at once and, doubtless, for ever, 
 awarded one of the loftiest places in the fane of Poesy. 
 
 The splendour and grandeur of Aurora Leigh can- 
 not be gainsaid, but at the period of its production 
 literary England was somewhat more enthusiastic, and 
 public taste somewhat more volcanic in its ebullitions 
 than now-a-days, when a surfeit of sweets has somewhat 
 blunted the appetite for sucli things. Aurora Leigh 
 
AUBOBA LEIGH. 157 
 
 was a novelty ; the rush of impassioned arguments, 
 startling comparisons^ and brilliant similes carried the 
 reader along at fever heat, never allowing him time to 
 linger ever the improbabilities of the tale, or to criticise 
 its faulty construction. 
 
 The plot of this autobiogrnphy — this three, yoliimc 
 novel in verse — is evidently founded, althougli pro- 
 bably unconsciously, upon Charlotte ^Bronte's Jane 
 Eyre, whilst the character of Komney, the hero, fre- 
 quently reminds the reader of Hollingsworth of The 
 Blithedale Romance. Such coincidences of thought, 
 however, are common among contemporaries, and only 
 prove how really limited is man^s imagination. 
 
 The mere story of Aurora Leigh, stripped of its 
 poetry, is not unlike many novels in prose. It is the 
 record of a life told by the heroine herself. Aurora, 
 the daughter of an English father and an Italian 
 mother, is born in Florence. At five years old a great 
 misfortune befell her ; her mother died, and the sun- 
 shine of infancy faded out of her little life, for 
 
 Women know 
 The way to roar up children (to be just). 
 They know a simple, merry, tender knack 
 Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, 
 And stringing pretty words that make no sense 
 And kissing full sense into empty words , 
 Which things are corals to cut life upon. 
 Although such trifles ; children lea in by such 
 Love's holy earnest in a pretty play 
 
 /Aurora's father was an "austere Englishman,'' but 
 had loved his wife almost madly. When left with 
 nothing to love but his little girl, for her sake he con- 
 trived with "his grave lips" to smile "a miserable 
 smile.'* For a time he led a lonely life with his only, 
 
158 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 Lis cLilil-companion, teaching licr such stray scraps of 
 learning as came into his mind : " Out of books he 
 taught me all the ignorance of men.'' But after a 
 few years, " entranced with thoughts, not aims/' her 
 father died, and Aurora, now thirteen, was doubly 
 oi"|)hancd — 
 
 There ended cbildhood : what succeeded next 
 I recollect as, after fevers, men 
 Thread back the passage of delirium. 
 
 When her last parent died, Aurora was conveyed 
 from her native land to England, and placed in charge 
 of her aunt — her father's sister. This aunt — Miss 
 Leigh — is wonderfully well described — this prim 
 English gentlewoman, with — 
 
 Cheeks in which was yet a rose 
 
 Of perished summers, like a rose in a book, 
 
 Kept more for ruth than pleasure, — 
 
 and is, indeed, the one successful delineation of the 
 tale. Miss Leigh 
 
 Had lived, we'll say, 
 A harmless life, she called a virtuous life, 
 A quiet life, which was not life at all, 
 (But that, she had not lived enough to know) 
 Between the vicar and the country squires, 
 The Lord-Lieutenant looking down sometimes 
 From the empyreal, to assure their souls 
 Against chance vulgarisms, and, in the abyss, 
 The apothecary looked on once a year, 
 To prove their soundness of humility. 
 The poor-club exercised her Christian gifts 
 Of knitting stockings, stitching petticoats, 
 Because we are of one flesh after all 
 And need one flannel (with a proper sense 
 Of difference in the quality), and still 
 The book-club, guarded from your modern 1 rick 
 Of shaking dangerous questicns from the crease, 
 Preserved her intellectual 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 159 
 
 The kind of life the half-wild child of the sunny 
 south had to endure with her strait-laced English 
 relative may be conceived: all her warmhearted nes3 
 was chilled and her girlish afTcctions suppressed, if not 
 blighted. Thrown upon her own resources, she found 
 solace in poetry and in dreams of artistic life. One 
 day, in the fancied seclusion of the grounds, poetic 
 ardour betrayed her into crowning herself, in anticipa- 
 tion of the world's recognition, with a wreath of ivy. 
 Thus bedecked, she was discovered by her cousin, 
 llomney, the heir of the Leigli estates, a calm, earnest 
 philanthropist, who had his dreams — more extravagant 
 even than Aurora's. His ambition was to break 
 down the strong barriers existent between the masses 
 and classes ; to elevate the poorest and vilest by the 
 personal intercourse and aid of his own social order. 
 At great personal sacrifice and toil he had commenced 
 the crusade himself, and now, after lecturing Aurora 
 sadly on the folly of her day-dreams, he besought her 
 to relinguish them, and not strive to swerve from *' a 
 woman's proper sphere," concluding his harangue by 
 asking her to become his wife. 
 
 With all the scorn of her youthful pride Aurora 
 declined to become the wife of " a man who sees a 
 woman as the complement of his sex merely." E-oraney 
 went his way sadly, leaving Aurora still more sad, for, 
 as the reader sees, and as her aunt saw, she really 
 loved her cousin. Miss Leigh's wrath with her niece 
 when she hears that she has rejected Romney, and the 
 silent torture, a thousand times worse than words, she 
 inflicts upon her, are ended by the sudden death of the 
 aunt. Had not Romney, in succeeding to the Leigh 
 property, endeavoured by a palpable stratagem to invest 
 Aurora with a portion of his inheritance, he might 
 
ICO ELIZABETH BABEETT BROWNING. 
 
 perchance have won her, but her pride, wounded hy 
 his attempt to thus make her his debtor, eompels her 
 to dismiss him once more. 
 
 Aurora, whose worklly wealth consists only of a few 
 hundreds of ])ounds, proceeds to London to earn fame 
 and bread, whilst Romuey busies himself more earnestly 
 than ever in schemes for ameliorating the condition of 
 the poor and the unfortunate. In the course tf his 
 labours Romney discovers and aids a poor outcast, 
 !Marian Erie, whose beauty and purity, if they do not 
 altogether wean his heart from Aurora, at any rate, 
 combined with his desire to read a lesson to the prido 
 of caste, induces him to engage himself to her. The wed- 
 ding is arranged to take place at St. James's Cliureh, 
 and the elite of London society is not only invited by 
 the bridegroom, but actually attends to see the modern 
 version of " King Cophctua and the Beggar Maid " 
 enacted. Not only are these grandees present, but, at 
 Romney's invitation, all that is foul and disreputable 
 amongst the dregs of London life is there represented. 
 In vain, however, is this assemblage : poor INIarian has 
 been spirited away, subjected to unutterable outrage, 
 and Romney once more left solitary and discomforted, 
 besides being discredited and roughly handled by the 
 rabble he had made such sacrifices for. 
 
 Some time after this mysterious affair Aurora starts 
 for Italy. INIaking a short stay in Paris, she en- 
 counters Marian Eile, or rather the wreck of she 
 who was erstwhile the fresh and fair wearer of that 
 name. The poor wronged girl is left with a fatherless 
 child, which the mother shows to Aurora thus : — 
 
 She . . . 
 
 Approached the bed, and drew a shawl away: 
 You CQuld not peel a fruit you fear to bruisa 
 
AJJROBA LEIGH. 161 
 
 More calmly and more carefully than so — 
 Nor would you find -within, a rosier flushed 
 Pomegranate. 
 
 There ho lay upon his back, 
 The yearling creature, Trarm and moist with life 
 To the bottom of his dimples — to the ends 
 Of the lovely tumbled curls about his face ; 
 For since ho had been covered over-much 
 To keep him from tho light glare, both his cheeks 
 Were hot and scarlet as the first live rose 
 The shepherd's heart-blood ebbed away \v' ">, 
 Tho faster for his love. And love was here 
 As instant I in tho pretty baby mouth, 
 Shut close as if for dreaming that it sucked ; 
 The little naked feet drawn up the way 
 Of nestled birdlings ; everything so soft 
 And tender, — to the tiny holdfast hands, 
 AVhich, closing on a finger into sleep. 
 Had kept the mould of 't. 
 « * * ♦ • 
 
 The light upon his eyelids pricked them wide, 
 And, staring out at us with all their blue. 
 As half-perplexed between the angelhood 
 lie had been away to visit in his sleep 
 And our most mortal presence — gradually 
 He saw his mother's face, acceping it 
 In change for heaven itFelf, with such a smile 
 As might have well been learnt there. 
 
 "When Aurora learns the whole of poor IMarian's 
 tale her heart warms towards her and she takes eharge 
 of her and her baby, taking them with her to Italy. 
 Here, in the repose of her old home, Aurora finds that 
 rest her feverish sorrow had so much needed. She had 
 not long dwelt in the quietude of her Italian home, 
 however, before her cousin appears once more, and in 
 the nobility of his heart offers to wed the poor injured 
 Marian and to adopt her fatherless child. The un- 
 wedded mother sees that the happiness proffered lier 
 cannot now be hcrs^ and^ contented with sucli joy as 
 
 11 
 
1(32 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 her babe can afford her, gratefully declines the offer 
 and leaves Romney to Auroia. 
 
 Aurora now learns that Romney's plans for succour- 
 ing the -wretched and the criminal had all failed; 
 that his house, Leigh Hall, had been destroyed by 
 the rabble; he himself, in striving to rescue one of 
 the inmates had been irretrievably blinded, and had 
 been driven by calumny from the neighbourhood. Her 
 love no longer restrainable, she flings herself into the 
 blind man's arms, and all the pent-up feelings of years 
 find vent in a burst of acknowledged affection. 
 
 Such is a tame summary of the story which invoked 
 so enthusiastic a reception throughout the English 
 world of letters. Our plain prose can, of course, 
 afford no conception of the magnificent aspirations, 
 the glowing thoughts, the brilliant scintillations of 
 genius, the innumerable gem-like passages of pathos, 
 the passionate rushes of language, and the daring 
 assaults upon time-honoured customs with which this 
 crowning work of woman's genius is replete ; nothing 
 but citation from end to end can do justice to Aurora 
 Leigh. When the glamour of perusal has passed off, 
 however, and the reader begins to take a calm sur- 
 vey of the whole story, he is astounded at the extent 
 of its shortcomings. The poem is most needlessly 
 lengthened and hampered by continual digressions 
 which interrupt without enriching the narrative. 
 Nearly all the incidents are of an improbable, 
 not to say impossible nature. None of the charac- 
 ters introduced, save that of the aunt, are life-like 
 or typical. Romney Leigh's opinions and pur- 
 poses, so far as they be comprehended, are some- 
 thing more than Quixotic, they are unnatural, and 
 could never have been conceived by a sane, much less 
 
AUBOBA LEIGH. 163 
 
 a practical English philantliropist ; they appear to 
 be introduced only to discredit the " Christian Social- 
 ism " of such men as Maurice, Charles Kingslcy, and 
 their compatriots. No such rabble as that present at 
 the projected wedding in St. James's could have been 
 gathered together within an English Church, nor could 
 English gentlemen and gentlewomen have talked and 
 acted as Mrs. Browning makes her dramatis personce 
 do. The poem leaves the impression on the mind of 
 having been written by a great poet, but by a great 
 poet whose knowledge of the world had been gained from 
 books and not from actual contact with its men and 
 women ; not from personal experience of its daily toils 
 and troubles, its hard-earned triumphs and undeserved 
 defeats. 
 
 Of the artistic imperfections of Aurora Leigh much 
 has been said and much could still be said. Of its 
 halting metres ; its long passages of pure prose ; its 
 pedantic allusions, and needless coarsenesses ; its con- 
 tinual introduction (in an apparent reckless way) of 
 names the generality of readers hold in reverential awe ; 
 of a fondness for repeating quaint and unusual words, 
 and of many other blemishes the critics have already 
 told the tale. For ourselves, we deem that when these 
 imperfections — for imperfections they are — occur, they 
 are either wilfully introduced by the poetess, or they 
 are the result of hasty execution. Mrs. Browning 
 should not have published her great work so rapidly ; 
 she should have retained it by her and have revised it 
 carefully, instead of throwing it off in haste and then 
 giving it to the world in still greater haste. 
 
 When all has, however, been said against Aurora 
 Leigh that can be said, how grand a monument of 
 genius it remains ! What genuine bursts of poetry is 
 
 11 
 
164. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 it not interspersed with ! What utterances of truth 
 and of humanity are imhcdded in its pages! IIow 
 few Englishmen would have uttered, even if they had 
 thought them, such pregnant words as these : — 
 
 Tho English have a scornful, insular vray 
 Of calling tho French light. The levity 
 Is in tho judgment only, which yet stands; 
 For, say a foolish thing but oft enough 
 (And here's the secret of a hundred creeds, 
 Jlcn got opinions, as boys learn to spell, 
 By reiteration chiefly) tho same thing 
 Shall pass at last for absolutely wise. 
 
 Another passage alluding to eminent women that has 
 been quoted often, and is not yet trite, is : — 
 
 ITow dreary 'tis for women to sit still 
 
 On winter nights by solitary fires. 
 
 And hear the nations praising them far off. 
 
 It is followed by these less-known hut equally 
 
 pathetic lines, — 
 
 To sit alono 
 And think, for comfort, how, that very night, 
 AfBanced lovers, leaning face to face, 
 With sweet half-listenings for each other's breath, 
 Are reading haply from some page of ours, 
 To pause with a thrill, as if their cheeks had touched, 
 AYhen such a stanza, level to their mood, 
 Seems floating their own thoughts out — " So I feel 
 For thee." " And I, for thee : this poet knows 
 What everlasting love is ! " . . . . 
 
 To have our books 
 Appraised by love, associated with love, 
 AVhile we sit loveless! it is hard, you think? 
 At least, 'tis mournful. 
 
 Here, too, is true philosophy — 
 
 All men are possible heroes : every age 
 Heroic in proportion, . . . 
 
AURORA LEIGE. 165 
 
 Every age, 
 Throngh being beheld too close, is ill discerned 
 By those who have not Uved past it. We'll suppose 
 Mount Athos carved, as Persian Xerxes schemed, 
 To some colossal statue of a man ' 
 The peasants, gathering brushwood in his ear. 
 Had guessed as little of any human form 
 Up there, as wsuld a flock of browsing goats. 
 They 'd have, in fact, to travel ten miles off 
 Or cro the giant image broke on them ; 
 Full human profile, nose and chin distinct, 
 Mouth, muttering rhythms of silence up the sky, 
 And fed at evening with the blood of suns ; 
 Grand torso — hand that flung perpetually 
 The largesse of a silver river down 
 To all the country pastures. 'Tis even thua 
 With times we live in — evermore too great 
 To be apprehended near. 
 
 Audj liere, a truth but little recognized : — 
 
 The best men, doing their best. 
 Know perad venture least of what they do : 
 Men usefullcst i' the world, are simply used. 
 
 But enough! A few lines here and there from 
 Aurora Leigh cannot portray what the poem is. It 
 is a veritable " autobiography " ; a true record of the 
 inner life — that truest life — of a great and good woman, 
 and no one can expect to find so correct a portraiture 
 of Mrs. Browning in any book as they will in this 
 poem ; they must read it as the true memoir of which 
 our volume and any others which may be written 
 about her, are oaly the corollary. 
 
 Aurora Leigh was finished in England, whither the 
 Brownings came on a visit during the summer of 1856. 
 They were the guests of John Kenyon, at least during 
 a portion of their stay, the last pages of the poem 
 having been completed at his town house. Whilst in 
 
1C6 ELIZABETH BABRETT BROWNING. 
 
 London tlie Brownings naturally mingled in literary 
 society, and some very interesting glimpses arc obtain- 
 able of tlicm during this visit, among others none more 
 characteristic than that afforded by Nathaniel Haw- 
 thorne, who afterw'ards became so intimate witli them 
 in Italy. lie describes his first meeting with them, at 
 breakfast, in the house of Monkton Milues, afterwards 
 Lord Houglitou. He says : — 
 
 " Mr. Milnes introduced mc to INIrs, Browning, and 
 assigned her to me to conduct into tbe breakfast-room. 
 She is a small, delicate woman, with ringlets of dark 
 hair, a pleasant, intelligent, and sensitive face, and a 
 low, agreeable voice. She looks youthful and comely, 
 and is very gentle and lady -like. And so we proceeded 
 to the breakfast-room, which is hung round with 
 pictiu'cs, and in the middle of it stood a large round 
 tabic, worthy to have been King Arthur^s, and here 
 we seated ourselves without any question of precedence 
 or ceremony. . . . Mrs. Browning and I talked a good 
 deal during breakfast, for slie is of that quickly appre- 
 ciative and responsive orc'er of women with whom I 
 can talk more freely than with any man ; and she has, 
 besides, her own originality wherewith to help on con- 
 versation, though I should say not of a loquacious 
 tendency. She introduced the subject of Spiritualism, 
 which, she says, interests her very much; indeed, she 
 seems to be a believer. Mr. Browning, she told me, 
 utterly rejects the subject, and will not believe even in 
 the outward manifestations, of which there is such 
 overwhelming evidence. We also talked of Miss 
 Bacon; and I developed something of that lady's 
 theory respecting Shakespeare, greatly to the horror 
 of Mrs. Browning, and that of her next neighbour — a 
 nobleman whose name I did not hear. On the whole. 
 
AVROBA LEIGH. 1C7 
 
 I like her the better for loving the man Shakespeare 
 ■with a personal love. We talked, too, of Maigaret 
 Fuller, who spent her last night in Italy with the 
 Brownings ; and of William Story, with whom they 
 had been intimate, and who, Mrs. Browning says, is 
 much stirred about Spiritualism. Really, I eannot 
 help wondering that so fine a spirit as hers should not 
 reject the matter till at least it is forced upon her. I 
 like her very much." 
 
 After they left the breakfast-table they entered the 
 library where, Hawthorne says, '' Mr. Browning intro- 
 duced himself to me — a younger man than I expected 
 to see, handsome, with brown hair. He is very simple 
 and agreeable in manner, gently impulsive, talking as 
 if his heart were uppermost." 
 
 In October the Brownings returned to Italy, not 
 waiting, apparently, for the publication of Aurora Leigh, 
 which appeared simultaneously in England and 
 America. They had not returned to their Florentine 
 home long ere they were startled by the news of 
 Kcnyon's death. He died on the 3rd of December, at 
 his marine residence in Covves, Isle of Wight, and, 
 having no near relatives, left his large property 
 amongst his literary and other friends. Kenyon, who 
 was known among his intimates as " the Apostle of 
 Cheerfulness/' crowned a long career of generosity 
 and friendship by leaving handsome legacies to those 
 who really required them, amongst those who partici- 
 pated being Mr. and Mrs. Browning, to whom he left 
 the very acceptable sum of ten thousand five hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 A few months later, and death was again busy in Mrs. 
 Browning's family circle. On the 17th of April her 
 father died^ in the seventy-first year of his age, and 
 
1 63 ELIZABETH BA BRETT BROWNING. 
 
 was buried in Ledbury Churcli by the side oE tbe wiff 
 ■who had predeceased him so many years. Her father's 
 death, and the fact that he had not even alhidccl to her 
 in his will, must have been a severe blow to Mrs. 
 Browning ; but comforted by the company of her 
 husband and cliild, and dcc[)ly engrossed as she now 
 was in Italian politics, the shock would naturally be 
 far less severe than it would have been in bygone 
 years. Nevcrthelei^s, memories of the dear old days 
 "when she had been that father's darling, must 
 liave surged across her sensitive mind, and the 
 thought that he had passed away without remembrance 
 of her, must have sorely wounded her feelings, and, it 
 is not too much to suggest, have weakened her physi- 
 cally as well. 
 
 For some months there is little to record of Mrs. 
 Browning^s literary history. In the summer she re- 
 moved with her husband and child to Bagtii di Lucca 
 in search of a few mouths' rest and quietude. No 
 sooner, however, had they arrived, than a friend was 
 attacked with gastric fever, and for six weeks they 
 were kept in a state of anxiety and watchfulness on 
 his behalf. Just as the friend recovered sufficiently to 
 get back to Florence, another and a greater trial 
 awaited them. Their little boy Robert was attacked 
 by the fever, and for a fortnight the Brownings were 
 in a condition of dire suspense on his account. 
 AVritiug in October to Leigli Hunt, ]\Irs. Browning 
 says : " We came here from Florence a few months 
 ago to get repose and cheerfulness from the sight of 
 the mountains, . . . instead of which ... we have 
 done little but sit by sick beds, and meditate on gastric 
 fevers. So disturbed we have been — so sad ! our 
 darling precious child the last victim. To see him 
 
AURORA LEIGS. ]C9 
 
 lying still on his golden curls, with cheeks too scarlet 
 to suit the poor patient eyes, looking so friglitf ully like 
 an angel ! It was very hard. But this is over, I do 
 thank God, and we are on the point of carrying back 
 our treasure with us to Florence to-morrow, quite 
 recovered, if a little thinner and weaker, and the young 
 voice as merry as ever. You are aware that that child 
 I am more proud of than twenty Auroras, even after 
 Leigh Hunt has praised them. He is eight years old, 
 and lias never been ' crammed,' but reads English, 
 Italian, French, German, and plays the piano — then, 
 is the sweetest child ! sweeter than he looks. When 
 he was ill he said to me, ' You pet ! don't be unhappy 
 about me. Think it 's a boy in the street, and be a 
 little sorry, but not unhappy.' Who could not be 
 unhappy, I wonder ? " 
 
 It must have been a joy after such trials to return 
 to the comfort of their own home in Florence. Casa 
 Guidi and its inmates have been described by many, 
 but no more attractive picture of them has been given 
 than that by W. W. Story, the American sculptor. At 
 this period, he says, speaking of those who like him- 
 self were favoured visitors : "We can never forget the 
 square ante-room, with its great picture and piano- 
 forte, at which the boy Browning passed many an hour 
 — the little dining-room covered with tapestry, and 
 where hung medallions of Tennyson, Carlyle, and 
 liobert Browning — the long-room, filled with plaster 
 casts and studies, which was Mr. Browning's retreat — 
 and, dearest of all, the large drawing-room, where she 
 always sat. It opens upon a balcony filled with 
 plants, and looks out upon the iron grey church, of 
 Santa Felice. There was something about this room 
 which seemed to make it a proper and especial haunt 
 
170 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 for poets. The dark shadows and subdued light gave 
 it a dreamy look, which was enhanced by the tapestry- 
 covered walls, and the old pictures of saints that looked 
 out sadly from the carved frames of black wood. 
 Large book-eases, constructed of specimens of Flo- 
 rentine carving selected by Mr. Erowning, were brim- 
 ming over with wise-looking books. Tables were 
 covered with more gaily-bound volumes, the gifts of 
 brother authors. Dante's grave profile, a cast of 
 Keats's face and brow taken after death, a pen-and-ink 
 sketch of Tennyson, the genial face of John Kenyon, 
 !Mrs. Browning's good friend and relative, little paint- 
 ings of the boy Browning — all attracted the eye in 
 turn, and gave rise to a thousand musings. A quaint 
 mirror, easy chairs and sofas, and a hundred nothings 
 that always add an indescribable charm, were all 
 massed in this room. But the glory of all, and tliat 
 which sanctified all, was seated in a low arm-chair 
 near the door. A small table, strewn with writing 
 materials, books, and newspapers, was always by her 
 side.'^ 
 
 Story was so intimate a friend of the Brownings 
 that his words about them have more than usual worth, 
 and that his impressions were recorded at tl:e time 
 they were felt makes them all the more valuable. Of 
 the lady herself, the presiding spirit of this poetry- 
 haunted home, he says : — 
 
 "To those who loved Mrs. Browning, and to know 
 her was to love her, she was singularly attractive. 
 Hers was not the beauty of feature ; it was the loftier 
 beauty of expression. Her slight figure seemed hardly 
 large enough to contain the great heart that beat so 
 fervently within, and the soul that expanded more and 
 more as one year gave place to another. It was 
 
AURORA LEIGH. I?! 
 
 difficult to believe that sucli a fairy hand could pen 
 thoughts of such ponderous weight. . . . 
 
 " It was Mrs. Browning's face upon which one loved 
 to gaze — that face and head which almost lost tliera- 
 selves in the thick curls o£ her dark brown hair. That 
 jealous hair could not hide the broad, fair forehead, 
 * royal with truth/ as smooth as any girPs, and ' too 
 large for wreath of modern wont.' Her large brown 
 eyes were beautiful, and were in truth the windows of 
 her soul. . . . 
 
 " Mrs. Browning's character was well-nigh perfect. 
 Patient in long-suffering, she never spoke of herself, 
 except when the subject was forced upon her by others, 
 and then with no complaint. She judged not, saving 
 when great principleswere imperilled, and then was ready 
 to sacrifice herself upon the altar of Eight. , . . She 
 was ever ready to accord sympathy to all, taking an 
 earnest interest in the most insignificant and humble. 
 . . . Thoughtful in the smallest things for others, she 
 seemed to give little thought to herself, and believing 
 in universal goodness, her nature was free from worldly 
 suspicions." 
 
 Mr. Story speaks of her conversation as most 
 fascinating ; he remarks that it " was not characterized 
 by sallies of wit or brilliant repartee, nor was it of that 
 nature which is most welcome in society. It was 
 frequently intermingled with trenchant, quaint re- 
 marks, leavened with a quiet, graceful' humour of her 
 own ; but it was eminently calculated for a tete-a-lcte, 
 Mrs. Browning never made an insignificant remark. 
 All that she said was always worth hearing. . . . She 
 was a most conscientious listener, giving you her mind 
 and heart, as well as her magnetic eyes. Thoifgh rhe 
 latter spoke an eager language of their own, she con- 
 
172 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 versed slowly, with a conciseness and point tliat, added 
 to a matchless earnestness, which was the predominant 
 trait of her conversation as it was of her character, 
 made her a most delightful companion. Persons were 
 never her theme, unless public characters Avere under 
 discussion, or ft-iends were to be praised — which kind 
 office she frequently took upon herself. Ou2 never 
 dreamed of frivolities in Mrs. Browning's presence , 
 gossip felt out of place. . . . Books and humanit)^ 
 great deeds, and, above all, politics, which include all 
 the grand questions of the day, were foremost in her 
 thoughts, and, therefore, oftencst on her lips. I 
 speak not of religion, for with her everything was 
 religion. Her Christianity Avas not confined to church 
 or rubrics; it meant civilisation. Association with 
 the Brownings, even though of the slightest nature, 
 made one better in mind and soul. It Avas impossible 
 to escape the influence of the magnetic fluid of love 
 and poetry that was constantly passing between 
 husband and wife. The unaffected devotion of one to 
 the other wove an additional charm around the two, 
 and the contrasts in their nature made the union a 
 more beautiful one." 
 
 In harmonious contrast with Mr. Story's remini- 
 scences of jSIrs. Browning may be cited the more vivid 
 and picturesque sketches of Casa Guidi's inmates 
 made by the author of The Scarlet Letter and his 
 talented wife. ' In the summer of 135S Hawthorne 
 took the Yilla Montauto, just outside the walls of 
 Florence, and he and his family became intimate with 
 the Brownings. The story of their intercourse must 
 be related, as nearly as possible, in the language of the 
 Hawthornes themselves, and if in some instances it 
 be somewhat iterative of the records made by Mr. 
 
AURORA LEIGH, ITS 
 
 Story or others, it v,\]\ be none tlic less valuable as 
 confirmatory of the impressions produecd by the in- 
 habitants of Casa Guidi upon other equally independent 
 observers. 
 
 It was the 8th June 1858, reeords Nathaniel 
 Hawthorne, in his Italian Note-books : " There was a 
 ring at the door, and a minute after our servant 
 brought a card. It was Mr. Robert Browning's, and 
 on it was written in pencil an invitation for us to go 
 to see them this evening. He had left the card and had 
 gone away ; but very soon the bell rang again, and he 
 had come back, having forgotten to give his address. 
 This time he came in, and he shook hands with all of 
 us — children and grown people — and was very 
 vivacious and agreeable. He looked younger and 
 even handsomer than when I saw him in London two 
 years ago, and his gray hairs seemed fewer than those 
 that had then strayed into his youthful head. . . . 
 
 *' Mr. Browning was very kind and warm in his 
 expressions of pleasure at seeing us ; and, on our part, 
 we were all very glad to meet him. Pie must be an 
 exceeding likeable man.^' 
 
 The favourable impression made by the English poet 
 upon the American romancist was evidently shared by 
 the latter's faraih', as, indeed, may be learnt from Mrs. 
 Hawthorne's note- book. Her descriptions of Mr. 
 Browning and his domestic circle are, if possible, even 
 more graphic and interesting than her husband's ; at any 
 rate, they supplement and complete tlie charming pic- 
 ture he conjures up to the " mind's eye " of the poet 
 home in Casa Guidi. She says, " Mr. Browning's grasp 
 of the hand gives a new value to life, revealing so much 
 fervour and sincerity of nature. He invited us most 
 cordially to go at eight and spend the evening." She 
 
1.74. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 continues, "At eight v>c went to Casa Guidi " ; and Haw- 
 thorne himself says : — " After some search and inquiry 
 v,e found the Casa Guidi, Avhich is a palace in a street 
 not very far from our own. It being dusk, I could 
 not see the exterior, which, if I remember. Browning 
 has celebrated in song. . . . The street is a narrow 
 one ; but on entering the palace we found a spacious 
 staircase and ample accommodation of vestibule and 
 hall, the latter opening on a balcony, where we could 
 hear the chanting of priests in a church close by." 
 " We found a little boy," proceeds Mrs. Hawthorne, '^in 
 an upper hall with a servant. I asked him if he were 
 Pennini, and he said ' Yes.* In the dim light he 
 looked like a waif of poetry, drifted up into the dark 
 corner, with long, curling brown hair, and buff silk 
 tunic embroidered with white. He took us through an 
 ante-room, into the drawing-room, and out upon the 
 balcony. In a brighter light he was lovelier still, with 
 brown eyes, fair skin, and a slender, graceful figure. 
 In a moment Mr. Browning appeared, and welcomed 
 us cordially. In a church near by, opposite the house, 
 a melodious choir was chanting. The balcony was full 
 of flowers in vases, growing and blooming. In the 
 dark blue fields of space overhead the stars, flowers of 
 light, were also blossoming, one by one, as evening 
 deepened. The music, the stars, the flowers, Mr. 
 Browning and his child, all combined to entrance my 
 wits.'' 
 
 Hawthorne, on his first visit, appears to have been 
 chiefly impressed with the elfin appearance of the little 
 boy, Kobert, whom " they cull Tennini for fondness." 
 This cognomen, he was informed, was " a diminutive of 
 Apeunino, which was bestowed upon him at his first 
 advent into the woild because he was so very small. 
 
AVBORA LEIGH. 175 
 
 there being a statue iu Florence of colossal size called 
 Apennino. I never saw such a boy as this before/' he 
 says, " so slender, so fragile, and spirit-like — not as if 
 he were actually in ill-health, but as if he had little or 
 nothing to do with human flesh and blood. His face is 
 very pretty and most intelligent, and exceedingly like hia 
 mother's. He is nine years old, and seems at once less 
 childlike and less manly than would befit that age. I 
 should not like to be the father of such a boy, and 
 should fear to stake so much interest and affection on 
 him as he cannot fail to inspire. I wonder what is to 
 become of him — whether he will ever grow to be 
 a man — whether it is desirable that he should. His 
 parents ought to turn their whole attention to making 
 him robust and earthly, and to giving him a thicker 
 scabbard to sheathe his spirit in. He was born in 
 Florence, and prides himself upon being a Florentine, 
 and, indeed, is as un-English a production as if he 
 were a native of another planet." 
 
 The romancist proceeds, in his characteristic style : — 
 " Mrs. Browning met us at the door of the drawing- 
 room, and greeted us most kindly — a pale, small 
 person, scarcely embodied at all ; at any rate, only 
 substantial enough to put forth her slender fingers to 
 be grasped, and to speak with a shrill, yet sweet 
 tenuity of voice. Really, I do not see how Mr. 
 Browning can suppose that he has an earthly wife any 
 more than an earthly child ; both are of the elfin race, 
 and will flit away from him some day when he least 
 thinks of it. She is a good and kind fairy, however, 
 and sweetly disposed towards the human race, although 
 only remotely akin to it. It is wonderful to see how 
 small she is, how pale her cheeky how bright and dark 
 her eyes. There is not such another figure iu the 
 
J 76 ELIZA BETE BA BRETT BBO WNING, 
 
 world ; and her black ringlets cluster down into her 
 neck, and make her face look the whiter by their sable 
 profusion. I could not form any judgment about her 
 age; it may range anywhere within the limits of human 
 life or elfin life. When I met her in London at Lord 
 Houghton's breakfast-table, she did not impress me so 
 singidarly ; for the morning light is more prosaic than 
 the dim illumination of their great tapestried drawing- 
 room ; and besides, sitting next to her, ghe did not 
 have occasion to raise her voice in speaking, and I was 
 not scnsil)le what a slender voice she has. It is mar- 
 vellous to me how so extraordinary, so acute, so 
 sensitive a creature can impress us, as she does, with 
 the certainty of her bencvolcnco. It seems to me there 
 were a million chances to one that she would have been 
 a miracle of acidity and bitterness." 
 
 Mrs. Hawthorne's account of their hostess is quite 
 as I'cprcscntative as her husband's. She describes her 
 fis "very small, delicate, dark, and expressive. She 
 looked like a spirit. A cloud of hair falls on each side 
 her face in curls, so as partly to veil her features. 
 But out of the veil look sweet, sad eyes, musing and 
 far-seeing and weird, ller fairy fingers looked too 
 airy to hold, and yet their pressure was very Rrm and 
 strong. The smallest possible amount of substance 
 encloses her soul, and every particle of it is infused 
 with heart and intellect. I was never conscious of so 
 little unredeemed, perishable dust in any human being. 
 I gave her a branch of small pink roses, twelve on the 
 stem, in various stages of bloom, which I had plucked 
 from our terrace vine, and she fastened it in her black 
 velvet dress with most lovely effect to her whole aspect. 
 Such roses were fit emblems of her. We soon returned 
 to the drawing-room — a lofty, spacious apartment^ 
 
AURORA LEIGE. 177 
 
 hung with Gobelin tapestry and pictures, and filled 
 ■with carved furniture and objects of vertu,. Every- 
 thing harmonized — poet, poetess, child, house, the rich 
 air, and the starry night. Pennini was an Ariel, 
 flitting about, gentle, tricksy, and intellectual." 
 
 What a picture does not this present to the mind's 
 eye ! The Hawthornes and the Brownings, gathered 
 together in that weird old Florentine palace and con- 
 versing as only they could. How thoroughly one can 
 sympathise with ]\Irs. Hawthorne when she exclaims. 
 "It rather disturbed my di'eam !'to have other guests 
 come in. Eventually tea was brought and served or 
 a long, narrow table, placed before a sofa, and Mrs 
 Browning presided. We all gathered at this table, 
 Pennini handed about the cake, graceful as Gany- 
 mede." 
 
 " Little Pennini," says Hawthorne, who appears to 
 have been much interested in young Browning, 
 " sometimes helped the guests to cake and straw- 
 berries, joined in the conversation when he had any- 
 thing to say, or sat down upon a couch to enjoy his 
 own meditations. He has long curling hair, and has 
 not yet emerged from his frock and short hose. It is 
 funny to think of putting him into trousers. His like- 
 ness to his mother is strange to behold." 
 
 After alluding to there being other guests present, 
 Hawthorne remarked that '' Mr. Browning was very 
 efficient in keeping up conversation with everybody, 
 and seemed to be in all parts of the room and in every 
 group at the same moment ; a most vivid and quick- 
 thoughted person, logical and common-sensible, as I 
 presume poets generally are in their daily talk." 
 
 A pleasant evening was passed by that group of 
 iioteworthy personsj who have now nearly all escaped 
 
 12 
 
178 ELIZABETH BARUITT BROWNING. 
 
 from the " coffin of their cares." The conversation was 
 general, " the luost interesting topic," records Haw- 
 thorne, " being that disagreeable and now wearisome 
 one of spiritual communications, as regards which 
 Mrs. Browning is a believer, and her husband an 
 infidel. . . . Browning and his wife had both been 
 present at a spiritual session held by Mr. Hume, and 
 had seen and felt the unearthly hands, one of wliich 
 had placed a laurel wreath on Mrs. Browning's head. 
 Browning, however, avowed his belief that these hands 
 were afHxed to the feet of ]\lr. Hume, who lay ex- 
 tended in his chair with his legs stretched far under 
 the table. The marvellousness of the fact, as I have 
 read of it, and heard it from other eye-witnesses, 
 melted strangely away in his hearty gripe, and 
 at the sharp touch of his logic; while his wife, 
 ever and anon, put in a little gentle word of expostu 
 lation. 
 
 "I am rather surprised that Browning's conversation 
 should be so clear and so much to the purpose at the 
 moment, since his poetry can seldom proceed fai 
 without running into the high grass of latent meanings 
 and obscure allusions." 
 
 Mrs. Browning's health was too delicate to permit 
 late hours, so her visitors had to leave about ten. 
 She expressed her regret that she should not see much 
 of the Hawthornes for some time, as she was going 
 with her husband to the seaside, but hoped to find 
 them in Florence on her return. 
 
 Two days later, however, in response to ]\Irs. 
 Browning's invitation, Mrs. Hawthorne called with 
 her daughters at Casa Guidi. JNIrs. Browning did 
 not receive till eight in the evening, but as the younger 
 child would have be^n in bed by that time Mrs. Haw- 
 
AURORA LEIGE. 179 
 
 tliorne was asked to bring her at one in tlie clay. 
 " We rang a great wliile/^ says Mrs. Hawthorne, *' and 
 no one answered the bell ; but presently a woman 
 came up the staircase and admitted us, but she was 
 surprised that we expected to see Mrs. Browning at 
 such a time. I gave her my credentials, and so she 
 invited us to follow her in. We found the wondrous 
 lady in her drawing-room, very pale, and looking ill ; 
 yet she received us affectionately, and was deeply in- 
 teresting as usual. She took E into her lap, 
 
 and seemed to enjoy talking to and looking at her, 
 as well as at Una. She said, * Oh ! how rich and happy 
 you are to have two daughters, a son, and such a 
 husband.' Her boy was gone to his musie-master's, 
 which I was very sorry for; but we saw two pictures 
 cf him. Mrs. Browning said he had a vocation for 
 music, but did not like to apply to anything else any 
 more than a butterfly, and the only way she could 
 command his attention was to have him upon her 
 knees, and hold his hands and feet. lie knows Ger- 
 man pretty well already, and Italian perfectly, being 
 born a Florentine." 
 
 ** I was afraid to stay long, or to have Mrs. Brown- 
 mg talk,'' comments the visitor, " because she looked 
 so pale and seemed so much exhausted, and I per- 
 ceived that the motion of R 's fan distressed her. 
 
 I do not understand how she can live long, or be at 
 all restored while she does live. I ought rather to say 
 that she lives so ardently that her delicate earthly 
 vesture must soon be burnt up and destroyed by her 
 soul of pure fire." 
 
 On the 25th of June, Mrs. Hawthorne records in 
 her diary: ** We spent this evening at Casa Guidi. I 
 F,aw Mrs. Browning more satisfactorily, and she grows 
 
180 ELIZABETH BaRBETT BROWNING. 
 
 lovelier on farther knowing. Mr. Browning gave me 
 a pomegranate bud from Casa Guidi Windows, to press 
 in my memorial book. . . . The finest light gleams 
 from Mrs. Browning's arched eyes — for she has those 
 arched eyes so unusual, with an intellectual, spiritual 
 radiance in them. They are sapphire, with dark 
 lashes, shining from out a bower of curling, very dark, 
 but, I think, not black hair. It is sad to see such 
 deep pain furrowed into her face — sucli pain that the 
 great happiness of her life cannot smooth it away. In 
 moments of rest from speaking her countenance re- 
 minds one of those mountain sides, ploughed deep with 
 spent "water-torrents, there are traces in it of so much 
 grief, so much suffering. The angelic spirit, triumph- 
 ing at moments, restores the even surface. How has 
 anything so delicate braved the storms ? Her soul is 
 mighty, and a great love has kept her on earth a 
 season longer. She is a seraph in her flaming vs^orship 
 of heart, while a calm, cherubic knowledge sits en- 
 throned on her large brow. How she remains visible 
 to us, with so little admixture of earth, is a mystery ; 
 but fortunate are the eyes that see her, and the ears 
 that hear her.'' 
 
 On the 2nd July the Brownings left Florence for 
 France, intending to spend the remainder of the sum- 
 mer in Normandy, and, pathetically exclaims Mrs. 
 Hawthorne, " there seems to be nobody in Florence 
 now for us 1 " 
 
lai 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 BEFOEE CONGRESS. 
 
 For some months the records of Mrs. Browning's 
 story are nought but blank pages. Burning, heart- 
 burning questions, however, were coming to the fore, 
 thrilling her delicate frame and agitating her weary heart 
 with volcanic themes. Instead of the quietude and re- 
 pose her invalided constitution needed, she gave her- 
 self up with her usual ardency to the aspirations of 
 her Italian friends and neighbours. " To her," says 
 Mr. Story, " Italy was from the first a living fire." 
 Her joy and enthusiasm at the Italian uprising in 1818 
 was fervently sung in the early portion of Casa Guidi 
 Windows-, the second part expresses her sorrow and 
 dejection at the abortive results of that revolutiouc 
 Still she hoped on, watching events from her Floren- 
 tine home, with a firm trust that the days of fulfil- 
 ment would arrive. She was angered with her native 
 land, or rather with its leaders, that they turned 
 their hack upon the trials and struggles of her adopted 
 country, and scorned them for what she deemed their 
 insular view of the world. 
 
 Her hopes, however, were largely if not entirely 
 
J.B3 ELIZABETH DABUETT BBOWNma, 
 
 gratified. "It is a matter of great thankfulness/' 
 sa3's Mr. Story, ** that God permitted Mrs. Browning 
 to -witness the second Italian revolution. No patriot 
 Italian gave greater sympathy to the aspirations of 
 1859 than Mrs. Browning. . . . Great was the moral 
 courage of this frail woman, to publish the Poems 
 Before Congress at a time when England was most 
 suspicious of Napoleon. Greater was her conviction, 
 when she abased England and exalted France for the 
 cold neutrality of the one and the generous aid of the 
 other in this War of Italian Independence. Bravely 
 did she bear up against the angry criticisms excited 
 by such anti-English sentiment/' 
 
 During the uprising of the Italians in 1859, when, 
 aided by the French, they were successful in driving 
 their oppressors back from so large a portion of 
 Italian soil, Mrs. Browning's pen and brain both 
 worked hard for the cause she had so strong at heart. 
 Her poems and her life at this period are part of 
 Italian history. Above all did she exalt and glory in 
 the ideal Emperor her imagination had portrayed. 
 The hero she had already believed the Third Napoleon 
 to be was now fully confirmed. Had he not sworn 
 to free Italy from sea to sea, and was he not aiding 
 her people to accomplish this great object by defeat- 
 ing and driving out the hated Tedesehi? "With full 
 faith in her Emperor she wrote her passionate lines 
 on " Napoleon the Third in Italy." 
 
 July came, and with it the sudden and maddening 
 Treaty of Peace. jNIrs. Browning could not but mourn 
 with Italy at the overthrow of hopes which had ap- 
 peared so close on their realisation yet were so rudely 
 crashed. In the first pangs of her grief, when stunned, 
 if not crushed bv the course of events, she addressed 
 
BEFORE CONGRESS. 183 
 
 to her son those bitter lines " A Tale of Villafranca," 
 beginning :— 
 
 My little son, my Florentine, 
 
 Sit down besido my knee, 
 And I will tell you wliy the sign 
 
 Of joy which flushed our Italy 
 Has faded since but yesternight, 
 And why your Florence of delight 
 
 Is mourning as you see. 
 
 Mr. Story avers that the news of the Imperial 
 Treaty of Villafranca, following so fast upon the -vic- 
 tories of Solferino and San Martino, almost killed 
 Mrs. Browning. " That it hastened her into the 
 grave," he says, " is beyond a doubt, as she never 
 fully shook oft' the severe attack of illness occasioned 
 by this check upon her life-hopes." 
 
 Notwithstanding, however, his failure to fulfil his 
 promise to Italy; notwithstanding the annexation of 
 Nice and Savoy, Mrs. Browning would not give up 
 her faith in Napoleon the Third ; as Savage Landor 
 said of it, '* If that woman put her faith in a man as 
 good as Jesus, and he should become as wicked as 
 Pontius Pilate, she would not change it." In lan- 
 guage somewhat more to the purpose. Professor Dow- 
 den points our, in explanation oi Mrs. Browning's 
 belief of one whose political deeds were often so 
 diametrically opposed to her own principles, " She saw 
 a great work being worked out around her, and in- 
 stinctively she believed that in the workers also there 
 must be something great and god-like. Still," he 
 proceeds, " the keenness of Mrs. Browning's Impe- 
 rialism dated from the time of the Italian War. It is 
 difiicult to convey an idea to strangers of the intense- 
 ness of all her feelings about Italy. Hers was no 
 
184 ELIZABETH BAREETT BROWNING. 
 
 dilettante artistic love, but a deep personal attachment 
 for the land of her home and her affections. All who 
 had written or spoken or worked in behalf of Italy were 
 as welcome to her as friends of long standiug ; while 
 for those who had exerted their powers against Italy, 
 as open enemies or false friends, she felt as personal 
 an enmity as it was possible for that gentle nature to 
 feel against any living being. One who knew her 
 towards the end of her life has told me that her last 
 words to him, at their parting, were to thank him, 
 with thanks that were little merited, because he had 
 done something for the cause of Italy. Higher 
 thanks, however undeserved, she knew none to give. 
 
 '* This being so, it would have been strange had she not 
 shared the common Italian feeling about the Emperor 
 of the French. ... In this world men, after all, look 
 to the facts, not to motives, and . . . you cannot 
 escape the broad fact that, in the hour of Italy's need 
 {before, mind you, not after the victory) it was the 
 Emperor Napoleon alone who came forward to rescue 
 Italy, who overthrew the tyranny of Austria, and who, 
 willingly or unwillingly, thereby created the Italian 
 kingdom. . . . This is the one simple fact which the 
 Italians have not forgotten and cannot forget ; and of 
 this fact Mrs. Browning^s mind took hold with all the 
 ardour of her love for Italy, and all the intensity of 
 her poet's feelings." 
 
 Sick at heart and bodily ill, Mrs. Browning spent a 
 weary, suffering summer. In July she removed with 
 her husband to Siena, and spent the autumn theie. 
 Both in Siena and in Florence, whither they returned 
 for a few days' rest before proceeding to Home for the 
 winter, the Brownings were much interested in the 
 troubles and eccentricities of Walter Savage Landor. 
 
HEFOUE CONGRESS. 185 
 
 But for the kindly care of Mr. Browning, it is hard to 
 say what would have been the ultimate fate of the 
 strange old genius. He saw to his immediate w'ants, 
 and. made such pecuniary arrangements with Lander's 
 relatives as secured him from any further dread of 
 downright poverty. Apartments were secured for him 
 in the close vicinity of Casa Guidi, and Mrs. Brown- 
 ing's old. servant, Wilson, was induced to devote her- 
 self to the care of him. Wilson, who had been a 
 more than servant to her mistress, was most faithful in 
 the discharge of her duties to the new master, and 
 fully fulfilled the trust reposed in her by the Brown- 
 ings, notwithstanding she had family ties of her 
 own. 
 
 The winter was spent by the Brownings in Rome, 
 where the mild climate seemed to have somewhat re- 
 stored the invalid, for such the poetess was again. In 
 the beginning of 1860 she collected her recent political 
 pieces, and published them as Poems Before Congrcfts. 
 In her Preface, dated February, she says : — " These 
 poems were written under the pressure of the events 
 they indicate, after a residence in Italy of so many 
 years, that the present triumph of great principles is 
 heightened to the writer's feelings by the disastrous 
 issue of the last movement, witnessed from Casa Guidi 
 Windows in 1819." 
 
 *' If the verses should appear to English readers," 
 she explains, " too pungently rendered to admit of a 
 patriotic respect to the English sense of things, I will 
 not excuse myself on such, nor on the grounds of my 
 attachment to the Italian people, and my admiration 
 of their heroic constancy and union. What I have 
 written has simply been because I love truth and 
 justice — quand meme — more than Plato and Plato's 
 
186 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 country, more than Dante and Dante's country, more 
 even than Shakespeare and Shakespeare's country." 
 
 After urging that non-intervention in a neighbour's 
 affairs may be carried too far, may only mean passing 
 by on the other side when that neighbour has fallen 
 among thieves, she earnestly entreats her countrymen 
 to "put away the Little Pedlingtonism, unworthy of a 
 great nation, and too prevalent among us. If the 
 man who does not look beyond this natural life is of a 
 somewhat narrow ordei " she argues, " what must be 
 the man who does not look beyond his own frontier or 
 his own sea ? " 
 
 " I confess,^' she exclaims, in language of real poetic 
 grandeur, and with a visionary hope of what appears 
 not yet very near unto realisation, " I confess that I 
 dream of the day when an English statesman shall 
 arise with a heart too large for England ; having 
 courage in the face of his countrymen to assert of 
 some suggested policy, * This is good for your trade ; 
 this is necessary for your domination ; but it will vex a 
 people hard by, it will hurt a people further off, it 
 will profit nothing to the general humanity ; therefore, 
 away with it — it is not for you or for me.' When a 
 British minister dares speak so, and when a British 
 public applauds him speaking, then shall the nation be 
 glorious, and her praise, instead of exploding from 
 within from loud civic mouths, come to her from 
 ■without, as all worthy praise must, from the alliances 
 she has fostered, and the populations she has saved." 
 
 Some of the poems in the volume thus heralded cer- 
 tainly contained a few bitter allusions to England, and 
 contrasted her conduct, and of course not to her 
 advantage, with that of France. Yet, that there was 
 very much in the book to arouse the wrath Mrs. 
 
HEFOBE CONGRESS. 187 
 
 Browning believed she had aroused in her native 
 country is preposterous. The asperity of a few 
 reviews, such as that which Chorley deemed it hia 
 political duly to indulge in, could have had very little 
 influence upon any class in England, however much 
 the literary susceptibilities of the authoress may have 
 magnified it. To an American friend Mrs. Browning 
 said, " My book has had a very angry reception in my 
 native country, as you probably observe ; but I shall 
 be forgiven one day ; and meanwhile, forgiven or un- 
 forgiven, it is satisfactory to one's own soul to have 
 spoken the truth as one apprehends the truth.'' 
 
 That England did sympathise very strongly with 
 Italy in her struggles for independence, no one who 
 reads the history of the time can doubt, and that her 
 moral and political aid was of immense value to the 
 Italian cause cannot be gainsaid; but English states- 
 men did not deem it for their country's welfare to 
 interfere too actively, especially while the occult 
 motives of Napoleon Avere to be taken into account, 
 and this it was that stirred up Mrs. Browning's anger. 
 She, whose heart and brain throbbed but for Italy, 
 could not brook the reticence of England, the reluc- 
 tance of Englishmen to join Napoleon in his adven- 
 turous, perhaps chivalrous, policy. During 18G0 she 
 continued to pour forth passionate poems on behalf of 
 Italy, or inspired by Italian themes, but none of them, 
 it must be confessed, equal in poetic value to some 
 lines entitled " Little Mattie," which she published in 
 the Cornhill Magazine. In this lyric she attained a 
 higher standard of poetic excellence than she had done 
 for some years past. 
 
 About this time, in viewing Rome's gift of swords 
 to her heroes, Napoleon and Victor Emmanuel, she 
 
188 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNINO. 
 
 caught a severe cold, -which is said to have affected her 
 lungs. The autumn, also, saw her prostrated with 
 sorrow at the news of her favourite sister's death. 
 Again was Rome resorted to for the winter, and once 
 more the balmy air seemed to revive her drooping 
 form, so that she believed and wrote that she was 
 " better in body and soul." 
 
 At intervals she continued to write short poems, but 
 one entitled " The North and the South," written in 
 May, in honour of Hans Christian Andersen's visit 
 to Rome, was tlie last she ever wrote. During the 
 same month the Brownings returned to Florence, 
 and, although she had found the overland journey 
 very fatiguing, her Florentine friends considered 
 Mrs. Browning had never looked better than when 
 in these early days of June she returned to Casa 
 Guidi. 
 
 Mr. Story recounts that in the last but one conver- 
 sation he had with Mrs. Browning after her return 
 home, they discussed INIotley's recently written letters 
 on the American Crisis, and that she warmly approved 
 of them. '' Why," she said, referring to the attitude 
 assumed by foreign nations towards America at that 
 time, " why do you heed what others say ? You are 
 strong and can do without sympathy ; and when you 
 have triumphed your glory will be the greater." 
 
 Mrs. Browning had not returned to Florence more 
 than a week or so before she caught another severe 
 cold, and one of an even more threatening character 
 than usual. Medical aid was obtained, but, although 
 anxiety was naturally felt, there docs not appear to 
 have been any idea of imminent danger entertained 
 until the third or fourth night, when, says Mr. Story, 
 whose account must now be mainly followed, " those 
 
BEFORE CONGRESS. 189 
 
 trlio most loved her said they had never seen her 
 so ill." 
 
 The following morning, however, the poetess ap- 
 peared to be better, and for a day or two was sup- 
 posed to be recovering. She herself was of this belief, 
 and those about her had sueh confidenee in her 
 vitality that the worst seemed to have been passed. 
 ** So little did Mrs. Browning realise her critical con- 
 dition,'^ says Mr. Story, *' that until the last day she 
 did not consider herself sufficiently indisposed to re- 
 main in bed, and then the precaution was accidental. 
 So much encouraged did she feel with regard to her- 
 self that on this final evening an intimate female 
 friend was admitted to her bedside, and found her in 
 good spirits, ready at pleasantry and willing to con- 
 verse on all the old loved subjects. Her ruling passion 
 had prompted her to glance at the Aihenaum and 
 Nazione; and when this friend repeated the opinions 
 she had heard expressed by an acquaintance of the 
 new Italian Premier, Ricasoli, to the eflfect that his 
 policy and Cavour's were identical, Mrs. Browning 
 'smiled like Italy,' and thankfully replied, 'I am 
 glad of it ; I thought so.' Even then her thoughts 
 were not of self." 
 
 Little did this friend think, as she bade the poetess 
 •' good-bye," that it was indeed a farewell she was 
 taking. Friends who called to inquire after her were 
 sent away cheered with the assurance that she was 
 better, and even her ''own bright boy,'' says Mr. 
 Story, as he bade his mother good night, was sent to 
 bed consoled by her oft-repeated " I am better, dear, 
 much better." 
 
 One only watched her breathing through the night, 
 he who for fifteen years had ministered to her with all 
 
IlIO ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 the tenderness of a woman. It was a niyht devoid of 
 suffering to her. As morning approached, and for 
 two hours previous to the dread moment, slie seemed 
 to be in a partial eestasy, and though not aj)parently 
 conscious of the coming on of death, she gave her 
 husband all those holy words of love, all tlie consola- 
 tion of an oft- repeated blessing, whose value death has 
 made priceless. Such moments are too sacred for 
 the common pen, which pauses as the woman poet 
 raises herself up to die in the arms of her poet hus- 
 band. He knew not that death had robbed him of 
 his treasure until the drooping form grew chill. . . . 
 Her last words were : " It is beautiful 1 " 
 
101 
 
 GRATEFUL FLORENCE. 
 
 IMrs. Broavxixg died at Lalf-past four iu the moniing 
 of June 29th, 1861, iu the fifty-third year of her age. 
 She died of congestion of the lungs; and from the 
 shattered condition of her hmp;s the physicians as- 
 serted that her existence could not have been pro- 
 longed, in any circumstance, many months. 
 
 From the grief of those dearest to her the veil may 
 not be rudely torn. Suffice to say that on the evening 
 of July lit all that remained of England's great 
 poetess was reverently borne to the lovely little Pro- 
 testant cemetery, looking out towards Fiesole. The 
 bier was surrounded by a sympathetic band of Eng- 
 lish, AniCricans, and Italians, whose intense sorrow 
 dared hardly display itself in presence of the holy grief 
 of the husband and the son of her whom they had 
 loved so well. 
 
 There, amid the dust of illustrious fellow poets, and 
 where tall cypresses wave over the graves, and the 
 beautiful hills keep guard around, rises a stately 
 marble cenotaph, designed by Sir Frederick Leighton, 
 to the memory of the authoress of Aurora Leigh. 
 Owing, however^ to the removal of the old city walls 
 
102 ELIZABETH BARBETT BROWNING. ' 
 
 of Florence, the Protestant cemetery is now included 
 Avithin the city limits^ and, farther interments there 
 are forbidden by law ; but the place is preserved by 
 the municipality. 
 
 As long as the language she wrote in lives, the 
 memory of Elizabeth Barrett Browning will exist ; but 
 it is pleasant to know that the people among whom 
 she lived and laboured during the latter years of her 
 life, and whom she loved so well, were not forgetful 
 of her. Upon Casa Guidi the municipality of Florence 
 placed a white marble slab, and tliereon, inscribed 
 in letters of gold, are these words written by 
 Tommaseo : — 
 
 QUI SCRISSE E MOIU 
 
 ELIZABETH BAERETT BROWNING, 
 
 CHE IN CUOKE DI DONNA SEPPE UNIKB 
 
 8APKENZA DE DOTTO, E FACOXDIA DI POETA, 
 
 FECE DEL SUO AXJREO VEESO, ANELLO, 
 
 FKA Italia e Inghilterka. 
 
 p03e qcesta memoria 
 
 firenze grata. 
 
 A.D. 1861. 
 
 which may be thus rendered in English : — 
 
 HERE WROTE AND DIED 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BEOWNINCr, 
 
 AVnO IN HEK woman's HEART UNITED 
 
 THE WISDOM OF THE SAGE AND THE ELOQUENCE OF THE POET} 
 
 WITU DEB GOLDEN VERSE LINKING ItALT TO ENGLAND. 
 
 GRATEFUL FLORENCE PLACED 
 
 TUIS MEMORIAL. 
 
 A.D. 1861. 
 
m'^Pij 
 
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 LD 62A-30m-2,'69 
 21- (J6534sl0)9412A — A-32 
 
 General Library 
 
 Uaiversity of California 
 
 Berkeley 
 
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