One thing is left to me to say. Arabel told you of a letter I had received from a professional critic, and I am sorry that she should have told you so without binding you to secrecy on the point at the same time. In fact, the writer of the letter begged me _not_ to speak of it, and I took an engagement to him _not_ to speak of it. Now it would be very unpleasant to me, and dishonorable to me, if, after entering into this engagement, the circ.u.mstance of the letter should come to be talked about. Of course you will understand that I do not object to your having been informed of the thing, only Arabel should have remembered to ask you not to mention again the name of the critic who wrote to me.
May G.o.d bless you, my very dear friend. I drink thoughts of you in Cyprus every day.
Your ever affectionate ELIBET.
There is no review in the "Examiner" yet, nor any continuation in the "Athenaeum."[111]
[Footnote 111: The _Athenaeum_ had reserved the two longer poems, the "Drama of Exile" and the "Vision of Poets," for possible notice in a second article, which, however, never appeared.]
_To Mrs. Martin_ September 10, 1844.
My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I will not lose a post in a.s.suring you that I was not silent because of any disappointment from your previous letter. I could only feel the _kindness_ of that letter, and this was certainly the chief and uppermost feeling at the time of reading it, and since. Your preference of "The Seraphim" one other person besides yourself has acknowledged to me in the same manner, and although I myself--perhaps from the natural leaning to last works, and perhaps from a wise recognition of the complete failure of the poem called "The Seraphim "--do disagree with you, yet I can easily forgive you for such a thought, and believe that you see sufficient grounds for entertaining it. More and more I congratulate myself (at any rate) for the decision I came to at the last moment, and in the face of some persuasions, to call the book "Poems," instead of trusting its responsibility to the "Drama," by such a t.i.tle as "A Drama of Exile, and Poems." It is plain, as I antic.i.p.ated, that for one person who is ever so little pleased with the "Drama," fifty at least will like the smaller poems. And perhaps they are right. The longer sustaining of a subject requires, of course, more power, and I may have failed in it altogether.
Yes, I think I may say that I am satisfied so far with the aspect of things in relation to the book. You see there has scarcely been time yet to give any except a sanguine or despondent judgment--I mean, there is scarcely room yet for forming a very rational inference of what will ultimately be, without the presentiments of hope or fear.
The book came out too late in August for any chance of a mention in the September magazines, and at the dead time of year, when the very critics were thinking more of holiday innocence than of their carnivorous instincts. This will not hurt it ultimately, although it might have hurt a _novel_. The regular critics will come back to it; and in the meantime the newspaper critics are noticing it all round, with more or less admissions to its advantage. The "Atlas" is the best of the newspapers for literary notices; and it spoke graciously on the whole; though I do protest against being violently attached to a "school." I have faults enough, I know; but it is just to say that they are at least my own. Well, then! It is true that the "Westminster Review" says briefly what is great praise, and promises to take the earliest opportunity of reviewing me "at large." So that with regard to the critics, there seems to be a good prospect. Then I have had some very pleasant private letters--one from Carlyle; an oath from Miss Martineau to give her whole mind to the work and tell me her free and full opinion, which I have not received yet; an a.s.surance from an acquaintance of Mrs. Jameson that she was much pleased. But the letter which pleased me most was addressed to me by a professional critic, personally unknown to me, who wrote to say that he had traced me up, step by step, ever since I began to print, and that my last volumes were so much better than any preceding them, and were such _living books_, that they restored to him the impulses of his youth and constrained him to thank me for the pleasant emotions they had excited. I cannot say the name of the writer of this letter, because he asked me not to do so, but of course it was very pleasant to read.
Now you will not call me vain for speaking of this. I would not speak of it; only I want (you see) to prove to you how faithfully and gratefully I have a trust in your kindness and sympathy. It is certainly the best kindness to speak the truth to me. I have written those poems as well as I could, and I hope to write others better. I have not reached my own ideal; and I cannot expect to have satisfied other people"s expectation. But it is (as I sometimes say) the least ign.o.ble part of me, that I love poetry better than I love my own successes in it.
I am glad that you like "The Lost Bower." The scene of that poem is the wood above the garden at Hope End.
It is very true, my dearest Mrs. Martin, all that you say about the voyage to Alexandria. And I do not feel the anxiety I _thought I should_. In fact, _I am surprised to feel so little anxiety_. Still, when they are at home again, I shall be happier than I am now, _that_ I feel strongly besides.
What I missed most in your first letter was what I do not miss in the second, the good news of dear Mr. Martin. Both he and you are very vainglorious, I suppose, about O"Connell; but although I was delighted on every account at his late victory,[112] or rather at the late victory of justice and const.i.tutional law, he never was a hero of mine and is not likely to become one. If he had been (by the way) a hero of mine, I should have been quite ashamed of him for being so unequal to his grand position as was demonstrated by the speech from the balcony.
Such poetry in the position, and such prose in the speech! He has not the stuff in him of which heroes are made. There is a thread of cotton everywhere crossing the silk....
With our united love to both of you, Ever, dearest Mrs. Martin, most affectionately yours, BA.
[Footnote 112: The reversal by the House of Lords of his conviction in Ireland for conspiracy, which the English Court of Queen"s Bench had confirmed.]
_To Mrs. Martin_ Wednesday [about September 1844].
My dearest Mrs. Martin, ... Did I tell you that Miss Martineau had promised and vowed to me to tell me the whole truth with respect to the poems? Her letter did not come until a few days ago, and for a full month after the publication; and I was so fearful of the probable sentence that my hands shook as they broke the seal. But such a pleasant letter! I have been overjoyed with it. She says that her "predominant impression is of the _originality_"--very pleasant to hear. I must not forget, however, to say that she complains of "want of variety" in the general effect of the drama, and that she "likes Lucifer less than anything in the two volumes." You see how you have high backers. Still she talks of "immense advances," which consoles me again. In fact, there is scarcely a word to _require_ consolation in her letter, and what did not please me least--nay, to do myself justice, what put all the rest out of my head for some minutes with joy--is the account she gives of herself. For she is better and likely still to be better; she has recovered appet.i.te and sleep, and lost the most threatening symptoms of disease; she has been out for the first time for four years and a half, lying on the gra.s.s flat, she says, with my books open beside her day after day. (That _does_ sound vain of me, but I cannot resist the temptation of writing it!) And the means--the means! Such means you would never divine! It is _mesmerism_. She is thrown into the magnetic trance twice a day; and the progress is manifest; and the hope for the future clear. Now, what do you both think? Consider what a case it is! No case of a weak-minded woman and a nervous affection; but of the most manlike woman in the three kingdoms--in the best sense of man--a woman gifted with admirable fort.i.tude, as well as exercised in high logic, a woman of sensibility and of imagination certainly, but apt to carry her reason unbent wherever she sets her foot; given to utilitarian philosophy and the habit of logical a.n.a.lysis; and suffering under a disease which has induced change of structure and yielded to no tried remedy! Is it not wonderful, and past expectation? She suggests that I should try the means--but I understand that in cases like mine the remedy has done harm instead of good, by over-exciting the system. But her experience will settle the question of the reality of magnetism with a whole generation of infidels. For my own part, I have long been a believer, _in spite of papa_. Then I have had very kind letters from Mrs. Jameson, the "Ennuyee"[113] and from Mr. Serjeant Talfourd and some less famous persons. And a poet with a Welsh name wrote to me yesterday to say that he was writing a poem "similar to my "Drama of Exile,"" and begged me to subscribe to it. Now I tell you all this to make you smile, and because some of it will interest you more gravely.
It will prove to dear unjust Mr. Martin that I do not distrust your sympathy. How could he think so of me? I am half vexed that he should think so. Indeed--indeed I am not so morbidly vain. Why, if you had told me that the books were without any sort of value in your eyes, do you imagine that I should not have valued you, reverenced you ever after for your truth, so sacred a thing in friendship? I really believe it would have been my predominant feeling. But you proved your truth without trying me so hardly; I had _both_ truth and praise from you, and surely quite enough, and _more_ than enough, as many would think, of the latter.
My dearest papa left us this morning to go for a few days into Cornwall for the purpose of examining a quarry in which he has bought or is about to buy shares, and he means to strike on for the Land"s End and to see Falmouth before he returns. It depresses me to think of his being away; his presence or the sense of his nearness having so much cheering and soothing influence with me; but it will be an excellent change for him, even if he does not, as he expects, dig an immense fortune out of the quarries....
Your affectionate and ever obliged BA.
[Footnote 113: Mrs. Jameson"s earliest book, and one which achieved considerable popularity, was her _Diary of an Ennuyee_.]
_To Cornelius Mathews_ London, 50 Wimpole Street: October 1, 1844.
My dear Mr. Mathews,--I have just received your note, which, on the principle of single sighs or breaths being wafted from Indies to the poles, arrived quite safely, and I was very glad to have it. I shall fall into monotony if I go on to talk of my continued warm sense of your wonderful kindness to me, a stranger according to the manner of men; and, indeed, I have just this moment been writing a note to a friend two streets away, and calling it "wonderful kindness."
I cannot, however, of course, allow you to run the tether of your impulse and furnish me with the reviews of my books and other things you speak of at your own expense, and I should prefer, if you would have the goodness to give the necessary direction to Messrs. Putnam & Co., that they should send what would interest me to see, together with a note of the pecuniary debt to themselves. I shall like to see the reviews, of course; and that you should have taken the first word of American judgment into your own mouth is a pleasant thought to me, and leaves me grateful. In England I have no reason so far to be otherwise than well pleased. There has not, indeed, been much yet besides newspaper criticisms--except "Ainsworth"s Magazine," which is benignant!--there has not been time. The monthly reviews give themselves "pause" in such matters to set the plumes of their dignity, and I am rather glad than otherwise not to have the first fruits of their haste. The "Atlas," the best newspaper for literary reviews, excepting always the "Examiner," who does not speak yet, is generous to me, and I have reason to be satisfied with others. And our most influential quarterly (after the "Edinburgh" and right "Quarterly"), the "Westminster Review," promises an early paper with pa.s.sing words of high praise. What vexed me a little in one or two of the journals was an attempt made to fix me in a school, and the calling me a follower of Tennyson for my habit of using compound words, noun-substantives, which I used to do before I knew a page of Tennyson, and adopted from a study of our old English writers, and Greeks and even Germans. The custom is so far from being peculiar to Tennyson, that Sh.e.l.ley and Keats and Leigh Hunt are all redolent of it, and no one can read our old poets without perceiving the leaning of our Saxon to that species of coalition. Then I have had letters of great kindness from "Spirits of the Age," whose praises are so many crowns, and altogether am far from being out of spirits about the prospect of my work. I am glad, however, that I gave the name of "Poems" to the work instead of admitting the "Drama of Exile" into the t.i.tle-page and increasing its responsibility; for one person who likes the "Drama," ten like the other poems. Both Carlyle and Miss Martineau select as favorite "Lady Geraldine"s Courtship," which amuses and surprises me somewhat. In that poem I had endeavoured to throw conventionalities (turned asbestos for the nonce) into the fire of poetry, to make them glow and glitter as if they were not dull things.
Well, I shall soon hear what _you_ like best--and worst. I wonder if you have been very carnivorous with me! I tremble a little to think of your hereditary claim to an instrument called the tomahawk. Still, I am sure I shall have to think _most_, ever as now, of your kindness; and _truth_ must be sacred to all of us, whether we have to suffer or be glad by it. As for Mr. Horne, I cannot answer for what he has received or not received. I had one note from him on silver paper (fear of postage having reduced him to a transparency) from Germany, and that is all, and I did not think him in good spirits in what he said of himself. I will tell him what you have the goodness to say, and something, too, on my own part. He has had a hard time of it with his "Spirit of the Age;" the attacks on the book here being bitter in the extreme. Your "Democratic" does not comfort him for the rest, by the way, and, indeed, he is almost past comfort on the subject. I had a letter the other day from Dr. Shelton Mackenzie, whom I do not know personally, but who is about to publish a "Living Author Dictionary,"
and who, by some a.s.sociation, talked of the effeminacy of "the American poets," so I begged him to read your poems on "Man" and prepare an exception to his position. I wish to write more and must not.
Most faithfully yours, E.B.B.
Am I the first with the great and good news for America and England that Harriet Martineau is better and likely to be better? She told me so herself, and attributes the change to the agency of _mesmerism_.
_To H.S. Boyd_ October 4, 1844.
My dearest Mr. Boyd,--... As to "The Lost Bower," I am penitent about having caused you so much disturbance. I sometimes fancy that a little varying of the accents, though at the obvious expense of injuring the smoothness of every line considered separately, gives variety of cadence and fuller harmony to the general effect. But I do not question that I deserve a great deal of blame on this point as on others. Many lines in "Isobel"s Child" are very slovenly and weak from a mult.i.tude of causes. I hope you will like "The Lost Bower" better when you try it again than you did at first, though I do not, of course, expect that you will not see much to cry out against. The subject of the poem was an actual fact of my childhood.
Oh, and I think I told you, when giving you the history of "Lady Geraldine"s Courtship," that I wrote the _thirteen_ last pages of it in one day. I ought to have said _nineteen_ pages instead. But don"t tell anybody; only keep the circ.u.mstance in your mind when you need it and see the faults. n.o.body knows of it except you and Mr. Kenyon and my own family for the reason I told you. I sent off that poem to the press piece-meal, as I never in my life did before with any poem.
And since I wrote to you I have heard of Mr. Eagles, one of the first writers in "Blackwood" and a man of very refined taste, adding another name to the many of those who have preferred it to anything in the two volumes. He says that he has read it at least six times aloud to various persons, and calls it a "beautiful _sui generis_ drama." On which Mr. Kenyon observes that I am "ruined for life, and shall be sure never to take pains with any poem again."
The American edition (did Arabel tell you?) was to be out in New York a week ago, and was to consist of fifteen hundred copies in two volumes, as in England.
She sends you the verses and asks you to make allowances for the delay in doing so. I cannot help believing that if you were better read in Wordsworth you would appreciate him better. Ever since I knew what poetry is, I have believed in him as a great poet, and I do not understand how reasonably there can be a doubt of it. Will you remember that nearly all the first minds of the age have admitted his power (without going to intrinsic evidence), and then say that he _can_ be a mere Grub Street writer? It is not that he is only or chiefly admired by the _profanum vulgus_, that he is a mere popular and fashionable poet, but that men of genius in this and other countries unite in confessing his genius. And is not this a significant circ.u.mstance--significant, at least?...
Believe me, yourself, your affectionate and grateful ELIBET B.B.
How kind you are, far too kind, about the Cyprus wine; I thank you very much.
_To Mrs. Martin_ October 5, 1844.
My dearest Mrs. Martin,--... Well, papa came back from Cornwall just as I came back to my own room, and he was as pleased with his quarry as I was to have the sight again of his face. During his absence, Henrietta had a little polka (which did not bring the house down on its knees), and I had a transparent blind put up in my open window.
There is a castle in the blind, and a castle gate-way, and two walks, and several peasants, and groves of trees which rise in excellent harmony with the fall of my green damask curtains--new, since you saw me last. Papa insults me with the a.n.a.logy of a back window in a confectioner"s shop, but is obviously moved when the sunshine lights up the castle, notwithstanding. And Mr. Kenyon and everybody in the house grow ecstatic rather than otherwise, as they stand in contemplation before it, and tell me (what is obvious without their evidence) that the effect is beautiful, and that the whole room catches a light from it. Well, and then Mr. Kenyon has given me a new table, with a rail round it to consecrate it from Flush"s paws, and large enough to hold all my varieties of vanities.
I had another letter from Miss Martineau the other day, and she says she has a "hat of her own, a parasol of her own," and that she can "walk a mile with ease." _What do miracles mean_? Miracle or not, however, one thing is certain--it is very joyful; and her own sensations on being removed suddenly from the verge of the prospect of a most painful death--a most painful and lingering death--must be strange and overwhelming.
I hope I may hear soon from you that you had much pleasure at Clifton, and some benefit in the air and change, and that dear Mr. Martin and yourself are both as well as possible. Do you take in "Punch"? If not, you _ought_. Mr. Kenyon and I agreed the other day that we should be more willing "to take our politics" from "Punch" than from any other of the newspaper oracles. "Punch" is very generous, and I like him for everything, except for his rough treatment of Louis Philippe, whom I believe to be a great man--for a king. And then, it is well worth fourpence to laugh once a week. I do recommend "Punch" to you.[114]
Douglas Jerrold is the editor, I fancy, and he has a troop of "wits,"
such as Planche, t.i.tmarsh, and the author of "Little Peddlington," to support him....
Now I have written enough to tire you, I am sure. May G.o.d bless you both! Did you read "Coningsby," that very able book, without character, story, or specific teaching? It is well worth reading, and worth wondering over. D"Israeli, who is a man of genius, has written, nevertheless, books which will live longer, and move deeper. But everybody should read "Coningsby." It is a sign of the times. Believe me, my dearest Mrs. Martin,
Your very affectionate BA.
_To John Kenyon_ Tuesday, October 8, 1844.
Thank you, my dearest cousin, for your kind little note, which I run the chance of answering by that Wednesday"s post you think you may wait for. So (_via_ your table) I set about writing to you, and the first word, of course, must be an expression of my contentment with the "Examiner" review. Indeed, I am more than contented--delighted with it. I had some dread, vaguely fashioned, about the "Examiner"; the very delay looked ominous. And then, I thought to myself, though I did not say, that if Mr. Forster praised the verses on Flush to you, it was just because he had no sympathy for anything else. But it is all the contrary, you see, and I am the more pleased for the want of previous expectation; and I must add that if _you_ were so kind as to be glad of being a.s.sociated with me by Mr. Forster"s reference, _I_ was so _human_ as to be very very glad of being a.s.sociated with _you_ by the same. Also you shall criticise "Geraldine" exactly as you like--mind, I don"t think it all so rough as the extracts appear to be, and some variety is attained by that playing at ball with the _pause_, which causes the apparent roughness--still you shall criticise "Geraldine" exactly as you like. I have a great fancy for writing some day a longer poem of a like cla.s.s--a poem comprehending the aspect and manners of modern life, and flinching at nothing of the conventional. I think it might be done with good effect. You said once that Tennyson had done it in "Locksley Hall," and I half agreed with you. But looking at "Locksley Hall" again, I find that not much has been done in that _way_, n.o.ble and pa.s.sionate and _full_ as the poem is in other ways. But there is no story, no _manners_, no modern allusion, except in the grand general adjuration to the "Mother-age,"
and no approach to the treatment of a conventionality. But Crabbe, as you say, has done it, and Campbell in his "Theodore" in a few touches was near to do it; but _Hayley_ clearly apprehends the species of poem in his "Triumphs of Temper" and "Triumphs of Music," and so did Miss Seward, who called it the "_poetical novel_." Now I do think that a true poetical novel--modern, and on the level of the manners of the day--might be as good a poem as any other, and much more popular besides. Do you not think so?
I had a letter from dear Miss Mitford this morning, with yours, but I can find nothing in it that you will care to hear again. She complains of the vagueness of "Coningsby," and praises the French writers--a sympathy between us, that last, which we wear hidden in our sleeves for the sake of propriety. Not a word of coming to London, though I asked. Neither have I heard again from Miss Martineau....
Ever most affectionately and gratefully yours, E.B.B.
[Footnote 114: It will be remembered that "Punch" had only been in existence for three years at this time, which will account for this apparently superfluous advice.]