ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING: PRIMARY SOURCES

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (ESSAY DATE C. 1820-22)

SOURCE: Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. "Glimpses into My Own Life and Literary Character." In The Brownings' Correspondence, Vol. 1, edited by Philip Kelley and Ronald Hudson, pp. 348-56. Winfield, Kans.: Wedge-stone, 1984.

In the following excerpt from an unpublished essay, a young Browning discusses her poetic ambitions and her tendency toward sentiment. The essay was likely written during a period of at least two years, beginning when the poet was fourteen and ending sometime after her illness of 1821-22.

I was always of a determined and if thwarted violent disposition—My actions and temper were infinitely more inflexible at three years old than now at fourteen—At that early age I can perfectly remember reigning in the Nursery and being renowned amongst the servants for self love and excessive passion—When reproved I always considered myself as an injured martyr and bitter have been the tears I have shed over my supposed wrongs. At four and a half my great delight was poring over fairy phenomenons and the actions of necromancers—& the seven champions of Christendom in "Popular tales" has beguiled many a weary hour. At five I supposed myself a heroine and in my day dreams of bliss I constantly imaged to myself a forlorn damsel in distress rescued by some noble knight and often have I laid awake hours in darkness, "thinking," as I expressed myself; but which was nothing more than musing on these fairy castles in the air!

I perfectly remember the delight I felt when I attained my sixth birthday[;] I enjoyed my triumph to a great degree over the inhabitants of the nursery, there being no upstart to dispute my authority, as Henrietta was quite an infant and my dearest Bro tho my constant companion and a beloved participator in all my pleasures never allowed the urge for power to injure the endearing sweetness of his temper.

I might, tho perhaps with injustice to myself, impute my never changing affection to this ever dear Brother to his mild and gentle conduct at this period. But he and I have attained an age not merely childish, an age to which infantine pursuits are no longer agreeable, we have attained an age when reason is no longer the subject of childish frivolity!—Still I believe that our affection for each other has become infinitely more enthusiastic and more rivetted—At four I first mounted Pegasus but at six I thought myself priviledged to show off feats of horsemanship—In my sixth year for some lines on virtue which I had pen[n]ed with great care I received from Papa a ten shilling note enclosed in a letter which was addrest to the Poet Laureat of Hope End; I mention this because I received much, more pleasure from the word Poet than from the ten shilling note—I did not understand the meaning of the word laureat but it being explained to me by my dearest Mama, the idea first presented itself to me of celebrating our birthdays by my verse[.] "Poet laureat of Hope End" was too great a tittle [sic] to lose—Nothing could contribute so much to my amusement as a novel. A novel at six years old may appear ridiculous, but it was a real desire that I felt,—not to instruct myself, I felt no such wish, but to divert myself and to afford more scope to my nightly meditations.. and it is worthy of remark that in a novel I carefully past over all passages which described children—

The Fops love and pursuit of the heroines mother in "Temper" delighted me, but the description of the infancy of Emma was past over—At seven I began to think of "forming my taste "—perhaps I did not express my thoughts in those refined words but I considered it time "to see what was best to write about & read about "! At 7 too I read the History of England and Rome—at 8 I perused the History of Greece and it was at this age that I first found real delight in poetry—"The Minstrel" Popes "Illiad"[,] some parts of the "Odyssey" passages from "Paradise lost" selected by my dearest Mama and some of Shakespeares plays among which were, "The Tempest," "Othello" and a few historical dramatic pieces constituted my Studies!—I was enchanted with all these but I think the story interested me more that [sic] the poetry till "The Minstrel" met my sight—I was then too young to feel the loveliness of simple beauty, I required something dazling to strike my mind—The brilliant imagery[,] the fine metaphors and the flowing numbers of "the Minstrel" truly astonished me. Every stanza excited my ardent admiration nor can I now remember the delight which I felt on perusing those pages without enthusiasm—

At nine I felt much pleasure from the effusions of my imagination in the adorned drapery of versification but nothing could compensate for the regret I felt on laying down a book to take up a pen—The subject of my studies was Pope's Illiad some passages from Shakespeare & Novels which I enjoyed to their full extent. At this age works of imagination only afforded me gratification and I trod the delightful fields of fancy without any of those conscientious scruples which now always attends me when wasting time in frivolous pleasures—

At ten my poetry was entirely formed by the style of written authors and I read that I might write—Novels were still my most delightful study combined with the sweet notes of poetic inspiration! At eleven I wished to be considered an authoress. Novels were thrown aside. Poetry and Essays were my studies & I felt the most ardent desire to understand the learned languages—To comprehend even the Greek alphabet was delight inexpressible. Under the tuition of M^r.M^c.Swiney I attained that which I so fervently desired. For 8 months during this year I never remember having directed my attentions to any other object than the ambition of gaining fame—Literature was the star which in prospect illuminated my future days[;] it was the spur which prompted me.. the aim.. the very soul of my being—I was determined (and as I before stated my determinations were not "airlike dispersable") I was determined to gain the very pinnacle of excellence and even when this childish & foolishly ambitious idea had fled not by the weight of the argument of a more experienced adviser but by my own reflections & conviction I yet looked with regret.. painful regret to the beacon of that distinguished fame I had sighed for so long.. & so ardently!

I never felt more real anguish than when I was undecieved on this point. I am not vain naturally & I have still less of the pedant in my composition than self conceit but I confess that during these eight months I never felt myself of more consequence and never had a better opinion of my own talents—In short I was in infinite danger of being as vain as I was inexperienced! During this dangerous period I was from home & the fever of a heated imagination was perhaps increased by the intoxicating gai[e]ties of a watering place Ramsgate where we then were and where I commenced my poem "The Battle of Marathon" now in print!! When we came home one day after having written a page of poetry which I considered models of beauty I ran down stairs to the library to seek Popes Homer in order to compare them that I might enjoy my own superiority—I can never think of this instance of the intoxication of vanity without smiling at my childish folly & ridiculous vanity—I brought Homer up in triumph & read first my own Poem & afterwards began to compare—I read fifty lines from the glorious Father of the lyre—It was enough.. I felt the whole extent of my own immense & mortifying inferiority—

My first impulse was to throw with mingled feelings of contempt & anguish my composition on the floor—my next to burst into tears!&Iwept for an hour and then returned to reason and humility—Since then I have not felt many twitches of vanity and my mind has never since been intoxicated by any ridiculous dreams of greatness!!—From this period for a twelvemonth I could find no pleasure in any book but Homer. I read & longed to read again and tho I nearly had it by heart I still found new beauties & fresh enchantments—

At twelve I enjoyed a literary life in all it's pleasures. Metaphysics were my highest delights and after having read a page from Locke my mind not only felt edified but exalted—At this age I was in great danger of becoming the founder of a religion of my own. I revolted at the idea of an established religion—my faith was sincere but my religion was founded solely on the imagination. It was not the deep persuasion of the mild Christian but the wild visions of an enthusiast. I worshipped God heart and soul but I forgot that my prayers should be pure & simple as the Father I adored[.] They were composed extempore & full of figurative & florid apostrophes.

I shall always look back to this time as the happiest of my life[;] my mind was above the frivolous sorrows of childhood when I trusted with enthusiastic faith to His mercy "who only chasteneth whom he loveth"—…

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (LETTER DATE 18 SEPTEMBER 1846)

SOURCE: Barrett Browning, Elizabeth. "Letter to Mary Russell Mitford, September 18, 1846." In Women of Letters: Selected Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Mary Russell Mitford, edited by Meredith B. Raymond and Mary Rose Sullivan, pp. 195-98. Boston: Twayne, 1987.

In the following letter to her close friend Mary Russell Mitford, Browning discusses her elopement with Robert Browning. The letter reflects her unconventional views of love and marriage.

FROM THE AUTHOR

BROWNING RESPONDS TO AN ARTICLE ON "POETESSES" FROM THE JANUARY 1845 NEW QUARTERLY REVIEW IN A LETTER TO THE AUTHOR, HENRY CHORLEY

England has had many learned women, not merely readers but writers of the learned languages, in Elizabeth's time and after-wards—women of deeper acquirements than are common now in the greater diffusion of letters: and yet where were the poetesses? The divine breath which seemed to come and go, and, ere it went, filled the land with that crowd of true poets whom we call the old dramatists—why did it never pass, even in the lyrical form, over the lips of a woman? How strange! And can we deny that it was so? I look everywhere for grandmothers and see none. It is not in the filial spirit I am deficient, I do assure you—witness my reverent love of the grandfathers!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Excerpt from a letter to Henry Chorley, January 7, 1845. In Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning: Interviews and Recollections, edited by Martin Garrett, p.17. New York: St. Martin's, 2000.

My dearest friend I have your letter & your prophecy,—& the latter meets the event like a sword ringing into its scabbard. My dear dearest friend I would sit down by your feet & kiss your hands with many tears, & beseech you to think gently of me, & love me always, & have faith in me that I have struggled to do the right & the generous & not the selfish thing,—though when you read this letter I shall have given to one of the most gifted & admirable of men, a wife unworthy of him. I shall be the wife of Robert Browning. Against you,.. in allowing you no confidence,.. I have not certainly sinned, I think—so do not look at me with those reproachful eyes. I have made no confidence to any.. not even to my & his beloved friend M^r. Kenyon—& this advisedly, & in order to spare him the anxiety & the responsibility. It would have been a wrong against him & against you to have told either of you—we were in peculiar circumstances—& to have made you a party, would have exposed you to the whole dreary rain—without the shelter we had—If I had loved you less—dearest Miss Mitford, I could have told you sooner.

And now.. oh, will you be hard on me? will you say.. "This is not well".?

I tell you solemnly that nothing your thoughts can suggest against this act of mine, has been un-suggested by me to him—He has loved me for nearly two years, & said so at the beginning. I would not listen—I could not believe even. And he has said since, that almost he began to despair of making me believe in the force & stedfastness of his attachment. Certainly I conceived it to be a mere poet's fancy.. an illusion of a confusion between the woman & the poetry. I have seen a little of the way of men in such respects, and I could not see beyond that with my weary, weeping eyes, for long.

How can I tell you on this paper, even if my hands did not tremble as the writing shows, how he persisted & overcame me with such letters, & such words, that you might tread on me like a stone if I had not given myself to him, heart & soul. When I bade him see that I was bruised & broken.. unfit for active duties, incapable of common pleasures.. that I had lost even the usual advantages of youth & good spirits—his answer was, "that with himself also the early freshness of youth had gone by, & that, throughout his season of youth, he had loved no woman at all, nor had believed himself made for any such affection—that he loved now once & for ever—he, knowing himself——That, for my health,.. he had understood, on first seeing me, that I suffered from an accident on the spine of an incurable nature, & that he never could hope to have me stand up before him. He bade me tell him, what, if that imagination had been true, what there was in that truth, calculated to suppress any pure attachment, such as he professed for me? For his part, the wish of his heart had been then—that by consenting to be his wife even so, I would admit him to the simple priviledge of sitting by my side two hours a day, as a brother would: he deliberately preferred the realization of that dream, to the brightest, excluding me, in this world or any other."

My dear friend, feel for me. It is to your woman's nature that I repeat these words, that they may commend themselves to you & teach you how I must have felt in hearing them—I who loved Flush for not hating to be near me.. I, who by a long sorrowfulness & solitude, had sunk into the very ashes of selfhumiliation—Think how I must have felt to have listened to such words from such a man. A man of genius & of miraculous attainments.. but of a heart & spirit beyond them all!——

He overcame me at last. Whether it was that an unusual alikeness of mind.. (the high & the low may be alike in the general features).. a singular closeness of sympathy on a thousand subjects,.. drew him fast to me—or whether it was love simple .. which after all is love proper .. an unreasonable instinct, accident.. 'falling', as the idiom says.. the truth became obvious that he would be happier with me than apart from me—and I.. why I am only as any other woman in the world, with a heart belonging to her. He is best, noblest——If you knew him, You should be the praiser.

I have seen him only & openly in this house, observe—never elsewhere, except in the parish church before the two necessary witnesses. We go to Italy.. to Pisa—cross to Havre from Southampton.. pass quickly along the Seine, & through Paris to Orleans—till we are out of hearing of the dreadful sounds behind. An escape from the winter will keep me well & still strengthen me—& in the summer we come back.. if anyone in the world will receive us—We go to live a quiet, simple, rational life—to do work "after the pattern in the mount" which we both see.. to write poems & read books, & try to live not in vain & not for vanities—

In the meanwhile, it is in anguish of heart that I think of leaving this house so—Oh—a little thread might have bound my hands, from even working at my own happiness—But all the love came from that side ! on the other—too still it was—not with intention.. I do not say so—yet too still. I was a woman & shall be a wife when you read this letter. It is finished, the struggle is——

As to marriage.. it never was high up in my ideal, even before my illness brought myself so far down. A happy marriage was the happiest condition, I believed vaguely—but where were the happy marriages? I, for my part, never could have married a common man—and never did any one man whom I have had the honour of hearing talk love, as men talk, lead me to think a quarter of a minute of the possibility of being married by such an one. Then I thought always that a man whom I could love, would never stoop to love me—That was my way of thinking, years ago, in my best days, as a woman's days are counted—& often & often have I been gently upbraided for such romantic fancies—for expecting the grass underfoot to be sky blue, & for not taking M^r. A or B or C for the "best possible" whatever might be.

We shall not be rich—but we shall have enough to live out our views of life—& fly from the winters in Italy.

I write on calmly to you—How little this paper represents what is working within in the intervals of a sort of stupour.

Feel for me if not with me my dear dear friend—He says that we shall justify by our lives this act,—which may & must appear to many,.. as I say .. wilful & rash. People will say that he is mad, &I, bad—with my long traditions & associations with all manner of sickness. Yet God judges, who sees the root of things—And I believe that no woman with a heart, could have done otherwise.. much otherwise—You do not know him.

May God bless you—I must end. Try to think of me gently—& if you can bear to write to me, let me hear.. at Orleans—Poste Restante.

Here is the truth—I could not meet you & part with you now, face to face.

Your most affectionate

EBB