IN the west of England, a few miles from the ancient town of Ledbury, in full view of the beautiful Malvern Hills, Elizabeth Barrett lived from infancy to womanhood. There she wrote verses at the age of eight, and even earlier; at eleven she composed a great epic, called "The Battle of Marathon," and her fond father had fifty copies of it printed. Her love of Pope's Homer led her into the study of Greek. She gathered visions from Plato and the dramatists, and ate and drank Greek and made her head ache with it. Strange education for a girl, delicate and lovely! Stranger still that she should take delight in it.
In 1826, when she was eighteen, her "Essay on Mind, and other Poems" was published. Some of the minor poems had been written at the age of thirteen. The chief one was in the style of Pope's "Essay on Man," and really showed power of thought and expression. Still more did it show her wide range of reading, but she afterwards rejected it from her collected works, condemning it for "didactic pedantry." In her studies she had as guide Hugh Stuart Boyd, a man noted for learning, though blind. Mrs. Browning afterwards described him as "enthusiastic for the good and the beautiful, and one of the most simple and upright of human beings." In her sonnets she embalms his memory, and her beautiful poem, "Wine of Cyprus," recalls her youthful studies.
Her critical faculties were early developed, but the nobility of her mind enabled her to appreciate at their due worth the best efforts of other poets. She was not content to judge and defend; she must present in English one of the great works which she had studied. Hence her translation of the famous tragedy of Æschylus, "Prometheus Bound," which was published in 1835. The preface contained due acknowledgment of her indebtedness to "the learned Mr. Boyd." Some years later the author said that this translation was written in twelve days, and "should have been thrown in the fire afterwards—the only way to give it a little warmth." A new version now appears in her collected works.
In 1836 Miss Mary Russell Mitford, when on a visit to London, became acquainted with Miss Barrett, whose parents had taken a house in the suburbs of the metropolis. Miss Mitford was then a famous author. Her works comprised "Rienzi" and other dramas, as well as a novel or two. She had also published sketches of English life in "Our Village." In her "Recollections of a Literary Life," issued in 1851, she gives a sketch of her young friend, Miss Barrett, as she appeared at the beginning of their acquaintance:
"Of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower of dark curls falling on either side of a most expressive face, large, tender eyes richly fringed by dark eyelashes, a smile like a sunbeam, and such a look of youthfulness that I had some difficulty in persuading a friend in whose carriage we went together to Chiswick that the translatress of the 'Prometheus' of Æschylus, the authoress of the 'Essay on Mind,' was old enough to be introduced into company—in technical language, was out."
The two authors, in spite of the difference in their ages (cheerful, gossipy, red-faced Miss Mitford being then in her fiftieth year), became warm friends, and thereafter corresponded freely and frequently. Miss Mitford's share of the correspondence has been published, but the other side has not yet seen the light.
In the year 1837 Miss Barrett broke a bloodvessel on the lungs. As it refused to heal, her physician, at the approach of winter, ordered her to the milder climate of the coast. She went to Torquay, Devonshire, accompanied by her elder brother and other relatives. On a bright morning in the following summer this brother, with two friends, embarked on a small sailing vessel for a trip of a few hours. Being excellent sailors and familiar with the coast, they sent back the boatmen and undertook to manage the little craft. But within a few minutes, just as they were crossing the bar, the boat went down, and all perished. The bodies were never found, nor was anything belonging to them recovered.
Miss Barrett, still physically weak, was utterly prostrated by grief and horror at the tragedy. She even blamed herself as having been the indirect cause of the loss. Unable to be moved from the sheltered house below the cliffs, she heard for a whole winter the sound of the waves like the moans of the dying. Her only diversion from these painful thoughts was study. Her physician could not approve such occupation in one hanging between death and life, and to prevent his remonstrances she had an edition of Plato bound like a novel. Yet she did not disdain nor altogether discard novels, and to them she owed "many a still, serene hour."
When she had recovered sufficiently to be removed to her London home in an invalid carriage, she was still confined to her couch in a darkened room. In these years of bodily imprisonment her spirit roamed over the universe. She enjoyed the loving care of her family and a few devoted friends. Of a pet dog, called Flush, she says in a cheerful letter: "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 (after being stolen and lost for three days). He threw himself in my arms, palpitating with joy—in that dumb, inarticulate ecstasy which is so affecting—love without speech." But the patient sufferer, who could write only while lying on her back, had also the solace of her beloved books. "She read," says Miss Mitford, "almost every book worth reading in almost every language, and gave herself, heart and soul, to that poetry of which she seemed born to be the priestess." From time to time volumes of her writing issued from the press. Before she left London, in 1838, she had published the "Seraphim and other Poems." This is the first of her books that she wished afterwards to acknowledge. The earlier ones she endeavored to suppress, saying, "I would as soon circulate a caricature or lampoon on myself as that 'Essay,'" and pronouncing her "Prometheus" "blasphemy of Æschylus." So severely did she judge herself! From her sick-chamber she sent to the London Athenæum a series of critical essays on the Greek Christian Poets, whose merits her own sufferings had enabled her fully to understand.
In 1844 she published "The Drama of Exile," and with it gathered into two volumes all she wished to preserve of her previous publications. At the end of the first volume appeared the splendid poem, "Lady Geraldine's Courtship," which, Miss Mitford assures us; was written in the incredibly short space of twelve hours. That poem, thus rapidly tossed off, revealed her heart, and on it, altogether unknown to her, depended her own fate. The book fell into the hands of Robert Browning, who was already known as the author of "Paracelsus," and was then issuing a series of plays and poems, under the somewhat fantastic Biblical title, "Bells and Pomegranates." What was his delight to read these lines:
Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a varied humanity."
Could he do less than call to thank the author for the poetic compliment? When he called at Mr. Barrett's residence kind fate, in the form of a blundering servant, allowed him to enter the room of the frail invalid. How the blunder was explained to her we know not; but the poet was allowed to renew his visits. Mutual esteem begat affection, which speedily ripened into love, an ideal, perfect love, of which there are few parallels in history.
Miss Barrett was still "a confirmed invalid, just dressed and supported for two or three hours from her bed to her sofa, and so back again." No wonder her family should be opposed to the match. But love did for her what the kindest care and wisest treatment had been unable to accomplish. It gave her new life. After two years' acquaintance, during which time her strength steadily improved, she was married to the man whom she loved. She accompanied him to sunny Italy, where she got better wonderfully and beyond her hopes. The deep emotions of her heart have been revealed in those exquisite poems, which she modestly called "Sonnets from the Portuguese," in order to veil somewhat their true origin. Here she ventured to exclaim:
Robert Browning was worthy of the love which she lavished upon him, not only for his genius, but for personal worth.
We have from our American poet and traveller, Bayard Taylor, a description of his appearance four years later, when on a visit with his wife to London. "His complexion was fair, with perhaps the faintest olive tinge; eyes large, clear and gray; nose strong and well cut; mouth full and rather broad, and chin pointed, though not prominent. His forehead broadened rapidly upwards from the outer angle of the eyes, slightly retreating. He was about the medium height, strong in the shoulders, but slender at the waist, and his movements expressed a combination of vigor and elasticity. He was, I should judge, about thirty-seven years of age, but his dark hair was already streaked with gray about the temples." Such was he to look upon, and already he was recognized as one of the greatest English poets, yet destined never to be popular. Taylor had called to see the Brownings, and tells us that when Mrs. Browning entered the room her husband "ran to meet her with a boyish liveliness. She was slight and fragile in appearance with a pale, wasted face, shaded by masses of soft chestnut curls, which fell on her cheeks, and serious eyes of bluish gray. Her frame seemed to be altogether disproportionate to her soul. This at least was the first impression: her personality, frail as it appeared, soon exercised its power and it seemed a natural thing that she should have written the 'Cry of the Children,' or 'Lady Geraldine's Courtship.' I also understood how these two poets, so different both intellectually and physically, should have found their complements in each other. They appear to be—and are—perfectly happy in their wedded life." Later in the evening after the poets had discussed with good humor whether a republican form of government is favorable to the fine arts, another Browning appeared on the scene. "Their child, a blue-eyed, golden-haired boy of two years old, was brought into the room. He stammered Italian sentences only; he knew nothing, as yet, of his native tongue." The boy afterwards exhibited a remarkable genius for music and drawing.
The Brownings had made their home at Florence, "The flower of all cities, and city of all flowers." Here, in the grand and gloomy Casa Guidi, which her genius has immortalized, husband and wife lived and wrote for more than twenty years. She used chiefly the large drawing-room, which opened on a balcony filled with plants, and looked out upon the old church of Santa Felice. It was fitted up with large book-cases, constructed of specimens of Florentine carving selected by Mr. Browning, and filled with books. The walls were hung with tapestry, and besides some old pictures of saints there were portraits of Dante, Keats, the boy Browning, and John Kenyon. A quaint mirror, easy chairs and sofas, with a variety of ornaments, filled the partly darkened room. Near the door was a low arm-chair, and beside it a small table strewn with writing materials, books and papers. This was the favorite haunt of the genius of the place. Here she worked, dreamed marvellous visions and wrote poems full of ethereal fire. In another long room filled with plaster casts and studies Robert Browning worked. Their dining-room was adorned with medallions of Tennyson, Carlyle and other noted authors.
Mrs. Browning became deeply interested in the fate of her new country, whose historical associations were so noble, but whose people had long seemed to be sunk in death. Though she had long before said of herself, "I, who am a woman, am not made for war," that in truth was one of the objects for which she lived. She was a battle-trumpet, sounding loud and long to wake the sleeping nation to newness of life. When the Revolution of 1848 stirred Italy from the Alps to Sicily she rejoiced in the fulfilment of her hopes. Her feelings are shown in Part First of "Casa Guidi Windows." The overthrow of the revolutionary attempts is bewailed in Part Second, but still with hope in their resurrection.
From early youth Mrs. Browning had given thought to great public questions, and especially to those pertaining to the moral welfare of the people. The "Cry of the Children" is the greatest of her poems of this class, and its history deserves notice. On her father's removal to London she became acquainted with Richard Hengist Home, a poet and essayist of some note. Through him some of her poems found their way to the magazines, and he long remained one of her trusted friends and received her help in some of his literary enterprises. During her years of darkness he was appointed assistant commissioner in a government inquiry into the employment of children in mines and manufactories. His friend, though then lying apparently at the door of death, read the official reports and roused herself to utter her protest against the sacrifice of youthful lives to Mammon. It has not yet ceased to echo in the hearts of English-speaking people.
In 1856 appeared Mrs. Browning's longest poem, "Aurora Leigh," which embodies much of her experience. It is divided into nine books, and is in fact a novel in verse. It gives the story of an English girl educated with all the advantages of the nineteenth century and thoroughly imbued with its restless progressive spirit. The author declared it the most mature of her works, the one into which her highest convictions upon Life and Art had entered. She dedicated it to her cousin, burly John Kenyon, who had in all her career most generously aided and encouraged her.
In 1859 a new movement for the redemption of Italy from the Austrian yoke gave gladness to her soul. Regarding Louis Napoleon as the Liberator of Italy she gave him glorious praise in more than one poem. But the Peace of Villafranca, July 11th, 1859, by which so quickly after the victories of Solferino and Magenta he brought to a close the war with Austria, was a serious blow to her hopes and her health. She suffered much, and though she afterwards seemed to her friends to rally, she never regained her hold on life. Still her profound interest in the welfare of the land of her residence caused her to appeal to the world on its behalf, to call for the completion of the great work which had been begun, the regeneration of Italy. She lived to see the first Italian Parliament, but not to see Rome the actual capital of Italy. She died at Florence, June 29th, 1861.
On the front of the gray walls of Casa Guidi is a memorial tablet, bearing this inscription:
"Here wrote and died Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who in the heart of a woman united the scholar's learning and the poet's genius, and made with her verse a golden bond between Italy and England. To her memory grateful Florence has erected this tablet, 1861."
Mrs. Browning is beyond controversy the greatest English poetess. Among the early poems which she afterwards omitted from her collected works there were some which gave decided proof of original power. As her experience grew wider and deeper through study and suffering, her poetic genius took longer and bolder flights. Her fully developed powers were able to sustain her in prolonged excursions, which passed through the whole range of human feeling and rose from earth to heaven. Again at times in the brief compass of a sonnet or in a lyrical poem of a few pages she gave utterance to a truth which found echo and acceptance in the hearts of all. Into her poems she put her heart and life. She said herself, "Poetry has been as serious a thing to me as life itself; and life has been a very serious thing. 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, as the completest expression of my personal being to which I could attain." Her works, skilfully planned and carefully wrought out in this noble spirit, fully establish her the noblest female poet of the world. Her genius, working in every effort of her mind, enabled her to infuse passion and enthusiasm into an otherwise cumbrous mass of knowledge. Her soul, refreshed by intercourse with the master minds of all ages, rose above even the intensest physical suffering and bodily weakness, to give new utterance to the grand truths of humanity, and to cheer her fellow-toilers and sufferers. Though, like the prophets of old, she was called to behold with clear spiritual vision the woes of mankind, she had also faith to look beyond the present struggle to the ultimate victory of righteousness and to look above to the Eternal King, who giveth his followers strength to endure hardship, and who shall award the crown to him that overcometh.