1724. EBB to Mary Russell Mitford
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 9, 158–163.
[London]
Saturday Sept 28. 1844
Certainly my dearest friend I do agree with you & Mrs Jameson in disagreeing with Miss Martineau on the subject of the letters. You know how strong my impression was from the first,—& the more I have thought of it since, the more settled has been my opinion. I told her generally, in speaking of the Essays on the sick room, that I differed from her on certain points, without specifying, I think, what they were. [1] And, in fact, when a person like herself prints an opinion, one is bound to take for granted that she has considered it too well to be likely to be easily shaken in it. But I firmly (on my side) believe that she is not only quite wrong, but quite inconsistent to the whole tenour of her life & writings, in the particular wrongness. I never felt much more firmly persuaded of anything than of this,—as you knew before. Still I wonder,—in being given to understand that a simple difference of opinion, cd make her cold to anybody. There might have been, as you say, a little sharpness in the argument used against her,—and Mrs Jameson may have felt hurt at the want of confidence involved in the precaution about the letters, to the extent of irritation & the desire of retort. We cannot judge of this,—not knowing! Assuredly there must have been something painful to her habitual correspondents, in the nature of some sentences in the essays,—do you not think so? If you had written them, assuredly I [2] should have been hurt. I could not have helped it. And now I will tell you what happened once to me (not long ago) with respect to Harriet Martineau. You know that she has written to me occasionally since last autumn, when she began the intercourse by the kindest note imaginable about my poetry. I answered it with a warm appreciation of a kindness & honour which had touched as well as surprised me from such a quarter; & she wrote again at long intervals, I always answering her letters. Well,—at last, just as my books reached her, & before she had even cut the leaves, I had from her the most singular letter I ever received. [3] She intimated in it that I had done myself harm with her by flattering her,—that I had flattered her more than was becoming to a Christian woman to flatter or be flattered,—that Miss Sedgewick had done the same, .. had persisted in doing it in the face of her remonstrances,—had in consequence been rejected from her correspondence, .. & that, thereupon, Miss Sedgewick had “changed her hand” & called bad names instead of good. The infinite surprise with which I read this letter, .. the humiliated surprise .. for there are charges which humiliate nearly as much as if they were convictions, .. you will understand without difficulty– With all my faults, I am not accustomed to see myself reproached for this of falseness,—and then I had been so utterly unconscious of “flattering” Miss Martineau, that I feel sensitively it wd have been an act of presumption in a stranger like myself & with an unestablished reputation, to take the liberty of praising her to her face, even according to my honest view of her powers & gifts. I cannot believe that I did more than express in a general manner my sense of what she was & my grateful sense of her condescenscion to me—& if I expressed it warmly, the warmth came from my heart certainly, & had nothing in it of phosphoric falseness. I told her so in reply. I thanked her for speaking to me of the impression, since she entertained it—and I respected a virtue which I cd not however help feeling was, at that moment, somewhat austere towards me– From the other emotion of humiliation, I did not speak to you of it then. I really felt abashed. Can you understand? I thought everybody wd think as even Papa did, “Why what can you have been saying?” And really, really, I am true! I write the truth (as it appears to me) even to strangers who send me books, & perhaps expect nothing but thanks & praise. I write the truth (as far as I can perceive it) even to friends, whom I love dearest & most blindly. I seek the truth myself, & seek it earnestly– I am not fond of using too strong language, & of dealing in the common commerce of compliment– And yet, you see!—— Well—I cd not help thinking it rather hard, & undeserved——but there was a nobleness on her part, even in the hardness; and her letter about the books has overcome, in good measure, the painful impression, & left me grateful for her sympathy.
But you will understand how I felt exactly. What shd you say if I were to reply to one of your letters of generous excess, by warning you off with a charge of flattery, & an example of treachery? Only I never wrote to her, .. never, .. I cd take a great Styx oath, [4] .. as you have written to me,—and, again, there is not the love in the other quarter, as between us .. you & me, .. to justify such “excesses.” But I cd take a great Styx-oath that I never spoke to her, as warmly as I have spoken of her, to you & others. That is sure.
As to the amendment in health, it may be as you say. Lady Harriet Cocks, [5] after a seclusion & suffering of years, .. after wasting, wearing away like a snow-wreath, & becoming at last unable to take food, except turtle-broth & grapes, .. suddenly cried out for bread, eggs, meat! Such an appetite never was heard of! She frightened the whole house with eating. Lady Margaret told me that she could not be satisfied; & it was dreadful to see, the manner in which the insatiable appetite seemed to cry out within her. That was supposed to be when the tumour receded & left an unaccustomed vacancy in the stomach. Then she was delirious & raved,—then, sank into a stupour, & lay insensible for days. At the end of that time, she was well—the desease had past,—& she recovered steadily hour by hour. She is in perfect health at this moment. All this, without magnetism. It may have been so with Miss Martineau,—only I am of opinion that the receding of the actual desease must have been synchronous with the use of the magnetic process, from the expressions she adopts respecting “the symptom,”—referring evidently to an important change. It is not simply a recovery of strength & appetite, but something more important. I fancy so, in any case. But that she shd be better, is the great thing; and I think of it with the most earnest joy. Ah no, my dearest, dearest friend, .. you could not wish me to try such an experiment as this of magnetism, without very sure grounds of expectation to go upon. And Dr Stone, the physician who wrote a book in favour of the art, or science, (what is it?) [6] did not recommend it for chest affections, & mentioned a specific case in which a woman expectorated blood violently as an effect of the experiment. Also I have an indisposition towards this magnetism, & shrink from the idea of subjecting my will as an individual, to the will of another, [7] —of merging my identity (in some strange way which makes my blood creep to think of) in the identity of another. Do you not share my feeling? Perhaps you do not believe enough, to have cognizance of the horrors. My imagination has porcupine’s quills all over her, to think of it!– I have heard & read so much! And I believe so much too much! As for myself my dearest friend, if I cd make a patchwork of sunny summers, I believe I might live many years under their canopy,—yes, & be strong to live. But I have not your faith (having tried & known much of it too) in mere country air—and I believe that much exertion in order to get into it, wd be full of risk to me. When I talked about the Rhine,—that was a peculiar means. The water passage, I could bear without effort,—knowing that by experience,—and my dream (the mere dream of a dream, .. thrown out as any other dream might be!) was, that two or three summer months of drifting on the water, & resting on its shores, might give me strength enough to get over into the Rhone, & so to the warmer south of France for the winter. A mere dream! but differing, as a dream, from your’s, which includes more fatig<ue> & no escape (the most vital point) from a winter in England. Do you know I had it in my head for a full quarter of an hour, to propose to go with Stormie & Henry, & be left at Malta or in Italy? Then, came other thoughts, to put an end to the wild ones. And perhaps I told you of all of them long ago. No, my dearest Miss Mitford! I must take courage & patience,—and in time I shall perhaps quietly live back again to life & strength. Poor Dr Scully told me honestly that I never should be otherwise than an invalid, although I might hope to be better: but then I am better than I ever hoped to be, and I think better of myself unawares.
Papa is absent,—gone to Cornwall, to examine a quarrey in which he has or is about to have, shares,—& not likely to be at home until the middle of next week. I inherit his bedroom during his absence,—and my room is, by his desire, being made so clean & perfect by the whole generation of sweepers & cleaners, that it will not know itself again, they say. Then, I am to have a green double door instead of the cloth curtain, which will save me from the footsteps on the staircase, & from Flushie’s barking out the consequences thereof. I am well pleased with the green double door. And I am going (perhaps) to have a blind for my open window, with green trees on it, which will be as rural as Mademoiselle de Scudery in “pays tendre.” [8]
Thank you for telling me of Ainsworth’s Magazine. [9] As to Mrs Jameson, she is extravagant in speaking so of me,—& the whole world may see how—and I shd have received any critical opinion or reproof from her gladly & gratefully. Reading her letter made me ashamed for a minute—as if I had asked for a complimentary letter!– But you know precisely how I feel, & how I felt, in wishing her to write at first, & there is no need of more words.
Did you see any clairvoyance in your cases of trance? Perhaps not,—as you do not say.
I had a letter from a poor poet the other day .. who calls himself Owen Howell & lives in Bartholomew Close, & has written poems called “Westminster Abbey” & “Life” dedicated to Rogers. He wrote to say that he was writing “a similar poem to my Drama of Exile” [10] & begged me to subscribe to it, .. which of course I did directly. But did’nt it sound rather oddly of the noble Briton?
Yes,—but to leave out a line in a sonnet! That is as wrong as to put a weak one in, .. is’nt it?– Are you in earnest, .. do I understand you rightly, .. that you advise me to send my books to Madme Dudevant? I am half ashamed to confess how often I have thought of doing it, myself—but every time I shrank back– Could I have courage? Might I have courage? Do you know that in general I have rather a dislike to sending about my books as a gift to persons whom I admire,—it is so like thinking them worth their acceptance,—and asking for praise in return. Except to Carlyle, I have sent to nobody, without a specific reason for it. I have not sent even to Joanna Baillie,—to whom perhaps I shd have done it. Mrs Jameson told Mr Kenyon that she had bought the Seraphim & intended to buy the new volumes—therefore I felt it allowable to express my respect for her while I spared her an expense. [11] Mr Serjt. Talfourd sent me his ‘Ion,’ when nobody had ever heard my name,—not even you!—and it was right to recognize that early attention. [12]
Ah—you tempt me with George Sand! And Mr Kenyon is going to Paris directly, early in October, & might take the books. Suppose you send her ‘Belford Regis’ or another work, & let me slip mine into the shade of it? Suppose we join so in expressing, as two English female writers, our sense of the genius of that distinguished woman? [13] if it did not strike you as presumption in me to put my name to yours as a writer, saying “we.” We are equally bold at any rate. Mr Kenyon told me I was “a daring person” for the introduction of those sonnets. [14] He had heard an able man say at his table a day or two before, that no modest woman would or ought to confess to an acquaintance with the works of George Sand. Well!—are you inclined to do it? Will you? Write & tell me. I would give anything to have a letter from her, though it smelt of cigars. And it would, of course!– Answer me directly—for I have taken a fancy to the plan in writing of it. She wd know your name! Think of it!–
Once, I had a romantic scheme of writing my whole mind to her of her works. That was when I first read them,—and I lay awake all a night in a vision of letters anonymous & onymous—but it passed away,—& I considered how little good it could do.
May God bless you, my beloved friend! I write you to death when I begin.
Ever your attached
EBB–
Have you a particular meaning in saying, “when we meet”—? Delightful words! Do write me a sermon on that text—do, do!– I long to see you beyond what I have any words delightful enough to say.
Say how you are–
Address: Miss Mitford / Three Mile Cross / near Reading.
Publication: EBB-MRM, II, 456–461.
Manuscript: Wellesley College.
1. The principal difference concerned the publication of private letters (see letter 1502, note 3).
2. Underscored twice.
3. Letter 1693.
4. The river by which the gods swore inviolable oaths.
5. Harriet Catherine Cocks (d. 1893), Lady Margaret Cocks’s niece. Harriet married Francis Richard Wegg-Prosser in 1850. EBB also mentions her sudden recovery in letters 1743 and 1779.
6. See letter 1457, note 13.
7. In letter 1736, EBB reiterates her objection to submitting herself to the will of another.
8. “Gentle country.” EBB alludes to the allegorical map “Carte de Tendre” introduced in Clélie (10 vols., 1654–60), a novel by Madeleine de Scudéry (1607–1701).
9. Ainsworth’s Magazine for September 1844 contained a review of Poems (1844). For the text, see pp. 333–335.
10. “Westminster Abbey” was published in 1843, but we have been unable to trace the publication of “Life,” nor have we been able to identify a work by Howell similar to EBB’s “A Drama of Exile.”
11. EBB’s presentation copy of Poems (1844) to Mrs. Jameson (Reconstruction, C74) has not been located.
12. Talfourd’s gift formed lot 1131 of Browning Collections (Reconstruction, A2243, present location unknown). See letter 523 for EBB’s response. Her presentation copy of Poems (1844) to Talfourd (Reconstruction, C86) is now in the Berg Collection.
13. There is no evidence to suggest that they ever carried out this idea.
14. EBB wrote two sonnets dedicated to George Sand which appeared in Poems (1844): “To George Sand. A Desire” and “To George Sand. A Recognition.”
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