3830. Caroline Chesebrough to EBB
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 23, 22–24.
Canandaigua. N. York.
August 7th 1856.
I [1] find that I must write to you, though the event be attended with more than ordinary uncertainty. If I should die tomorrow I sh’d be happier thinking that I had told you how much you have been to me in this life—how much you always must be– May I not tell you then?– Do not let the word come to you as that of everybody comes. Having spoken I cannot forget that I have done so. Receive the expression as the indication of something that is real and abiding. I took down some faded volumes from a book shelf one day—a long while ago– I found you for myself– No one had said to me “Love Miss Barrett”—it was for your own sake.– On my wall there is a little picture—the only portrait—and it is of you—engraved from what may, or may not, be a good portrait, by Mr. Read, I think. [2] I have a dear friend, an artist, (English born—) who is said to resemble you– I put the two together and have my thought– Sometime my mortal eyes may see it realized. I do not often dream, but I like to think of this. I should not choose to come to you with the formality of an introduction—even as I would not speak to you now, if I felt that you could listen as to an intruder.
Mrs. Browning how will you receive what I say? But that should not concern me—it may be I should rather occupy myself with endeavouring to come to a suitable expression. Somebody who respects me, said once “Why do you not write to the lady, and tell her that you love her?”– Persons sometimes do such things, I know—the thought has kept by me till now—and now you have it—may it come as a ‘White-Winged Messenger’ [3] indeed. But it has seemed so long a way to send the message! yet, I will base my hope that it may reach you on a Rock of a truth—the mightiest I know, and then I shall feel the safer; the abiding message of love came from a longer distance– Comes perpetually—never miscarrys [sic]. Surely it is the same with every true utterance, however inadequate.
When I read the Portuguese Sonnets I said “Thank God for her.”
No sermon on the crucifixion has been written that can make me forget The Seraphim. The wisest man I know of tells me that there is no poem like the Lost Bower. [4] Sometimes I dispute with him—but not here. While I think of the “Young Florentine” [5] —forgive me that I cross that threshold– I say to myself, If this message ever reaches its destination (& that is not merely the house of Mrs. Browning) I have yet another that will go to him some day– Some future day that shall be happier than this, on account of a great hope fulfilled—a desire that reached across the ocean & was satisfied. But—now—when a woman is to be praised the word should come from some potent source, or it falls a dead weight—is a weariness[.] Because she is not vain, if she is to be praised. But the case is different when she is to be thanked. Any one may do that who understands the occasion, & though he blunder is not to be despised. I thank you. I do not see you smile—but you understand—that is enough.
Mr. Francis of N.Y. told me one day, I asked him not from curiosity but with an earnest hope, “Mrs. Browning’s audience is chiefly in New England yet, but it is growing everywhere[.]” Had you found no audience among us, there would have been none worth having: there would have been one worth working for, however. He told me he was looking even then (last autumn), for the proof sheets of a new poem from you. [6] He must have been mistaken. But—new poems will come, & we shall learn & love them.
I thank God for your life as I thank Him for every good gift: for every grace and glory that dignifies our nature—that makes woman happier and holier, loftier in faith and purer in sentiment. I thank Him for what you have done, and trust Him for what you shall do; for the poets are indeed His anointed, and you have manifested His purpose concerning you in taking that place “high & lifted up” [7] above all that ever woman occupied before. God Keep You. Farewell.
Caroline Chesebro’.
Address: Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. / Care of Robert Browning. Esq. / 39 Devonshire Place / Regent’s Park / London.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: University of Virginia.
1. Caroline Chesebrough (1825–73), American novelist who wrote under the name of Chesebro’, was born in upstate New York to Nicholas Chesebrough, a merchant and postmaster, and his wife, Betsey (née Kimball). Her most recent novels were Victoria (New York, 1856) and Philly and Kit (New York, 1856). From 1865 until her death in 1873, she taught composition at the Packer Collegiate Institute in Brooklyn, New York, where she founded The Packer Quarterly.
2. Thomas Buchanan Read’s portrait of EBB, painted in 1853, is reproduced in vol. 19, between pp. 336 and 337.
3. Cf. Lydia Sigourney, “The Alpine Flowers” (1827), line 3.
4. EBB, “The Lost Bower” (1844).
5. i.e., Pen. Cf. Casa Guidi Windows, II, 743.
6. Aurora Leigh.
7. Isaiah 6:1.
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