E540401A. Review Essay.
Eliza Cook’s Journal, 1 April 1854, pp. 357–360.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 20, 386–388.
The female poets of England hold at this day a more distinguished place in our literature, and their works occupy a larger space in our libraries, than at any previous period in our literary history. Women who write are no longer regarded as a questionable sisterhood, nor are their works any longer noticed merely with fine words by way of courtesy. They have made good their position as honourable literary workers, and thereby entitle themselves to our respect; and their poems demand notice, and receive the meed of approbation, by right rather than by favour. Nor do we know of any land that possesses a choir of poetesses equal to our own. France and America possess sweet singers indeed, but we defy the world combined to equal our songstresses. And yet our race of female poets may almost be said to have begun with Joanna Baillie, a woman of our own day. Unquestionably she was a great writer, as strong as a man, but with all the delicate purity and sweetness, the instinctive quickness and fine sensibility of a woman. After her, the most distinguished and popular was Mrs. Hemans, a great lyrist, a true poet — a pure and high-minded woman. What exquisite pathos is there in her Graves of a Household, on reading which few parents can resist shedding a tear. And her Treasures of the Deep and The Coming of Spring are familiar in our mouths as household words. Indeed, Mrs. Hemans may be said to have founded a school of poetry, which has even more ardent followers and admirers in America than in England. The young and devout love to resort thither, when they desire to raise their hearts by sonorous heroics, or to soften them by the familiar pathos of certain well-known strains. Longfellow may perhaps be cited as her most successful follower. After Mrs. Hemans came Miss Landon, who deliciously improvised her beautiful songs, and then passed away from before our sight like a bright meteor. But she left behind her many strong and clear singers—true women, and great poets. Need we do more than name Mrs. Southey, Mrs. Howitt, Mrs. Butler, Mrs. Norton, and, perhaps greatest of all, Mrs. Browning?
We do not know much of Mrs. Browning, except what we can gather from her published works. It is now some twenty years since a translation, privately circulated, of Æschylus’s Prometheus Bound, by a young lady, was favourably spoken of in one or two literary circles. It indicated a remarkable sympathy on the part of the translator, for the sculptural old Greek drama, and displayed also an accurate knowledge of the dead language, almost wonderful in so young a writer, and that writer a young lady. The preface was, however, perhaps, the most curious part of the book, for it was so crowded full of thoughts and meanings, one jostling the other so hard for outlet, that none was completely seen, and the utterance remained comparatively unintelligible. Speaking of this part of Miss Barrett’s published works, Mrs. Browning, in the preface to her collected edition of 1850, thus writes:—“One early failure, a translation of the Prometheus of Æschylus, which, though happily free of the current of publication, may be remembered against me by a few of my personal friends, I have replaced here by an entirely new version, made for them and my conscience, in expiation of a sin of my youth, with the sincerest application of my mature mind.” From the dedication of the same collection to her father, we learn that when she was but a child, she wrote verses (Miss Mitford says she wrote largely at ten years old), and dedicated them to him: and as she grew into mature years, verse-writing became “the great pursuit of her life.” Shortly after accomplishing her translation from Æschylus, Miss Barrett wrote An Essay on Mind, showing that she was pushing her inquiries in other directions besides poetry. She also acquired a knowledge of the Hebrew language, and even of the Chaldean, and read through the Bible, in the original tongue, from Genesis to Malachi. Plato, in the original Greek, was also one of her favourite books. But a serious illness compelled her in a measure to give up these severe pursuits; added to which a terrible domestic calamity occurred to her, which had the effect of throwing a dark shadow over her entire future life. Here we quote from the Recollections of Miss Mitford:—
“My first acquaintance with Elizabeth Barrett commenced about fifteen years ago. She was certainly one of the most interesting persons that I had ever seen. Everybody who then saw her said the same; so that it is not merely the impression of my partiality or my enthusiasm. 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. Through the kindness of another invaluable friend, to whom I owe many obligations, but none so great as this, I saw much of her during my stay in town. We met so constantly and so familiarly that, in spite of the difference of age, intimacy ripened into friendship, and after my return into the country, we corresponded freely and frequently, her letters being just what letters ought to be—her own talk put upon paper.
“The next year was a painful one to herself and to all who loved her. She broke a blood-vessel upon the lungs, which did not heal. If there had been consumption in the family, that disease would have intervened. There were no seeds of the fatal English malady in her constitu- [p. 358→] tion, and she escaped. Still, however, the vessel did not heal, and after attending her for above a twelvemonth at her father’s house in Wimpole Street, Dr. Chalmers, on the approach of winter, ordered her to a milder climate. Her eldest brother, a brother in heart and in talent worthy of such a sister, together with other devoted relatives, accompanied her to Torquay, and there occurred the fatal event which saddened her bloom of youth, and gave a deeper hue of thought and feeling, especially of devotional feeling, to her poetry. I have so often been asked what could be the shadow that had passed over that young heart, and now that time has softened the first agony it seems to me right that the world should hear the story of an accident in which there was much sorrow, but no blame.
“Nearly a twelvemonth had passed, and the invalid, still attended by her affectionate companions, had derived much benefit from the mild sea breezes of Devonshire. One fine summer morning her favourite brother, together with two other fine young men, his friends, embarked on board a small sailing-vessel for a trip of a few hours. Excellent sailors all, and familiar with the coast, they sent back the boatmen, and undertook themselves the management of the little craft. Danger was not dreamt of by any one; after the catastrophe no one could divine the cause, but in a few minutes after their embarkation, and in sight of their very windows, just as they were crossing the bar, the boat went down, and all who were in her perished. Even the bodies were never found. I was told by a party who were travelling that year in Devonshire and Cornwall, that it was most affecting to see on the corner houses of every village street, on every church door, and almost on every cliff for miles and miles along the coast, handbills, offering large rewards for linen cast ashore marked with the initials of the beloved dead; for it so chanced that all the three were of the dearest and the best; one, I believe, an only son, the other the son of a widow.
“This tragedy nearly killed Elizabeth Barrett. She was utterly prostrated by the horror and the grief, and by a natural but a most unjust feeling that she had been in some sort the cause of this great misery. It was not until the following year that she could be removed in an invalid carriage, and by journeys of twenty miles a day, to her afflicted family and her London home. The house that she occupied at Torquay had been chosen as one of the most sheltered in the place. It stood at the bottom of the cliffs almost close to the sea; and she told me herself that during that whole winter the sound of the waves rang in her ears like the moans of one dying. Still she clung to literature and to Greek; in all probability she would have died without that wholesome diversion to her thoughts. Her medical attendant did not always understand this. To prevent the remonstrances of her friendly physician, Dr. Barry, she caused a small edition of Plato to be so bound as to resemble a novel. He did not know, skilful and kind though he were, that to her such books were not an arduous and painful study, but a consolation and a delight.
“Returned to London, she began the life which she continued for so many years, confined to one large and commodious but darkened chamber, admitting only her own affectionate family and a few devoted friends (I myself have often joyfully travelled five-and-forty miles to see her, and returned the same evening without entering another house); reading almost every book worth reading in almost every language, and giving herself heart and soul to that poetry of which she seemed born to be the priestess.”
Poetry has thus been a serious pursuit with Mrs. Browning, while it has also been a source of deep pleasure. But if one asks the meaning of the sad wail which runs through her writings—like the moan of a lost seraph—then contemplate the great fact of her life, its prolonged pain and sickness, and we think it will furnish the adequate explanation and meaning. Her poetry is throughout earnest, and full of deep feeling. She herself has said in the preface to one edition of her poems,—“Poetry has been to me as serious a thing as life itself—and life has been a very serious thing; there has been no playing at skittles for me in either. 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,—not as mere hand and head work, apart from the personal being,—but as the completest expression of that being, to which I could attain,—and as work I offer it to the public,—feeling its shortcomings more deeply than any of my readers, because measured from the height of my aspiration,—but feeling also that the reverence and sincerity with which the work was done should give it some protection with the reverent and sincere.”
Mrs. Browning may therefore be regarded as not merely a singer, but eminently a poet of purpose. A deep current of religion, sometimes we might regard it as religious melancholy, pervades most of her poetry. The first pieces which she published were Margret and The Poet’s Vow, which appeared in a periodical; and her first volume, published in 1838, contained The Seraphim and other shorter poems; in all of which an obvious purpose was apparent. Thus in Margret, the truth was exhibited that the creature cannot be sustained by the creature; in The Poet’s Vow, she teaches the great truth that the sympathies of humanity are the fountains of beauty, and that no atmosphere of external loveliness can keep alive the poetry whose roots are not nourished by the springs of loving-kindness in the heart. The Seraphim was a religious poem, in which the lofty subject of the Crucifixion is approached in a most reverent spirit, for it is one before which angels may veil their wings. But with its many bursts of delicious music, its rich imagery, its occasional great force, and the beautifully tender distinction which the poet draws between the nature of the two angelic witnesses of the tremendous mysteries of Calvary,—this poem was, nevertheless, felt, we believe, by the authoress herself, to be a failure. It was loose in texture, sometimes capricious in r[h]ythm, and frequently obscure in meaning.
But she was a conscientious and diligent labourer, and she went onward with increased power. The Vision of Poets, and other poems shortly after published, showed a wider sweep and a bolder wing. This noble woman, confined to her sick-chamber for years, for the most part confined to her bed by actual illness, nevertheless devoted herself to the unwearied pursuit of truth and excellence, making of her couch of pain the very seedground for the highest and noblest thoughts. Thus shut out from actual intercourse with the world, she was left to feed upon her own thoughts; and books being her almost only companions, she was necessarily led to adopt their language, which subjected her to the charge (made by those who did not know her) of being somewhat of a pedant and a bookworm. The Quarterly Review, who proposed to make a wreath of our English poetesses, commenced with Mrs. Norton as “The Rose, or, if she like it, Love-lies-a-bleeding,” and Miss Barrett as “Greek Valerian, or Ladder to Heaven, or, if she pleases, Wild Angelica.” Notwithstanding, however, all that Miss Barrett might glean from books, she, nevertheless, projected herself into all her poems, which, with all their occasional ruggedness, apparent affectation, and as some have called it Carlylism, were yet full of vigour, originality, and true poetic beauty. They were withal pervaded by the tenderness and delicacy of a noble woman’s heart. Speaking of the spirit in which she wrote A Vision of Poets, she herself has said:—
“I have endeavoured to indicate the necessary relations [p. 359→] of genius to suffering and self-sacrifice. In the eyes of the living generation, the poet is at once a richer and poorer man than he used to be; he wears better broadcloth, but speaks no more oracles; and the evil of his social incrustation over a great idea is eating deeper and more fatally into our literature than either readers or writer may apprehend fully. I have attempted to express in this poem my view of the mission of the poet, of the self-abnegation implied in it, of the great work involved in it, of the duty and glory of what Balzac has beautifully and truly called ‘la patience angélique du génie;’ and of the obvious truth, above all, that if knowledge is power, suffering should be acceptable as a part of knowledge.”
Here spoke the sick poet from her sick-bed. It is not cheerful, perhaps it is not quite true. In an age which has given us Southey, Shelley, Byron, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats, Tennyson, Bailey, Mrs. Browning herself, and other great and true poets, it does not become us to bewail the decadence of poetry. And with respect to suffering, though it is well to bear it patiently and bravely, not writhing nor querulously murmuring against it, still suffering is, after all, a hindrance, an imperfection, and an evil to be got rid of. Though Shelley’s line,—
We learn in suffering what we teach in song,
is very often quoted in proof of Mrs. Browning’s theory, yet suffering is by no means to be regarded as the best school for a poet, or for anybody else. We draw no true inspiration from pain; it may discipline us, but it is not beautiful, nor a source of beauty. It may teach us to wrestle with our own weak hearts, but we do not see how it can promote the culture of the poetic powers and faculties. Can we learn gladness in prostration—music in groans—beauty in distortion? No, no! Mrs. Browning has pushed her theory too far. It is rather the spirit of love, of cheerfulness, of beauty, and of health, in which the true poet finds his best nourishment. At the same time, it is a beautiful sight to see a poor life-long sufferer like this poet rise above her personal sufferings, and convert her crown of thorns into a circlet of glory and beauty.
The Drama of Exile and other poems next followed. The Drama is Mrs. Browning’s most ambitious work. In venturing upon a theme that had already been handled so divinely by Milton in Paradise Lost, and so powerfully by Byron in Cain, she certainly took a bold step, almost a daring one. The Drama of Exile is, however, a very fine poem, full of beauties. It has been highly praised in many quarters; but the voice of the critics is by no means unanimous. The Westminster Review regarded it as “among the least successful of her efforts;” and the British Quarterly also speaks somewhat disparagingly of it, though admitting “its singularly varied merits—the very good and the very bad style which distinguishes it.” The character of Eve seems to us very fine, indicating the true woman’s hand; and the spirit of the whole is pure and elevated. But her style is often crabbed, and wanting in simplicity. She has a way of putting adjectives and nouns together in the Carlylian style, which makes her lines sometimes jerk and halt in an odd way, while the force of meaning which was intended is not given. Thus we have such new words as “God-breath,” “fire-hearts,” “soul-wings,” “child-mouth,” “shadow-claws,” which in our opinion detract from the simple force of poetry. Shakspere, Milton, Byron, and Burns wrote the strongest poetry, without needing to compound words to convey their meaning, after the manner of the Germans. There was an abounding well of English undefiled ready at their hand, and if it answered all their purposes, why coin new-fangled words now, which neither suit our English tastes, nor help our English understandings? But there are many detached passages in the Drama of Exile which show that Mrs. Browning possesses a full command over the purest and best English,—making us lament the more, that she should in so many cases have departed from the purer and better style. Take the following magnificent passage, descriptive of the effects of “The Fall” on the animal creation, which the greatest of English poets would be proud to own:—
On a mountain-peak
Half sheathed in primal woods, and glittering
In spasms of awful sunshine, at that hour
A lion couched—part raised upon his paws,
And his calm massive face turned full on thine.
* * * When the ended curse
Left silence in the world—right suddenly
He sprang up rampant, and stood straight and stiff,
As if the new reality of death
Were dashed against his eyes—and roared so fierce—
Such thick carnivorous passion in his throat
Tearing a passage through the wrath and fear—
And roared so wild, and smote from all the hills
Such fast keen echoes crumbling down the vales
Precipitately—that the forest beasts,
One after one, did mutter a response
In savage and in sorrowful complaint
Which trailed along the gorges.
In the preface to the Drama of Exile Miss Barrett spoke modestly of her estimate of this work, observing “If it were not presumptuous language on the lips of one to whom life is more than usually uncertain, my favourite wish for this work would be, that it be received by the public as a step in the right track towards a future indication of more value and acceptability. I would fain do better—and I feel as if I might do better—I aspire to do better.” And, indeed, she had already done better, though she herself knew it not; for authors are not always the best judges of their own works. But we believe there are not two opinions as to the great superiority of some of Mrs. Browning’s minor poems to her Drama of Exile. Bertha in the Lane is one of them—a tribute to the noble disinterestedness of woman, unrivalled in pathetic beauty. The Cry of the Children is also a poem of wonderful force, and will always form a worthy companion-piece to Hood’s Song of the Shirt, losing nothing by the comparison. It is full of a thrilling energy of thought, clothed in simple nervous language. Amongst her other best poems we would particularly make mention of The Romaunt of the Page, which rings out like a trumpet-strain, The Rhyme of the Duchess May, Little Ellie [“The Romance of the Swan’s Nest”], Catarina to Camoens, Crowned and Buried, The Dead Pan, a grand echo from the old Greeks; and The Lady Geraldine’s Courtship. This last poem seems to have been suggested by Tennyson’s Locksley Hall, and somewhat resembles it, but is wanting in its music. Some of its best verses are injured by serious flaws. She introduces railway locomotives into one stanza, as “resonant steam-eagles” (in another poem she speaks of horses as “ground-eagles”), and these said locomotives are engaged in “trailing on a thundrous vapour underneath the starry vigils.” Nevertheless, the poem is a fine poem, though not (as some regard it) her best. It is impetuous and passionate, and the action is carried forward with immense vehemence. Were it within a quotable compass, we would prefer giving it as probably the most characteristic specimen of Mrs. Browning’s peculiar powers and genius.
According to Miss Mitford, the Lady Geraldine was composed with great rapidity, under the following circumstances:—There wanted a further quantity of “copy” to make up the letter-press of the second volume, in order to complete the uniformity of the two-volume edition; and whatever further copy might be supplied for this purpose must be composed in time to catch the vessel that was to carry the proofs to America, where the edition was also to appear. Under these circumstances, Mrs. Browning (then Miss Barrett) set to work and wrote out the Lady Geraldine in twelve hours. As Miss Mitford observes, “The delicious ballad must have been lying [p. 360→] unborn in her head and in her heart; but when we think of its length and of its beauty, the shortness of time in which it was put into form appears one of the most stupendous efforts of the human mind,—as the writer was a delicate woman, a confirmed invalid, just dressed and supported for two or three hours from her bed to her sofa, and so back again. Let me add, too, that the exertion might have been avoided by a new arrangement of the smaller poems, if Miss Barrett would only have consented to place Pan is Dead at the end of the first volume instead of the second. The difference does not seem much. But she had promised Mr. Kenyon that Pan is Dead should conclude the collection: and Mr. Kenyon was out of town and could not release her word. To this delicate conscientiousness we owe one of the most charming love stories in any language.”
Shortly after, Miss Barrett contracted an intimacy with Mr. Browning, the accomplished author of Paracelsus; and it grew into a mutual affection, and was shortly consummated by a marriage. Strange to say, the invalid was suddenly restored to the world, as if by magic. She left her sick-chamber, and walked abroad with her husband. In ancient times people would have cried out “A miracle” at less. The newly-married pair went to Pisa and Florence, where they have since mostly lived, and there Mrs. Browning composed her last beautiful poem, entitled Casa Guidi Windows. We will only quote a further sentence from Miss Mitford, who said, writing in 1851, “This summer I have had the exquisite pleasure of seeing her (Mrs. Browning) once more in London, with a lovely boy at her knee, almost as well as ever, and telling tales of Italian rambles, of losing herself in chestnut forests, and scrambling on mule-back up the sources of extinct volcanoes. May heaven continue to her such health and such happiness.”
Reviewed:
Review Essay (EBB).
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