Life of Robert Browning

etic period, lying, like a fading flower, for hours, for days continuously, in a darkened room in a London house. So ill was Miss Elizabeth Barrett, early i

uisite songs lay on her invalid's sofa, dreaming of things which, as she thought, might never be, all that was loveliest in her life was fast approaching - though, like all jo

rrett Browning. The particulars of it are familiar to all who love English literature: for there is, in truth, not much to tell - not much, at least, that

e note in Table of Con

tle boy was often wont to listen eagerly to his father's narrative of the same hero, and to all the moving tale of Troy. It is significant that these two children, so far apart, both with the light of the future upon their brows, grew up in familiarity with something of the antique beauty. It was a lifelong joy to both,

ath, a mysterious disaster, for the foundering of the little yacht `La Belle Sauvage' is almost as inexplicable as that of the `Ariel' in the Spezzian waters b

ly familiar when her "Cry of the Children" rang like a clarion throughout the country. The poem was founded upon an official report by Richard Hengist Horne, the friend whom some years previously she had won in correspondence, and

nt "cousin", John Kenyon - a jovial, genial, gracious, and altogether delightful man, who acted the part of Providence to many troubled souls, and, in particular, was "a fairy godfather" to Elizabeth Barrett and to "the other poet", as he used to call Browning. It was t

wealth of the "Bells and Pomegranates", among which she then and always cared most for the penultimate volume, the

Pomegranate' which, if c

blood-tinctured, of

"New Spirit of the Age", and he has himself told us "that the mottoes, which are singularly happy and appropriate, were for the most part supplied by Miss Barrett

ets became anxious to know each other. "We artists

brought about by Kenyon. This common friend had been a schoolfellow of Browning's father, and so it was natural that he took a more than ordinary interest in the brilliant yo

d an unbounded admiration for Miss Barrett. To her, he was even then the chief living poet. She

yes, mind, and heart - each striving for supremacy, till all were gratified equally in a common jo

eet as Spring, as Ocean deep." She, too, was always, as she wrote of Harriet Martineau, in a hopeless anguish of body and serene triumph of spirit. As George Sand says of one of her fictitious personages, she was an "artist to the backbone; that is, one who feels life with frightful intensity." To this too keen intensity of feeling must be attributed something of that longing

ce and precept so commonly exemplified. Comely in all respects, with his black-brown wavy hair, finely-cut features, ready and winsome smile, alert luminous eyes, quick, spontaneous, expressive gestures - an inclination of the head, a lift of the eyebrows, a modulation of the lips, an assertive or deprecatory wave of the hand, conveying so much - and a voice at t

rase, I must perforce call his intensely alive hand. I remember once how a lady, afflicted with nerves, in the dubious enjoyment of her first experience of a "literary afternoon", rose hurriedly and, in reply to her hostess' inquiry as to her motive, explained that she could not sit any longer beside the elderly gentleman who was

e belittling the great man as "quite too `loud', painfully excessive." Browning was manly enough to laugh at all ghoulish cries of any kind whatsoever. Once in a way the lion would look round and by a raised breath make the jackals wriggle; as when the poet wrote to a correspondent, who had drawn his attention to certain a

ng's song, nor less keenly attracted by his strenuous and fearless outlook, his poetic practicality, and even by his bluntness

lieve life'

probe of ch

te imaginings, to know that he was of those

not their br

ght be in some

t be other t

not what he s

s slow proof to

ise of to-morrow,' he was at the same time suprem

her that he kept his eyes fixed on the goal beyond the way he followed: it did not matter that he was bl

by a third - and then? When we know not, but ere long, e

h ardent democratic sentiments and a detestation of all forms of iniquity. Nor did he understand the poet. He could read his daughter's flowing verse with pleasure, but there was to his ear a mere jumble of sound and sense in much of the work of the author of "The

was not advisable that it should be long delayed, if to happen at all, for the health of Miss B

and after having dwelt on the gloom and peril of another winter in London, dwelt on the magic of Italy, and concluded by inviting Miss Barrett to accompany her in her own imminent departure for abroad. The p

aunt's departure, a little note of farewell arrived from Miss Barrett, "deploring the writer's inability to

t Browning to the effect that he AND HIS WIFE had just come from London, on their way to Italy. "My aunt's surprise was something almos

it "pride in his word": others recognised it as the very arrogance of obstinacy. He refused to countenance the marriage in any way, refused to have Browning's name mentioned

gave her, held no communication with her even when she became a mother, and did not mention her in his will. It is needless to say anythin

and Elizabeth Barrett had unceremoniously stepped into St. Mary-le-bone Church and there been married. So secret had the matter been kept th

the hotel for the quieter `pension' in the Rue Ville d'Eveque, where she and Mrs. Macpherson were staying.

s, and added, "Both excellent: but God help them! for I know not how the two poet heads and poet hearts will get on through this prosaic world." This kindly friend was not the only person who experienced simila

t that they seem never to have had one hour of dissa

They passed southward, and after some novel experiences in `diligences', reached Avignon, where they rested for a couple of days. Thence a little expedition, a poetical pilgrimage, was made to Vaucluse, sacred to the memory of Petrarch and Laura. There, as Mrs. Macpherson has told us, at the very source of the

ays longer. So wonderful was the change wrought in Mrs. Browning by happiness, and by all the enfranchisement her marriage meant for her, that, as her friend wrote to Miss Mitford, "she is not merely improved but

ply pathetic in her conscious joy. So little actual experience of life had been hers that in many respects she was as a child: and she had all the child's yearning for those unsullied hours that never come when once they are missed. But it was not till love un

us

h, Beloved, -

moods of men

pure spirits

and and love

nd the death-ho

me from the lips of either. That love knew no soilure in the passage of the years. Like the flame of oriental legend, it was perennially incandescent though fed not otherwise than by sunlight and moonshine. If it alone surviv

man could have written, which no other woman than his wife could have composed. From the time when it had first dawned upon her that love was to be hers, and that the laurel of poetry was not

s of Carrara, or quiescent in a deep autumnal calm broken only by the slow wash of Arno along the sea-mossed long-deserted quays - showed her love-poems to her husband. With what love and pr

thee? Let me

the depth and b

ach, when feel

of Being an

o the level o

ed, by sun an

eely, as men s

ely, as they tu

ith the passi

, and with my ch

ith a love I

ts, - I love thee

all my life! - a

ve thee better

him more than these two exquisite lines, with their

ave for thy sak

ew of heaven for

the Lanfranchi Palace "to walk in the footsteps of Byron and Shelley": occasionally they went to Vespers in the Duomo, and listened, rapt, to the music wandering spirally through the vast solitary building: once they were fortunate in hearin

y, so full of repose as i

most leapt, so swift was

etter every day,"

onderfully, and bey

" But early in April, when the swallows had flown inland above the pines of Viareggio, and Shelley's favourite little Aziola was hoot

d. The change to Florence was a welcome one to both. Browning had already been there, but to his wife it was as the fulfilment of a dream. They did not at fi

sea, Ancona is in summer time almost insufferably hot. Instead of finding it cooler than Florence, it was as though they had leapt right into a cauldron. Allu

ing wrote one of the loveliest of his short poems, "The Guardian Angel", which had its origin in Guercino's picture in the chapel at Fano. By the allusions in the sixth and eighth stanzas it is clear that the poem was inscribed to Alfred Domett, the poet's well-loved friend immortalised as "Waring". Doubtless it was written for no other reason than the urgency of song, for in it are the loving allusions to his wife, "MY angel with me too," and "my love is here." Thr

ook up thither

r opes, like th

ave thy gracio

od! And wilt t

ay, like his, m

up to pray, an

there, with thy

.

orldly wrong wo

hould view the

once again my

ing, with such

d has made it!

is, is love, a

ay be sought f

t she felt so sure of herself in her new strength that it was decided to adventure upon at least one winter in the queen-city. They were fortunate in obtaining a residence

adowed "The Ring and the Book", and there, in the many years he dwelt in Casa Guidi, he wrote some of his finer shorter poems. There, also, "Aurora Leigh" was born, and many a lyric fresh with the dew of genius. Who has not looked at the old sunworn house and failed to think of that night w

lence. Here one day they received a letter from Horne. There is nothing of particular note in Mrs. Browning's reply, and yet there are not a few of her poems we would miss rather than these chance words - delicate outlines left for the reader to fill in: "We were reading your letter, together, on our little terrace - walking up and down rea

ainst possible chills, the other bare-headed and with loosened coat, walked slowly to and fro in the

ut the terrace-

tall datura, w

d there, wanting

y small, very slight woman, with very long curls drooping forward, almost across the eyes, hanging to the bosom, and quite concealing the pale, small face, from which the piercing inquiring eyes looked out sensitively at the stranger. Rising from her chair, she put out cordially the thin white hand of an invali

ownings to Vallombrosa for a couple of days, greatly to Mrs. Browning's delight, for whom

all, she and her maid being turned away by the monks "for the sin of womanhood." She was too much of an invalid to climb the steeper heights, but loved to lie under the great chestnuts u

, from Americans that w

eir life at Casa Guidi

Hawthorne, George Stillma

however, for bu

especial haunt for poets. The dark shadows and subdued light gave it a dreary look, which was enhanced by the tapestry-covered walls, and the old pictures of saints that looked out sadly from their carved frames of black wood. Large bookcases constructed of specimens of Florentine carving selected by Mr. Browning were brimming over with wise-looking books. Tables were covered with more gaily-bound volumes, the gifts of brother authors. Dante's grave profile, a cast of Keats's face and brow taken after death, a pen-and-ink sketch of Tennyson, the genial face of John Kenyon, Mrs. Browning's good friend and relative, little paintings of the boy Browning, all attracted the eye in turn, and gave rise to a tho

wning in her "ideal chamber", neither a library nor a sitting-room, but a happy blending of both, with the numerous old paintings in antique Florentine frames, easy-chairs an

was fascinated by Mrs. Browning. Again and again he alludes to her exceeding spirituality: "She is a soul of fire enclosed in a shell of pearl:" her frame "the transparent veil for a celestial and