Author: EBB

March 5, 1845.

But I did not mean to strike a ‘tragic chord’; indeed I did not! Sometimes one’s melancholy will be uppermost and sometimes one’s mirth, — the world goes round, you know — and I suppose that in that letter of mine the melancholy took the turn. As to ‘escaping with my life,’ it was just a phrase — at least it did not signify more than that the sense of mortality, and discomfort of it, is peculiarly strong with me when east winds are blowing and waters freezing. For the rest, I am essentially better, Continue reading “#12”

50 Wimpole Street: Feb. 27, 1845.

Yes, but, dear Mr. Browning, I want the spring according to the new ‘style’ (mine), and not the old one of you and the rest of the poets. To me unhappily, the snowdrop is much the same as the snow — it feels as cold underfoot — and I have grown sceptical about ‘the voice of the turtle,’ the east winds blow so loud. April is a Parthian with a dart, and May (at least the early part of it) a spy in the camp. That is my idea of what you call spring; mine, in the new style! A little later comes my spring; and indeed after such severe weather, from which I have just escaped with my life, I may thank it for coming at all. Continue reading “#10”

50 Wimpole Street, February 17, 1845.

Dear Mr. Browning, — To begin with the end (which is only characteristic of the perverse like myself), I assure you I read your handwriting as currently as I could read the clearest type from font. If I had practised the art of reading your letters all my life, I couldn’t do it better. And then I approve of small MS. upon principle. Think of what an immense quantity of physical energy must go to the making of those immense sweeping handwritings achieved by some persons  . . . Continue reading “#8”

50 Walpole Street: Feb. 3, 1845.

Why how could I hate to write to you, dear Mr. Browning? Could you believe in such a thing? If nobody likes writing to everybody (except such professional letter writers as you and I are not), yet everybody likes writing to somebody, and it would be strange and contradictory if I were not always delighted both to hear from you and to write to you, this talking upon paper being as good a social pleasure as another, when our means are somewhat straitened. As for me, Continue reading “#6”

50 Wimpole Street: Jan. 15, 1845.

Dear Mr. Browning, — The fault was clearly with me and not with you.

When I had an Italian master, years ago, he told me that there was an unpronounceable English word which absolutely expressed me, and which he would say in his own tongue, as he could not in mine — ‘testa lunga.’ Of course, the signor meant headlong! — and now I have had enough to tame me, and might be expected to stand still in my stall. But you see I do not. Headlong I was at first, and headlong I continue — precipitously rushing forward through all manner of nettles and briars instead of keeping the path; guessing at the meaning of unknown words instead of looking into the dictionary — tearing open letters, and never untying a string, — and expecting everything to be done in a minute, and the thunder to be as quick as the lightning. Continue reading “#4”

50 Wimpole Street: Jan. 11, 1845.

I thank you, dear Mr. Browning, from the bottom of my heart. You meant to give me pleasure by your letter — and even if the object had not been answered, I ought still to thank you. Continue reading “#2”