[Footnote 5:  R.H.  Horne, Letters of E.B.  Browning, i. 164.]

It was during the years at Hope End that Elizabeth Barrett was first attacked by serious illness.  ‘At fifteen,’ she says in her autobiographical letter, already quoted in part, ‘I nearly died;’ and this may be connected with a statement by Mrs. Richmond Ritchie, to the effect that ’one day, when Elizabeth was about fifteen, the young girl, impatient for her ride, tried to saddle her pony alone, in a field, and fell with the saddle upon her, in some way injuring her spine so seriously that she was for years upon her back.’[6] The latter part of this statement cannot indeed be quite accurate; for her period of long confinement to a sick-room was of later date, and began, according to her own statement, from a different cause.  Mr. R. Barrett Browning states that the injury to the spine was not discovered for some time, but was afterwards attributed, not to a fall, but to a strain whilst tightening her pony’s girths.  No doubt this injury contributed towards the general weakness of health to which she was always subject.

[Footnote 6:  Dict. of Nat.  Biography, vii. 78.]

Of her earliest letters, belonging to the Hope End period, very few have been preserved, and most of those which remain are of little interest.  The first to be printed here belongs to the period of her mother’s last illness, which ended in her death on October 1, 1828.  It is addressed to Mrs. James Martin, a lifelong friend, whose name will appear frequently in these pages.  At the time when it was written she was living near Tewkesbury, within visiting distance of the Barretts.

To Mrs. Martin Hope End:  Thursday, [about September 1828].

My dear Mrs. Martin,—­I am happy to be able to tell you that Mr. Garden was here two days ago, and that he has not thought it necessary to adopt any violent measure with regard to our beloved invalid.  He seems entirely to rely, for her ultimate restoration, upon a discipline as to diet, and a course of strengthening medicine.  This is most satisfactory to us; and her spirits have been soothed and tranquillised by his visit.  She has slept quietly for the last few nights, and reports herself to be brisker and stronger, and to be comparatively free from pain.  This account is, perhaps, too favorable,[7] and will appear so to you when you see her, as I am afraid you will, not looking much better, much more cheerful, than when you paid us your last visit.  But when we are very willing to hope, we are apt to be too ready to hope:  though really, without being too sanguine, we may consider quiet nights and diminished pain to be satisfactory signs of amendment.  I know you will be glad to hear of them, and I hope you will witness them very soon, in spite of this repulsive snow.  It will do mama good, and I am sure it will give us all pleasure, to benefit by some of your charitable pilgrimages over the hill.