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”