Month: May 2018

[Postmark: May 6, 1846]

But my own only beloved, I surely did not speak too
‘ insistingly ‘ yesterday. I shrank from your question as
you put it, because you put it wrong. If you had asked
me instead, whether I meant to keep my promise to you, I
would have answered ‘ yes ‘ without hesitation : but the
form you chose, referred to you more than to me, and was
indeed and indeed a foolish form of a question, my own
dearest ! For the rest . . ah, you do not see my innermost
nature, . . you ! — you are happily too high, and cannot
see into it . . cannot perceive how the once elastic spring
is broken with the long weights ! . . you wonder that it
should drop, when you, who lifted it up, do not hold it up !
you cannot understand ! . you wonder ! And I wonder
too . . on the other side ! I wonder how I can feel
happy and alive . . as I can, through you ! how I can turn
my face toward life again . . as I can, for you ! . . and
chiefly of all, how I can ever imagine . . as I do, sometimes
. . that such a one as you, may be happy perhaps with such
a one as I ! . . happy !

Do not judge me severely, you, to whom I have given
both hands, for your own uses and ends ! — you, who are
more to me than I can be to you, even by your own state-
ment — better to me than life . . or than death even, as
death seemed to me before I knew you.

Certainly I love you enough, and trust you enough, if
you knew what God knows. Yet, . . ‘ now hear me.’ I
shall not be able to please you, I think, by a firm continued
belief of this engagement’s being justifiable, until the event
wholly has justified it . . I mean, . . until I shall see you
not less happy for having lived near me for six months or a
year — should God’s mercy permit such justification. Do
not blame me. I cannot help it . . I would, if I could,
help it. Every time you say, as in this dearest letter, ever
dearest, that you have been happy on such a day through
being with me, I have a new astonishment— it runs
through me from head to feet . . I open my eyes astonished,
whenever my sun rises in the morning, as if I saw an angel in
the sun. And I do see him, in a sense. Ah — if you make
a crime to me of my astonishments, it is all over indeed ! can
I help it, indeed ? So forgive me ! let it not be too great a
wrong to be covered by a pardon. Think that we are different,
you and I — and do not think that I would send you
to ‘ money and worldly advancement ‘ . . do not think so
meanly of my ambition for you.

Dearest dearest ! — do you ever think that I could fail to
you ? Do you doubt for a moment, ever . . ever, . . that
my hand might peradventure ‘ shake less ‘ in being loosed
from yours ? Why, it might — and would ! Dead hands
do not shake at all, — and only so, could my hand be loosed
from yours through a failing on my part. It is your hand,
while you hold it : while you choose to hold it, and while it
is a living hand.

Do you know what you are to me, . . you ? We talk of
the mild weather doing me good . . of the sun doing me
good . . of going into the air as a means of good ! Have
you done me no good, do you fancy, in loving me and lift-
ing me up ? Has the unaccustomed divine love and tender-
ness been nothing to me ? Think ! Mrs. Jameson says
earnestly . . said to me the other day . . that ‘ love was
only magnetism.’ And I say in my heart, that, magnet or
no magnet, I have been drawn back into life by your means
and for you . . that I see the dancing mystical lights which .
are seen through the eyelids . . and I think of you with an
unspeakable gratitude always — always ! No other could
have done this for me — it was not possible, except by you.

But, no— do not, beloved, wish the first days here again.
You saw your way better in them than I did. I had too
bitter feelings sometimes : they looked to me like an
epigram of destiny ! as if ‘ He who sitteth on high should
laugh her to scorn — should hold her in derision ‘ — as why
not ? My best hope was that you should be my friend after
all. We will not have them back again . . those days !
And in these, you do not love me less but more } Would it
be strange to thank you ? I feel as if I ought to thank you!

I have written, written, and have more to write, yet must
end here now. The letter I wrote this morning and gave to
my sister to leave in the post, she was so naughty as to forget,
and has been well scolded as a consequence ; but the scold-
ing did not avail, I fear, to take the letter to you to-night ;
there is no chance Mrs. Jameson came to-day when I
was engaged with Lady Margaret Cocks and I could not
see her — and Mr. Kenyon came, when I could see him and
was glad. I am tired with my multitude of visitors — oh, so
tired !

Why are you melancholy, dear, dearest ? Was it my
fault ? could that be ? no — you were unwell, I think . . I
fear. Say how you are ; and believe that you may answer
your own questions, for that I never can fail to you. If
two persons have one will on a matter of that sort, they
need not be thwarted here in London — so answer your own
questions.

Wholly and ever yours I am.

[Postmark: May 6, 1846]

Dearest, it has just come into my head that I should
like to carry this letter to the post myself — but no, I shall
not be able. Probably the post is far out of reach, and
even if it were within reach, my grand scheme of walking
in the street is scarcely a possible thing to-day, for I must
keep watch in the house from two till five for Lady
Margaret Cocks, an old friend of mine, who was kind to
me when I was a child, in the country, and has not for-
gotten me since, when, two months in the year, she has
been in the habit of going to London. A good, worthy
person, with a certain cultivation as to languages and
literature, but quite manquée on the side of the imagination
. . talking of the poets, as a blind woman of colours,
calling ‘ Pippa Passes ‘ ‘ pretty and odd,’ and writing herself
‘ poems ‘ in heaps of copy books which every now and then
she brings to show me … ‘ odes ‘ to Hope and Patience
and all the cardinal virtues, with formulas of ‘ Begin my
muse’ in the fashion ended last century. She has helped
to applaud and scold me since I could walk and write
verses ; and when I was so wicked as to go to dissenting
chapels besides, she reproached me with tears in her eyes ;
but they were tears of earnest partizanship, and not of affec-
tion for me, . . she does not love me after all, nor guess at
my heart, and I do not love her, I feel. Woe to us ! for
there are good and unlovable people in the world, and we
cannot help it for our lives.

In the midst of writing which, comes the Leeds Miss
Heaton, who used to send me those long confidential letters
à faire frémir, and beg me to call her ‘ Ellen,’ and as this is
the second time that she has sent up her card, in an acci-
dental visit to London, I thought I would be good-natured
for once, and see her. An intelligent woman, with large
black eyes and a pleasant voice, and young . . manners
provincial enough, for the rest, and talking as if the world
were equally divided between the ‘ Congregationalists ‘ and
the ‘ Churchpeople.’ She assured me that ‘ Dr. Vaughan
was very much annoyed ‘ at the article on my poems which
‘ crept ‘ into his review, and that it was fully intended to
recant at length on the first convenient oppojtunity. ‘ And
really,’ she said, ‘ it seems to me that you have as many
admirers among churchmen as among dissenters.’ ! There’s
glory ! — and I kept my countenance. Lost it though, five
minutes afterwards, when she observed pathetically, that a
‘ friend of hers who had known Mr. Browning quite inti-
mately, had told her he was an infidel . . . more’s the pity,
when he has such a genius.’ I desired the particular information
of your intimate friend, a little more warmly perhaps
than was necessary, . . but what could be expected of me,
I wonder ?

I shall write again to you to-night, you know, and this is
enough for two o’clock. Now will you get my letter on this
Tuesday ? Do you think of me . . love me ? And are you
well to-day? The flowers look beautiful though you put
their heads into the water instead of their feet.

Your Ba.
Your Ba.

[Postmark: May 5, 1846]

Yes, you were right, my Ba — our meeting was on the
20th of last May : the next letter I received was the 14th
and that ran in my head, no doubt, yesterday. You must
have many such mistakes to forgive in me when I under-
take to talk and ‘ stare ‘ at the same time . . well for me if
they are no more serious mistakes !

I referred to my letters — and found much beside the
date to reflect on. I will tell you. Would it not be perilous
in some cases, — many cases — to contrast the present with
the very early Past : the first time, even when there is
abundant fruit, with the dewy springing and blossoming ?
One would confess to a regret at the vanishing of that
charm, at least, if it were felt to be somehow vanished out
of the present. And, looking upon our experience as if it
were another’s, — undoubtedly the peril seems doubled —
with that five months’ previous correspondence . . only
then, — after all the curiosity, and hope and fear, — the first
visit to come ! And after, — shortly after, — you know —
the heightened excitement that followed . . I should not
believe in the case of another, — or should not have believed,
— that the strange delight could last . . no more than I
should think it reasonable to wonder, or even grieve, that it
did not last — so long as other delights came in due succes-
sion. Now, hear the truth ! I never, God knows, felt
the joy of being with you as I felt it yesterday — the fruit
of my happiness has grown under the blossom, lifting it and
keeping it as a coronet — not one feeling is lost, and the new
feelings are infinite. Ah, my Ba, can you wonder if I seem
less inclined to see the adorable kindness in those pro-
visions, and suppositions, and allowances for escape, change
of mind &c., you furnish me with, — than to be struck at the
strange fancy which, as I said, insists on my being free to
leave off breathing vital air the moment it shall so please
me?

And when I spoke of ‘ dishonouring suppositions ‘ I had
not the faintest approximation to an idea of standing in your
eyes for a magnanimous keeper of promises, vow-observer,
and the rest. All that is profoundly pitiable ! But to
change none of my views of the good of this life and the
next, and yet to give up my love on the view (for instance)
which sees that good in money, or worldly advancement, —
what is that if not dishonouring ?

All the while, I know your thought, your purpose in it
all, — I believe and am sure — and I bless you from my
heart — you will soon know, what you have to know — I
believe, beforehand, I repeat.

I am rather out of spirits to-day — thus I feel toward
you when at all melancholy . . you would undo me in
withdrawing from me your help, undo me, I feel ! When,
as ordinarily, I am cheerful, I have precisely the same con-
viction. Does that prove nothing, my Ba ?

Well, I give up proving, or trying to prove anything—
from the beginning I abjured mere words — and now, much
more !

Let me kiss you, ever best and dearest ! My life is in
the hand you call ‘ mine,’ — if that hand would ‘ shake ‘ less
from letting it fall, I earnestly pray God may relieve you of
it nor ever let you be even aware of what followed your
relief ! For what should one live or die in this world ?

I am wholly yours —

Did I not meet two of your brothers yesterday in the
Hall ? Pray take care of this cold wind — be satisfied with
the good deeds of the last few days.

[Postmark: May 4, 1846]

When I said one more letter might come before to-morrow,
I forgot. How used I to manage in the early ‘ day
of small things ‘ — comparatively — when letters came once a
week at most, and yet I felt myself so rich, dearest !

I want you to remember, Ba, what I shall be nearly
sure to forget when closer to you than now ; tell me to-morrow.
If I chance to see Mrs. Jameson in the course of
the week what am I to say, — that is, what have you decided
on saying? Does she know that you write to me?
Because there is a point of simple good taste to be pre-
served . . I must not listen with indifference if I am told
that ‘ her friend Miss B.’ thought well of the last number.
But she must know we write, I think, — never make any
secret of that, when the subject is brought forward.

Here is warm May weather, my Ba ; I do not shiver by
sympathy as I fancy you going down-stairs. I shall hope
to see the sweet face look its . . now, what ? ‘ Best ‘ would
be altogether an impertinence, — unless you help my meaning,
which is ‘ best,’ too.

I received two days ago a number of the People’s
Journal — from our illustrious contemporary, Bennett!
Bennett figures where Barrett might have fronted the
world. Fact ! I will cut you out his very original lyric
— observe the felicitous emendation in the author’s own
blue ink . . that supplemental trochee makes a musical
line of it ! Mary Howitt follows with a pretty, washy, very
meritorious Lyric of Life. There is ‘ a guilty one ‘ — ‘ Name
her not ! ‘ ‘ Virtue turns aside for shame ‘

She was bom of guilty kin —
Her life’s course hath guilty been —
Unto school she never went —
And whate’er she learned was sin, —

Let Her Die !

And so on — what pure nonsense ! Who cries ‘ let her die ‘
in the whole world now ? thank God, nobody. The sin of
the world (of the lookers-on, not the causers of the wrong)
consists, in these days, in looking on and asking ‘ How can
we help her dying — or factory children’s dying — or evicted
Irish peasantry’s dying ? ‘ What ails these Howitts of a
sudden, that they purvey this kind of cat-lap, — they that
once did better ? William Howitt grinds here an article on
May day ; past human power of reading of course, but I
just noticed that not a venerablest commonplace was
excused on account of its age — the quotations from
Chaucer, Spenser, Herrick got once more into rank and
file with the affecting alacrity shown the other day at a
review of the Chelsea invalids ! Oh, William, ‘ Let them
die!’

So goodbye till to-morrow, my dearest. I love you and
bless you ever, and am your

R. B.

[Postmark: May 2, 1846]

No, my Ba, your letter came as it ought last night, — and
the promise it contained of another made me restless all the
morning — to no purpose, — nothing more comes— yet — for
there is a ‘ peradventure ‘ yet unwithdrawn. When I do not
hear from you, as now, I always fancy there was some
signal reason why I ought to have heard . . that ‘ to-morrow,’
I could better bear the not hearing . . though never, never
do yesterday’s letters slip by a hair’s breadth from the place in
my affection they once take, — they could not have been dis-
pensed with,— but the imaginary letter of to-morrow could,
by contrast with to-day’s exigencies . . till to-morrow really
comes and is found preferring such claims of its own — such
claims.

This letter I have got, and will try and love enough for
two . . I can do no harm by trying . . this I do not mean
to say that I expected. May I say ‘ in heart-playing,’ . . now,
Ba, it will be a fancy, which you can pounce on and poke
your humming-bird bill through, like a needle, in a very
‘ twinkling,’ and so shall my flower’s eye be ruined for ever,
and when it turns black and shrivels up as dead flowers do,
you can triumph and ask ‘ are these your best flowers, best
feelings for me ? ‘. But now, after this deprecation, you will
be generous and only hover above, using the diamond eye
rather than the needle-bill, — and I will go on and dare say
that I should like, for one half second, not to love you, and
then feel all the love lit up in a flame to the topmost height,
at the falling of such a letter on my heart. Don’t you know
that foolish boys sometimes play at hanging themselves—
suspend themselves by the neck actually for such a half second
as this of my fancying — that they may taste the luxury of catch-
ing back at existence, and being cut down again ? There is
a notable exemplification, a worthy simile ! It all comes,
I suppose, from the joy of being rid handsomely of my
dinners and in a fair way for Monday . . nothing between
but letters, — I shall continue to hope ! At sea it always
sounds pleasantly to hear . . after passing Cape This and
Isle the other, ‘ now, next land we make is— Italy, or England,
or Greece.’

Moxon told me Tennyson was still in Town. Switzerland ?
He is a fortnight going to wherever a Train takes
him — ‘for,’ says Moxon, ‘ he has to pack up, and is too late,
and next day ‘ . . I dare say he unaffectedly hates London
where this poco-curanteism would entail all manner of dis-
agreeabilities. If I caught rightly . . that is, now apply
rightly, a word or two I heard . . one striking celebrity at
Dickens’ Dinner was — Lord Chesterfield — literary, inasmuch
as a great ‘ maker up of books ‘ — for the Derby. Macready
may have been another personage — they, Tennyson and he,
may ‘ fadge,’ in Shakespearian phrase, if the writer of the
‘ Two Voices ‘ &c. considers Home’s ‘ Douglas ‘ exquisite
poetry, — otherwise, — it is a chance!

But with respect to your Brother . . first of all — nay,
and last of all, for it all is attributable to that — I feel his
kindness, in its way, as I feel yours ; as truly, according to
its degree and claim : but — ‘ now think what I would
speak ! ‘ — When he really does see me one day — no longer
embarrassed as under the circumstances I could not but
have been on these two or three occasions when we met — he
will find something better than conversational powers to
which I never pretended — and what he will accept in preference,
— a true, faithful desire of repaying his goodness —
he will find it, that is, because it must be there, and I have
confidence in such feelings making sooner or later their
way.

So now, at 2½ p.m., I must ( — here is the Post . . from you ?
Yes — the letter is here at last — I was waiting : — now to read;
no, kissing it comes first).

And now .. I will not say a word, my love of loves, my
dearest, dearest Ba, — not one word — but I will go out and
walk where I can be alone, and think out all my thought of
you, and bless you and love you with nothing to intercept
the blessing and the love. I will look in the direction of
London and send my heart there . . Dear, dear love, I kiss
you and commend you to God. Your very own —

I am very well — quite well, dearest.

[Postmark: May 2, 1846]

How you write to me ! Is there any word to answer to
these words . . which, when I have read, I shut my eyes as
one bewildered, and think blindly . . or do not think — some
feelings are deeper than the thoughts touch. My only
beloved, it is thus with me . . . I stand by a miracle in
your love, and because I stand in it and it covers me,
just for that, you cannot see me ! May God grant that you .
never see me — for then we two shall be ‘ happy ‘ as you say,
and I, in the only possible manner, be very sure. Mean-
while, you do quite well not to speculate about making me
happy . . your instinct knows, if you do not know, that it is
implied in your own happiness . . or rather (not to assume
a magnanimity) in my sense of your being happy, not apart
from me. As God sees me, and as I know at all the motions
of my own soul, I may assert to you that from the first moment
of our being to each other anything, I never conceived
of happiness otherwise . . never thought of being happy
through you or by you or in you, even — your good was all
my idea of good, and is, I hear women say sometimes of
men whom they love . . ‘ such a one will make me happy,
I am sure,’ or ‘ I shall be happy with him I think’ — or
again . . ‘ He is so good and affectionate that nobody need
be afraid for my happiness.’ Now, whether you like or dis-
like it, I will tell you that I never had such thoughts of you,
nor ever, for a moment, gave you that sort of praise. I do
not know why . . or perhaps I do . . but I could not so
think of you , . I have not time nor breath . . I could
as soon play on the guitar when it is thundering. So be
happy, my own dearest . . and if it should be worth a
thought that you cannot be alone, so, you may think that too.
You have so deep and intense a nature, that it were impossible
for you to love after the fashion of other men, weakly
and imperfectly, and your love, which comes out like your
genius, may glorify enough to make you happy, perhaps.
Which is my dream, my calculation rather, when I am happiest
now. May God bless you. Suppose I should ever
read in your eyes that you were not happy with me ? — can I
help, do you fancy, such thoughts ? Could you help being
not happy ? The very word ‘ unhappiness ‘ implies that you
cannot help it. Now forgive me my naughtiness, because I
love you, and never loved but you, . . and because I promise
not to go with Miss Bayley to Italy . . I promise. Ah —
If you could pretend to be afraid of that, indeed, I have a
right to be afraid, without pretence at all . . I who am a
woman and frightened of lightning. And see the absurdity.
If I did not go to Italy with you, the reason would be that
you did not choose — and if you did not choose, I should not
choose . . I would not see Italy without your eyes — could I,
do you think ? So if Miss Bayley takes me to Italy with a
volume of the Cyclic poets, it will be as a dead Ba clasped
up between the leaves of it. You talked of a ‘ Flora,’ you
remember, in the first letter I had from you.

How bad of William Howitt ! How right you are,
always ! Yet not quite always, dear dearest beloved, happily
for your own

Ba.

Say how you are I beseech you, and honestly ! I
was down-stairs to-day, since the wind changed, and am
the better for it. What writing for a postman ! — or for you
even !

[Postmark: May 1, 1846]

I go to you, my Ba, with heart full of love, so it seems,—
yet I come away always with a greater capacity of
holding love, — for there is more and still more, — that seems
too ! At the beginning, I used to say (most truly) that
words were all inadequate to express my feelings, — now,
those very feelings seem, as I see them from this present
moment, just as inadequate in their time to represent what
I am conscious of now. I do feel more, widelier, strangelier
. . how can I tell you ? You must believe, — my only,
only beloved ! I daresay I have said this before, because
it has struck me repeatedly, — and, judging by past experi-
ence, I shall need to say it again — and often again. Am I
really destined to pass my life sitting by you ? And you
speak of your hesitation at trusting in miracles ! Oh, my Ba,
my heart’s — well, Ba, I am so far guiltless of presumption,
let come what will, that I never for the moment cease to be
. . tremblingly anxious I will say, — and conscious that the
good is too great for me in this world. You do not like
one to write so, I know, but there is a safety in it — the
presumptuous walk blindfold among pits, to a proverb —
and no one shall record that of me. And if I have cares
and scruples of this kind at times, or at all times, I have
none where most other people would have very many. I
never ask myself, as perhaps I should, — ‘ Will she be happy
too ? ‘ — All that seems removed from me, far above my con-
cernment — she — you, my Ba . . will make me so entirely
happy, that it seems enough to know . . my palm-trees
grow well enough without knowing the cause of the sun’s
heat. Then I think again, that your nature is to make
happy and to bless, and itself to be satisfied with that. — So
instead of fruitless speculations how to give you back your
own gift, I will rather resolve to lie quietly and let your
dear will have its unrestricted way. All which I take up the
paper determining not to write, — for it is foolish, poor en-
deavour at best, but, — just this time it is written. May
God bless you —

R. B.

I called on Moxon, who is better, and reports cheeringly.
Then I went to my friend’s, and thence home, not much
tired. I have to go out (to-day) with my sister but only
next door. To-morrow I hear from you, love, and on
Monday — (unless a pressing engagement &c|. — ah!

What do you say to this little familiar passage in the
daily life of friend Howitt, — for which I am indebted to
Moxon. Howitt is book-making about Poets, it seems —
where they were born, how they live, ‘ what relation their
mothers’ sons are to their fathers ‘ — etc. In the prosecution
of this laudable object he finds his way to Ambleside, calls
on Wordsworth ‘ quite promiscuously ‘ as Mrs. Malaprop says,
meaning nothing at all. And so after a little ordinary com-
plimenting and play-talk, our man of business takes to
good earnest, but dexterous questioning . . all for pure
interest in poetry and Mr. W. ‘ So, sir, after that school . .
if I understand — you went to . . to . . ? — and so on. Mr.
Wordsworth the younger having quicker eyes than his
father detected a certain shuffling movement between the
visitor’s right hand and some mysterious region between the
chair’s back and his coat-pocket . . glimpses of a pocket
case and paper note book were obtained. He thought it
(the son) high time to go and tell Mrs. Wordsworth, —
who came in and found the good old man in the full out-
pouring of all those delightful reminiscences hitherto
supposed the exclusive property of Miss Fenner no doubt !
Mrs. W — ‘desired to speak with William for a moment’
(the old William) — and then came the amazement, horror
&c. &c., and last of all came Mr. Howitt’s bow and ‘ so no
more at present from your loving &c.’ — Seriously, in my
instinct — instinct — instinct thrice I write it and thank
my stars ! Moxon said, Howitt is ‘ just gone to call on
Tennyson for information — having left his card for that
purpose.’ ‘ And one day will call on you ‘ quoth Moxon,
who is but a sinister prophet, as you may have heard — Dii
meliora piis ! It is fair enough in Tennyson’s case, for he
is apprised by Howitt’s self of the purpose of his visit, but
to try and inveigle Wordsworth into doing what he would
hate most . . to his credit be it said — why, it is abominable
— abominable !

Then I heard another story — his wife, Mary, finds out, —
at all events, translates Miss Bremer. Another publisher
gets translated other works — or may be the same, — as who
shall say him nay ? Howitt writes him a letter (which is
shown my informant), wherein ‘ rogue,’ ‘ thief,’ ‘ rascal ‘ and
similar elegancies dance pleasantly through period after
period.

‘ Come out from among them my soul, neither be thou
a partaker of their habitations ! ‘

From all which I infer — I may kiss you, may I not, love
Ba ? It is done, may I or may I not — Ever your own

[Postmark: May 1, 1846]

I am delighted with the verses and quite surprised by
Mr. Arnould’s, having expected to find nothing but love
and law in them, and really there is a great deal besides.
Hard to believe, it was, that a university prize poet (who was
not Tennyson) could write such good verses : but he wrote
them of you, and that was enough inspiration for him, I
suppose, as it would be for others, my own dearest. How
I delight in hearing you praised ! — it is such a delightful
assent to the word which is in me, in the deepest of me.
You know that mysterious pleasure we have, in listening to
echoes ! — we hear nothing new, nothing we have not said
ourselves — yet we stand on the side of the hill and listen . .
listen . . as if to the oracles of Delphi. The very pleasure
of it all is in the repetition . . the reverberation.

When you had gone yesterday and I had taken my
coffee, holding my book . . ‘La Gorgone’ a sea-romance
by Landelle, (those little duodecimo books are the only
possible books to hold in one’s hand at coffee-times . . and
the people at Rolandi’s library sent me this, which is not
worth much, I think, but quite new and very marine) . .
holding my book at one page, as if fixed . . transfixed, . .
by a sudden eternity, . . . well, after all that was done
with, coffee and all, . . in came George, and told me that
the day before he had seen Tennyson at Mr. Venables
house, or chambers rather. Mr. Venables was unwell,
and George went to see him, and while he was there, came
the poet. He had left London for a few days, he said, and
meant to stay here for a time . . ‘ hating it perfectly ‘ like
your Donne . . ‘seeming to detest London,’ said George
. . ‘abusing everything in unmeasured words.’ Then he
had been dining at Dickens’s, and meeting various cele-
brities, and Dickens had asked him to go with him
(Dickens) to Switzerland, where he [is] going, to write his new
work : ‘ but,’ laughed Tennyson, ‘ if I went, I should be
entreating him to dismiss his sentimentality, and so we
should quarrel and part, and never see one another any
more. It was better to decline — and I have declined.’
When George had told his story, I enquired if Tennyson
was what was called an agreeable man — happy in con-
versation. And the reply was … ‘ yes — but quite inferior
to Browning ! He neither talks so well,’ observed George
with a grave consideration and balancing of the sentences,
. . ‘ nor has so frank and open a manner. The advantages
are all on Browning’s side, I should say.’ Now dear George
is a little criticised you must know in this house for his
official gravity and dignity — my sisters murmur at him very
much sometimes . . poor dear George ! — but he is good
and kind, and high and right minded, as we all know, and
I, for my part, never thought of criticising him yesterday
when he said those words rather . . . perhaps . . barris-
terially, . . had they been other words.

My other words must go by my next letter — I am to
write to you again presently, you are to be pleased to
remember . . and that letter may reach you, for aught I
can guess, at the same moment with this. In the mean-
time, ever beloved,

I am your

Ba.