To-day Mr. Kenyon came, spectacles and all. He sleeps in those spectacles now, I think. Well, and the first question was ... ‘Have you seen Mr. Browning? And what did he come for again, pray?’ ‘Why I suppose,’ I said, ‘for the bad reason my visitors have in general, when they come to see me’—Then, very quickly I asked about ‘Luria,’ and if he had read it and what he thought of it—upon which, the whole pomegranate was pulled out of his pocket, and he began to talk like the agreeable man he can be when he doesn’t ask questions and look discerningly through spectacles. ‘Luria’ was properly praised indeed. A very noble creation, he thought it, and heroically pathetic ... and much struck he seemed to be with the power you had thrown out on the secondary characters, lifting them all to the height of humanity, justifying them by their own lights Oh—he saw the goodness, and the greatness, the art and the moral glory; we had a great deal of talk. And when he tried to find out a few darknesses, I proved to him that they were clear noonday blazes instead, and that his eyes were just dazzled. Then the ‘Soul’s Tragedy’ made the right impression—a wonderful work it is for suggestions, and the conception of it as good a test of the writer’s genius, as any we can refer to. We talked and talked. And then he put the book into his pocket to carry it away to some friend of his, unnamed: and we had some conversation about poets in general and their way of living, of Wordsworth and Coleridge. I like to hear Mr. Kenyon talk of the gods and how he used to sit within the thunder-peal. Presently, leaning up against the chimney-piece,—he said quietly ... ‘Do you not think—oh, I am sure I need not ask you—in fact I know your thoughts of it ... but how strikingly upright and loyal in all his ways and acts, Mr. Browning is!—how impeccable as a gentleman’ &c. &c. and so on and on ... I do not tell you any more, because I should be tired perhaps ... (do you understand?) and this is not the first time, nor second, nor third time that he has spoken of you personally, so ... and as no man could use more reverent language of another. And all this time, what has become of Walter Savage Landor? I shall be vexed in another day. He may be from home perhaps—there must be a reason.

Vive Pritchard! and thank you for letting me see what he wrote.

Oh—and you shall see what I did not send yesterday—I shall make you read this one sheet of Mrs. Paine’s letter, because it really touched me, and because I am bound to undo the effects of my light speaking. As for the overpraise of myself, the overkindness in every respect, ... why we know how ‘sermons are found in stones’ ... yet no praise to the stones on that account! But you shall read what I send, both for her sake and mine, ... because I like you to read it.

My own dearest, do you mind what I say, and take exercise? You are vexing yourself with those notes, as I see from here. Now take care—follow my example, and be well—if not, there will be no use in wellness to me! May God bless you! Do you remember when you wrote first to me ‘May God bless you and me in that!’ It was before we met. Can you guess what I thought? I have the whole effect in my memory distinctly. I felt with a bitter feeling, that it was quite a pity to throw away such beautiful words out of the window into the dark. ‘Bitterly’ does not mean anything wrong or harsh, you know. But there was something painful ... as if the words were too near, for the speaker to be so far. Well—I am glad in looking back ... yes, glad ... glad to be certain at my heart, that I did not assume anything ... stretch out my hand for anything ... dearest!...

It is always when one is asleep that the dream-angels come. Watchers see nothing but ghosts.

Yet I shall see you on Monday, and shall watch and wait as those who wait for the morning ... that is, the Monday-morning! Till when and ever after, I am

Your own

Ba.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Saturday.
[Post-mark, April 18, 1846.]