at all events it ought to be left to his choice, and besides I have not lost the hope of your being the introducer of the great romancer, and then how little should I want anybody to come between us.  Begin as they may, all my paragraphs slide into that refrain of Pray, pray come!

I have written to you about other kindnesses since that note full of hopes, but I do not think that I did write to thank you for dear Dr. Holmes’s “Lecture on English Poetesses,” or rather the analysis of a lecture which sins only by over-gallantry.  Ah, there is a difference between the sexes, and the difference is the reverse way to that in which he puts it!  Tell him I sent his charming stanzas on Moore to a leading member of the Irish committee for raising a monument to his memory, and that they were received with enthusiasm by the Irish friends of the poet.  I have sent them to many persons in England worthy to be so honored, and the very cleverest woman whom I have ever known (Miss Goldsmid) wrote to me only yesterday to thank me for sending her that exquisite poem, adding, “I think the stanza ’If on his cheek, etc.,’ contains one of the most beautiful similes to be found in the whole domain of poetry.”  I also told Mrs. Browning what dear Dr. Holmes said of her.  The American poets whom she prefers are Lowell and Emerson.  Now I know something of Lowell and of Emerson, but I hold that those lines on Dante’s bust are amongst the finest ever written in the language, whether by American or Englishman; don’t you?  And what a grand Dead March is the poem on Webster! ...Also Mrs. Browning believes in spirit-rapping stories,—­all,—­and tells me that Robert Owen has been converted by them to a belief in a future state.  Everybody everywhere is turning tables.  The young Russells, who are surcharged with electricity, set them spinning in ten minutes.  In general, you know, it is usual to take off all articles of metal.  They, the other night, took a fancy to remove their rings and bracelets, and, having done so, the table, which had paused for a moment, began whirling again as fast as ever the contrary way.  This is a fact, and a curious one.

I have lent three volumes of your “De Quincey” to my young friend, James Payn, a poet of very high promise, who has verified the Green story, and taken the books with him to the Lakes.  God grant, my dear friend, that you may not lose by “Our Village”; that is what I care for.

    Ever faithfully yours, M.R.M.

    Swallowfield, June 23, 1853.

Ah, my very dear friend, we shall not see you this summer, I am sure.  For the first time I clearly perceive the obstacle, and I feel that unless some chance should detain Mr. Ticknor, we must give up the great happiness of seeing you till next year.  I wonder whether your poor old friend will be alive to greet you then!  Well, that is as God pleases; in the mean time be assured that you have been one of the chief comforts and