it is said in the Greek of Eschylus!  But Dante, all Dante is in his heart and head.  And he has seen Tennyson face to face; and he knows and loves Carlyle; and he has visited Sorrento and trod upon Monte Calvano.  Oh, the world in this year 1845 must be studied, though solitude is best.  He has been “polking” all night, and walked home while the morning thrushes piped; and it is true that his head aches.  She shall read and amend his manuscript poems.  To hear from her is better than to see anybody else.  But when shall he see her too?

So proceed from January to May the letters of Rudel and the still invisible Lady of Wimpole Street.  It was happy comradeship on her part, but on his it was already love.  His spirit had recognised, had touched, a spirit, which included all that he most needed, and union with which would be the most certain and substantial prize offered by life.  There was nothing fatuous in this inward assurance; it was the simplest and most self-evidencing truth.  The word “mistrustful”—­“do not see me as long as you are mistrustful of”—­with its implied appeal to her generous confidence, precipitated the visit.  How could she be mistrustful?  Of course he may come:  but the wish to do so was unwisely exorbitant.  On the afternoon of May 20th, 1845, Browning first set eyes on his future wife, a little figure, which did not rise from the sofa, pale ringleted face, great eager, wistfully pathetic eyes.  He believed that she was suffering from some incurable disease of the spine, and that whatever remained to her of life must be spent in this prostrate manner of an invalid.

A movement of what can only be imperfectly described as pity entered into his feeling for her:  it was less pity than the joy of believing that he could confer as well as receive.  But his first thought on leaving was only the fear that he might have stayed too long or might have spoken too loud.  The visit was on Tuesday.  On Thursday, Browning wrote the only letter of the correspondence which has been destroyed, one which overflowed with gratitude, and was immediately and rightly interpreted by the receiver as tending towards an offer, implied here, but not expressed, of marriage.  It was read in pain and agitation; her heart indeed, but not her will, was shaken; and, after a sleepless night, she wrote words effective to bar—­as she believed—­all further advance in a direction fatal to his happiness.  The intemperate things he had said must be wholly forgotten between them; or else she will not see him again; friends, comrades in the life of the intellect they might continue to be.  For once and once only Browning lied to Miss Barrett, and he lied a little awkwardly; his letter was only one of too boisterous gratitude; his punishment—­that of one infinitely her inferior—­was undeserved; let her return to him the offending letter.  Returned accordingly it was, and immediately destroyed by the writer.  In happier days, Miss Barrett hoped to recover what then would have been added to a hoard which she treasured; but, Browning could not preserve the words which she had condemned.