and to hear what the world was talking of, and I was disappointed even in the degree of intellectual power displayed in them.  From motives of a desire of theological instruction I very seldom read any book except God’s own.  The minds of persons are differently constituted; and it is no praise to mine to admit that I am apt to receive less of what is called edification from human discourses on divine subjects, than disturbance and hindrance.  I read the Scriptures every day, and in as simple a spirit as I can; thinking as little as possible of the controversies engendered in that great sunshine, and as much as possible of the heat and glory belonging to it.  It is a sure fact in my eyes that we do not require so much more knowledge, as a stronger apprehension, by the faith and affections, of what we already know.

You will be sorry to hear that Mr. Tennyson is not well, although his friends talk of nervousness, and do not fear much ultimate mischief....[87]

It is such a lovely May day, that I am afraid of breaking the spell by writing down Christmas wishes.

Very faithfully yours,
ELIZABETH BARRETT.

[Footnote 87:  About the same date she writes to Home (Letters to R.H.  Horne, i. 86):  ’I am very glad to hear that nothing really very bad is the matter with Tennyson.  If anything were to happen to Tennyson, the world should go into mourning.’]

To Mr. Westwood 50 Wimpole Street:  December 31, 1843.

If you do find the paper I was invited to write upon Wordsworth[88], you will see to which class of your admiring or abhorring friends I belong.  Perhaps you will cry out quickly, ’To the blind admirers, certes.’  And I have a high admiration of Wordsworth.  His spirit has worked a good work, and has freed into the capacity of work other noble spirits.  He took the initiative in a great poetic movement, and is not only to be praised for what he has done, but for what he has helped his age to do.  For the rest, Byron has more passion and intensity, Shelley more fancy and music, Coleridge could see further into the unseen, and not one of those poets has insulted his own genius by the production of whole poems, such as I could name of Wordsworth’s, the vulgarity of which is childish, and the childishness vulgar.  Still, the wings of his genius are wide enough to cast a shadow over its feet, and our gratitude should be stronger than our critical acumen.  Yes, I will be a blind admirer of Wordsworth’s.  I will shut my eyes and be blind.  Better so, than see too well for the thankfulness which is his due from me....

Yes, I mean to print as much as I can find and make room for, ’Brown Rosary’ and all.  I am glad you liked ’Napoleon,’[89] but I shall be more glad if you decide when you see this new book that I have made some general progress in strength and expression.  Sometimes I rise into hoping that I may have done so, or may do so still more.