In the same way he can’t bear me to look into a glass, because he thinks there is a little brown dog inside every looking glass, and he is jealous of its being so close to me.  He used to tremble and bark at it, but now he is silently jealous, and contents himself with squeezing close, close to me and kissing me expressively.

My very dear friend’s ever gratefully affectionate
E.B.B.

[Footnote 65:  Ultimately five.]

To John Kenyon 50 Wimpole Street:  Sunday night [September 1842].

My dear Mr. Kenyon,—­Having missed my pleasure to-day by a coincidence worse for me than for you, I must, tired as I am to-night, tell you—­ready for to-morrow’s return of the books—­what I have waited three whole days hoping to tell you by word of mouth.  But mind, before I begin, I don’t do so out of despair ever to see you again, because I trust steadfastly to your kindness to come again when you are not ‘languid’ and I am alone as usual; only that I dare not keep back from you any longer the following message of Miss Mitford.  She says:  ’Won’t he take us in his way to Torquay? or from Torquay?  Beg him to do so—­and of all love, to tell us when.’  Afterwards, again:  ’I think my father is better.  Tell Mr. Kenyon what I say, and stand my friend with him and beg him to come.’

Which I do in the most effectual way—­in her own words.

She is much pleased by means of your introduction.  ’Tell dear Mr. Kenyon how very very much I like Mrs. Leslie.  She seems all that is good and kind, and to add great intelligence and agreeableness to these prime qualities.’

Now I have done with being a messenger of the gods, and verily my caduceus is trembling in my hand.

O Mr. Kenyon! what have you done?  You will know the interpretation of the reproach, your conscience holding the key of the cypher.

In the meantime I ought to be thanking you for your great kindness about this divine Tennyson.[66] Beautiful! beautiful!  After all, it is a noble thing to be a poet.  But notwithstanding the poetry of the novelties—­and you will observe that his two preceding volumes (only one of which I had seen before, having inquired for the other vainly) are included in these two—­nothing appears to me quite equal to ‘Oenone,’ and perhaps a few besides of my ancient favorites.  That is not said in disparagement of the last, but in admiration of the first.  There is, in fact, more thought—­more bare brave working of the intellect—­in the latter poems, even if we miss something of the high ideality, and the music that goes with it, of the older ones.  Only I am always inclined to believe that philosophic thinking, like music, is involved, however occultly, in high ideality of any kind.

You have not a key to the cypher of this at least, and I am so tired that one word seems tumbling over another all the way.

Ever affectionately yours,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.