And so, you made merry with my scorn of my ‘Prometheus.’  Believe me—­believe me absolutely—­I did not strike that others might spare, but from an earnest remorse.  When you know me better, you will know, I hope, that I am true, whether right or wrong, and you know already that I am right in this thing, the only merit of the translation being its closeness.  Can I be of any use to you, dear Mr. Mathews?  When I can, make use of me.  You surprise and disappoint me in your sketch of the Boston poet, for the letter he wrote to me struck me as frank and honest.  I wonder if he made any use of the verses I sent him; and I wonder what I sent him—­for I never made a note of it, through negligence, and have quite forgotten.  Are you acquainted with Mrs. Sigourney?  She has offended us much by her exposition of Mrs. Southey’s letter, and I must say not without cause.  I rejoice in the progress of ‘Wakondah,’ wishing the influences of mountain and river to be great over him and in him.  And so I will say the ‘God bless you’ your kindness cares to hear, and remain,

Sincerely and thankfully yours,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

(Endorsed in another hand) E.B.  Barrett, London, received May 12, 1843, 4 poems, previously furnished to Graham’s Magazine, $50.

[Footnote 75:  The Athenaeum of April 22 contained a review of Browning’s ‘Dramatic Lyrics,’ charging him with taking pleasure in being enigmatical, and declaring this to be a sign of weakness, not strength.  It spoke of many of the pieces composing the volume as being rather fragments and sketches than having any right to independent existence.]

To John Kenyan May 1, 1843

My dear Cousin,—­Here is my copyright for you, and you will see that I have put ‘word’ instead of ‘sound,’ as certainly the proper ‘word.’  Do let me thank you once more for all the trouble and interest you have taken with me and in me.  Observe besides that I have altered the title according to your unconscious suggestion, and made it ’The Dead Pan,’ which is a far better name, I think, than the repetition of the refrain.

But I spoil my exemplary docility so far, by confessing that I don’t like ‘scornful children’ half—­no, not half so well as my ’railing children,’ although, to be sure, you proved to me that the last was nigh upon nonsense.  You proved it—­that is, you almost proved it, for don’t we say—­at least, mightn’t we say—­’the thunder was silent’? ‘thunder’ involving the idea of noise, as much as ‘railing children’ do.  Consider this—­I give it up to you.[76]

I am ashamed to have kept Carlyle so long, but I quite failed in trying to read him at my “usual pace—­he won’t be read quick.  After all, and full of beauty and truth as that book is, and strongly as it takes hold of my sympathies, there is nothing new in it—­not even a new Carlyleism, which I do not say by way of blaming the book, because the author of it might use words like the apostle’s:  ’To write the same things unto you, to me indeed is not grievous, and to you it is safe.’  The world being blind and deaf and rather stupid, requires a reiteration of certain uncongenial truths....