of shelves fashioned by Sette and Co. (of papered deal and crimson merino) to carry my books; the washing table opposite turned into a cabinet with another coronal of shelves; and Chaucer’s and Homer’s busts in guard over these two departments of English and Greek poetry; three more busts consecrating the wardrobe which there was no annihilating; and the window—­oh, I must take a new paragraph for the window, I am out of breath.

In the window is fixed a deep box full of soil, where are springing up my scarlet runners, nasturtiums, and convolvuluses, although they were disturbed a few days ago by the revolutionary insertion among them of a great ivy root with trailing branches so long and wide that the top tendrils are fastened to Henrietta’s window of the higher storey, while the lower ones cover all my panes.  It is Mr. Kenyon’s gift.  He makes the like to flourish out of mere flowerpots, and embower his balconies and windows, and why shouldn’t this flourish with me?  But certainly—­there is no shutting my eyes to the fact that it does droop a little.  Papa prophesies hard things against it every morning, ‘Why, Ba, it looks worse and worse,’ and everybody preaches despondency.  I, however, persist in being sanguine, looking out for new shoots, and making a sure pleasure in the meanwhile by listening to the sound of the leaves against the pane, as the wind lifts them and lets them fall.  Well, what do you think of my ivy?  Ask Mr. Martin, if he isn’t jealous already.

Have you read ‘The Neighbours,’ Mary Howitt’s translation of Frederica Bremer’s Swedish?  Yes, perhaps.  Have you read ’The Home,’[1] fresh from the same springs? Do, if you have not.  It has not only charmed me, but made me happier and better:  it is fuller of Christianity than the most orthodox controversy in Christendom; and represents to my perception or imagination a perfect and beautiful embodiment of Christian outward life from the inward, purely and tenderly.  At the same time, I should tell you that Sette says, ’I might have liked it ten years ago, but it is too young and silly to give me any pleasure now.’  For me, however, it is not too young, and perhaps it won’t be for you and Mr. Martin.  As to Sette, he is among the patriarchs, to say nothing of the lawyers—­and there we leave him....

Ever your affectionate
BA.

To John Kenyan 50 Wimpole Street:  Wednesday, or is it Thursday? [summer 1843].

My dear Cousin,—...  I send you my friend Mr. Horne’s new epic,[78] and beg you, if you have an opportunity, to drop it at Mr. Eagles’ feet, so that he may pick it up and look at it.  I have not gone through it (I have another copy), but it appears to me to be full of fine things.  As to the author’s fantasy of selling it for a farthing, I do not enter into the secret of it—­unless, indeed, he should intend a sarcasm on the age’s generous patronage of poetry, which is possible.

[Footnote 78:  Orion, the early editions of which were sold at a farthing, in accordance with a fancy of the author.  Miss Barrett reviewed it in the Athenaum (July 1843).]