Am I pert, do you think?  No, don’t think it.  And the truth is, though you may not see that, that your praise made me feel very humble.  Nay, I was quite abashed at the idea of the ‘illumination’ of my poem; and still I keep winking my eyes at the prospect of so much glory.  If you were a woman, I might say, when one feels ugly one pulls down the blinds; but as a man you are superior to the understanding of such a figure, and so I must simply tell you that you honor me over much indeed.  My husband is very much pleased, and particularly pleased that you selected ‘Catarina,’ which is his favourite among my poems for some personal fanciful reasons besides the rest.

But to go back.  I said that any remark of yours was to be received by me in all reverence; and truth is a part of reverence, so I shall end by telling you the truth, that I think you quite wrong in your objection to ‘nympholept.’  Nympholepsy is no more a Greek word than epilepsy, and nobody would or could object to epilepsy or apoplexy as a Greek word.  It’s a word for a specific disease or mania among the ancients, that mystical passion for an invisible nymph common to a certain class of visionaries.  Indeed, I am not the first in referring to it in English literature.  De Quincey has done so in prose, for instance, and Lord Byron talks of ‘The nympholepsy of a fond despair,’ though he never was accused of being overridden by his Greek.  Tell me now if I am not justified, I also?  We are all nympholepts in running after our ideals—­and none more than yourself, indeed!

Our American friend Mr. Jarves wrote to us full of gratitude and gratification on account of your kindness to him, for which we also should thank you.  Whether he felt most overjoyed by the clasp of your hand or that of a disembodied spirit, which he swears was as real (under the mediumship of Hume, his compatriot), it was somewhat difficult to distinguish.  But all else in England seemed dull and worthless in comparison with those two ‘manifestations,’ the spirit’s and yours!

How very very kind of your mother to think of my child! and how happy I am near the end of my paper, not to be tempted on into ‘descriptions’ that ‘hold the place of sense.’  He is six years old, he reads English and Italian, and writes without lines, and shall I send you a poem of his for ‘illumination’?  His poems are far before mine, the very prattle of the angels, when they stammer at first and are not sure of the pronunciation of e’s and i’s in the spiritual heavens (see Swedenborg).  Really he is a sweet good child, and I am not bearable in my conceit of him, as you see!  My thankful regards to your mother, whom I shall hope to meet with you, and do yourself accept as much from us both.

Most truly yours,
ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.

We leave Florence next week, and spend at least a week in Paris, 138
Avenue des Champs-Elysees.

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