Returned to London, she began the life which she continued for so many years, confined to one large and commodious, but darkened, chamber, admitting only her own affectionate family and a few devoted friends (I, myself, have often joyfully travelled five-and-forty miles to see her, and returned the same evening, without entering another house); reading almost every book worth reading in almost every language, and giving herself, heart and soul, to that poetry of which she seemed born to be the priestess. MARY RUSSELL MITFORD: ‘Recollections of a Literary Life.’ New York: Harper & Bros., 1852. * * * * * [Sidenote: Omnivorous reading.] I read without principle. I have a sort of unity indeed, but it amalgamates instead of selecting--do you understand? When I had read the Hebrew Bible, from Genesis to Malachi, right through, and was never stopped by the Chaldee--and the Greek poets, and Plato, right through from end to end--I passed as thoroughly through the flood of all possible and impossible British and foreign novels and romances, with slices of metaphysics laid thick between the sorrows of the multitudinous Celestinas. It is only useful knowledge and the multiplication table I never tried hard at. And now--what now? Is this matter of exultation? Alas, no! Do I boast of my omnivorousness of reading, even apart from the romances? Certainly, no!--never, except in joke. It’s against my theories and ratiocinations, which take upon themselves to assert that we _all_ generally err by _reading too much_, and out of proportion to what we _think_. I should be wiser, I am persuaded, if I had not read half as much--should have had stronger and better exercised faculties, and should stand higher in my own appreciation. The fact is, that the _ne plus ultra_ of intellectual indolence is this reading of books. It comes next to what the Americans call “whittling.” ELIZABETH BARRETT: _Letter to R. H. Horne_, 1843. ‘Letters of E. B. Browning to R. H. Horne.’ * * * * * [Sidenote: Her letters.] Her letters ought to be published. In power, versatility, liveliness, and finesse; in perfect originality of glance, and vigor of grasp at every topic of the hour; in their enthusiastic preferences, prejudices, and inconsistencies, I have never met with any, written by men or by women, more brilliant, spontaneous, and characteristic. This was _her_ form of conversation. HENRY F. CHORLEY: ‘Autobiography, Memoir, and Letters.’ London: Bentley, 1873. * * * * * Her letters make Cowper’s poor. In a hurried note, whose hurry is evident in the handwriting, she drops ... incidental, but brilliant words--just as if the jewels in her rings, jarred by her rapid fingers, had been suddenly unset and fallen out on the paper. [Sidenote: Handwriting.]