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. You will let me keep your beautiful ballad and the gods[67] a little longer. [Footnote 66: This refers to the recent publication of Tennyson's _Poems_, in two volumes, the first containing a re-issue of poems previously published, while the second was wholly new, and included such poems as the 'Morte d'Arthur,' 'Ulysses,' and 'Locksley Hall.'] [Footnote 67: No doubt Mr. Kenyon's translation of Schiller's 'Gods of Greece,' which was the occasion of Miss Barrett's poem 'The Dead Pan.'] _To H.S. Boyd_ September 14, 1842.