But you mistake me, dearest friend, about the ‘Blackwood’ verses.  I never thought of writing applicative poems—­the heavens forfend!  Only that just then, [in] the midst of all the talk, any verses of mine should come into print—­and some of them to that particular effect—­looked unlucky.  I dare say poor papa (for instance) thought me turned suddenly to brass itself.  Well, it is perhaps more my fancy than anything else, and was only an impression, even there.  Mr. Chorley will tell you of a play of his, which I hope will make its way, though I do wonder how people can bear to write for the theatres in the present state of things.  Robert is busy preparing a new edition of his collected poems which are to be so clear that everyone who has understood them hitherto will lose all distinction.  We both mean to be as little idle as possible....  We shall meet one day in joy, I do hope, and then you will love my husband for his own sake, as for mine you do not hate him now.

Your ever affectionate
E.B.B.

[Footnote 153:  This surname is a mistake on Mrs. Browning’s part; see her letter of October 1, 1849.]

[Footnote 154:  See Lady Geraldine’s Courtship, stanza xli.]

To H.S.  Boyd [Pisa:] December 21 [1846].

You must let me tell you, my dearest Mr. Boyd, that I dreamed of you last night, and that you were looking very well in my dream, and that you told me to break a crust from a loaf of bread which lay by you on the table; which I accept on recollection as a sacramental sign between us, of peace and affection.  Wasn’t it strange that I should dream so of you?  Yet no; thinking awake of you, the sleeping thoughts come naturally.  Believe of me this Christmas time, as indeed at every time, that I do not forget you, and that all the distance and change of country can make no difference.  Understand, too (for that will give pleasure to your goodness), that I am very happy, and not unwell, though it is almost Christmas....

Dearest friend, are you well and in good spirits?  Think of me over the Cyprus, between the cup and the lip, though bad things are said to fall out so.  We have, instead of Cyprus, Montepulciano, the famous ‘King of Wine,’ crowned king, you remember, by the grace of a poet!  Your Cyprus, however, keeps supremacy over me, and will not abdicate the divine right of being associated with you.  I speak of wine, but we live here the most secluded, quiet life possible—­reading and writing, and talking of all things in heaven and earth, and a little besides; and sometimes even laughing as if we had twenty people to laugh with us, or rather hadn’t.  We know not a creature, I am happy to say, except an Italian professor (of the university here) who called on us the other evening and praised aloud the scholars of England.  ’English Latin was best,’ he said, ‘and English Greek foremost.’  Do you clap your hands?