As the old ‘mysteries’ showed ’Beelzebub with a bearde,’ even so has the east wind had a ‘bearde’ of late, in a full growth of bristling exaggerations—­the English spring-winds have excelled themselves in evil this year; and I have not been down-stairs yet.—­But I am certainly stronger and better than I was—­that is undeniable—­and I shall be better still.  You are not going away soon—­are you?  In the meantime you do not know what it is to be ... a little afraid of Paracelsus.  So right about the Italians! and the ‘rose porporine’ which made me smile.  How is the head?

Ever yours,

E.B.B.

Is the ‘Flight of the Duchess’ in the portfolio?  Of course you must ring the Bell.  That poem has a strong heart in it, to begin so strongly.  Poor Hood!  And all those thoughts fall mixed together.  May God bless you.

[Footnote 1:  Aeschylus, Agamemnon 36:  ’An ox hath trodden on my tongue’—­a Greek proverb implying silence.]

E.B.B. to R.B.

Sunday—­in the last hour of it.
[Post-mark, May 12, 1845.]

May I ask how the head is? just under the bag?  Mr. Kenyon was here to-day and told me such bad news that I cannot sleep to-night (although I did think once of doing it) without asking such a question as this, dear Mr. Browning.

Let me hear how you are—­Will you? and let me hear (if I can) that it was prudence or some unchristian virtue of the sort, and not a dreary necessity, which made you put aside the engagement for Tuesday—­for Monday.  I had been thinking so of seeing you on Tuesday ... with my sister’s eyes—­for the first sight.

And now if you have done killing the mules and the dogs, let me have a straight quick arrow for myself, if you please.  Just a word, to say how you are.  I ask for no more than a word, lest the writing should be hurtful to you.

May God bless you always.

Your friend,

E.B.B.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Monday.
[Post-mark, May 12, 1845.]

My dear, own friend, I am quite well now, or next to it—­but this is how it was,—­I have gone out a great deal of late, and my head took to ringing such a literal alarum that I wondered what was to come of it; and at last, a few evenings ago, as I was dressing for a dinner somewhere, I got really bad of a sudden, and kept at home to my friend’s heartrending disappointment.  Next morning I was no better—­and it struck me that I should be really disappointing dear kind Mr. Kenyon, and wasting his time, if that engagement, too, were broken with as little warning,—­so I thought it best to forego all hopes of seeing him, at such a risk.  And that done, I got rid of every other promise to pay visits for next week and next, and told everybody, with considerable dignity, that my London season was over for this year, as it assuredly is—­and I shall be worried no more, and let walk in the garden, and go to bed at ten o’clock, and get done with