all. How happy you are, to be able to listen to the 'birds' without
the commentary of the east wind, which, like other commentaries,
spoils the music. And how happy I am to listen to you, when you write
such kind open-hearted letters to me! I am delighted to hear all you
say to me of yourself, and 'Luria,' and the spider, and to do him no
dishonour in the association, of the great teacher of the age,
Carlyle, who is also yours and mine. He fills the office of a
poet--does he not?--by analysing humanity back into its elements, to
the destruction of the conventions of the hour. That is--strictly
speaking--the office of the poet, is it not?--and he discharges it
fully, and with a wider intelligibility perhaps as far as the
contemporary period is concerned, than if he did forthwith 'burst into
a song.'

But how I do wander!--I meant to say, and I will call myself back to
say, that spring will really come some day I hope and believe, and the
warm settled weather with it, and that then I shall be probably fitter
for certain pleasures than I can appear even to myself now.

And, in the meantime, I seem to see 'Luria' instead of you; I have
visions and dream dreams. And the 'Soul's Tragedy,' which sounds to me
like the step of a ghost of an old Drama! and you are not to think
that I blaspheme the Drama, dear Mr. Browning; or that I ever thought
of exhorting you to give up the 'solemn robes' and tread of the
buskin. It is the theatre which vulgarises these things; the modern
theatre in which we see no altar! where the thymelé is replaced by the
caprice of a popular actor. And also, I have a fancy that your great
dramatic power would work more clearly and audibly in the less
definite mould--but you ride your own faculty as Oceanus did his
sea-horse, 'directing it by your will'; and woe to the impertinence,