You will receive a copy of my new poem, 'Casa Guidi Windows,' soon after
this note. I have asked Sarianna Browning to see that you receive it
safely. I don't give away copies (having none to give away, according to
booksellers' terms), but I can't let you receive my little book from
another hand than the writer's. Tell me how you like the poem--honestly,
truly--which numbers of people will be sure to dislike profoundly and
angrily, perhaps. We think of going to Recoaro because Mr. Chorley
praised it to us years ago. Tell him so if you write.

Here are a heap of words tossed down upon paper. I can't put the stops
even. Do write _about yourself_, not waiting for the book.

Your ever attached
E.B.B.

At Paris how near we shall be! How sure to meet. Have you been to the
Exposition yourself? Tell me. And what is the general feeling _now_?

* * * * *


_To John Kenyon_

Paris: July 7, [1851].

My dearest Mr. Kenyon,--I have waited day after day during this week
that we have been here, to be able to tell you that we have decided this
or that--but the indecision lasts, and I can't let you hear from others
of our being in Paris when you have a right more than anybody almost to