hat any remark of yours was to be received by me
in all reverence; and truth is a part of reverence, so I shall end by
telling you the truth, that I think you quite wrong in your objection to
'nympholept.' Nympholepsy is no more a Greek word than epilepsy, and
nobody would or could object to epilepsy or apoplexy as a Greek word.
It's a word for a specific disease or mania among the ancients, that
mystical passion for an invisible nymph common to a certain class of
visionaries. Indeed, I am not the first in referring to it in English
literature. De Quincey has done so in prose, for instance, and Lord
Byron talks of 'The nympholepsy of a fond despair,' though _he_ never
was accused of being overridden by his Greek. Tell me now if I am not
justified, I also? We are all nympholepts in running after our
ideals--and none more than yourself, indeed!

Our American friend Mr. Jarves wrote to us full of gratitude and
gratification on account of your kindness to him, for which we also
should thank you. Whether he felt most overjoyed by the clasp of your
hand or that of a disembodied spirit, which he swears was as real (under
the mediumship of Hume, his compatriot), it was somewhat difficult to
distinguish. But all else in England seemed dull and worthless in
comparison with those two 'manifestations,' the spirit's and yours!

How very very kind of your mother to think of my child! and how happy I
am near the end of my paper, not to be tempted on into 'descriptions'
that 'hold the place of sense.' He is six years old, he reads English
and Italian, and writes without lines, and shall I send you a poem of
his for 'illumination'? His poems are far before mine, the very prattle
of the angels, when they stammer at first and are not sure of the
pronunciation of _e_'s and _i_'s in the spiritual heavens (see
Swedenborg). Really he is a sweet good child, and I am not bearable in
my conceit of him, as you see! My thankful regards to your mother, whom
I shall hope to meet with you, and do yourself accept as much from us
both.

Most truly yours,
ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.

We leave Florence next week, and spend at least a week in Paris, 138
Avenue des Champs-Elysees.

* * * * *

_To Miss Browning_

Florence: June 12, 1855 [postmark].

How kind and tender of you, my dearest Sarianna, to care so much to hear
that I am better! I was afraid that Robert had written in the Crimean
style about me, for he was de