that he does talk 'a little like a sphinx/ Browning proceeds to 'explain' in his next. The explanation immediately lands him in a 'slough of similes,' out of which he has to struggle, 'never mind with what dislocation of ankles.' He only escapes to fall into other similes and illustrations of his meanings, and ends by expressing his hope that he has 'cleared up all the difficulty' and put things quite straight. Undoubtedly he had, to Miss Barrett's apprehension, though I confess that my own intellect remains a little befogged.
The general upshot, however, is sufficiently clear. Browning, one fancies, takes refuge in his parallel cases—his favourite device in poetical arguments—because he is still a little embarrassed in writing to a lady whom he had not yet seen. But he wishes to get out of the region of small talk, even in the exalted form of literary criticism, and to speak to her of more vitally interesting matters. And before long we find both of them anxious to repudiate the literary sentiment as anything but the mere vehicle for the purely personal passion. Browning protests that his admiration of Miss Barrett as an author is entirely different from his love of herself. He held his peace about her poetry till he had a sense of 'purely personal
