If through Kate's dealing with American papers you get to hear of a lyric of mine called 'De Profundis,'[95] you are to understand that it was written by me nearly twenty years ago, _before I knew Robert_; you will observe it is in my 'early manner,' as they say of painters.

It is a personal poem, of course, but was written even so, in comparatively a state of retrospect, catching a grief in the rebound a little.

(You know I never _can_ speak or cry, so it isn't likely I should write verses.) The poem (written, however, when I was very low) lay unprinted all those years, till it turned up at Florence just when poor Mrs.Howard's bereavement and Mr.Beecher's funeral sermon in the 'Independent' suggested the thought of it--on which, by an impulse, I enclosed it to the editor, who wanted more verses from me.

Now you see it comes out just when people will suppose the motive to be an actual occasion connected with myself.

Don't let anyone think so, dear Isa.