Autograph letter signed with initials : [London], to Richard Hengist Horne, Thursday, 1843 October 5.

Declining his request for a likeness of her to include in the book; relating details of her biography while declining to write a biographical sketch for him; discussing the recovery of her dog, Flush; saying "Ah, my dear Mr. Horne; your application made me smile - - a little with pleasure & pride that you should think of 'illustrating' your book with my darkness, & a little with selfmockery at the idea of it. No, no, no - my dear Mr. Horne! To 'recline' for any set of publishers in the world, even for yours, surpasseth the vanity which is in me;" discussing previous portraits which have been done of her and concluding "...I both cant & wont send you a picture for such a purpose . . . it is a superfluity of negation. 'Wont' would have done very well for a woman, . . now would it not?;" responding to his request for a biographical sketch saying "So you think that I am in the habit of keeping biographical sketches in my table drawer for the use of hypothetical editors? Alas - Once indeed, for one year, I kept a diary in detail & largely; &, at the end of the twelve months, was in such a crisis of selfdisgust, that there was nothing for me but to leave off the diary. Did you ever try the effect of a diary upon your own mind? It is curious - especially where elastic spirits & fancies are at work upon a fixity of character & situation - You see how it is - I have no Biographical Sketch ...If you say anything of me (and I am not affected enough to pretend to wish you to be absolutely silent if you see any occasion to speak) it must be as a writer of rhymes & not as the heroine of a biography...A bird in a cage would have as good a story - Most of my events & nearly all my intense pleasures have past in my t̲h̲o̲u̲g̲h̲t̲s̲. I wrote verses; as I dare say many have done who never wrote any poems - very early - at eight years old or earlier - but what is less common, the early fancy turned into a will & remained with me - & from that day to this, poetry has been a distinct object with me - an object to read think & live for;" describing, at length, her childhood writing and reading and her childhood at Hope End; saying "Do you know the Malvern Hills? the hills of Piers Plowman's visions?...Beautiful beautiful hills they are! And yet not for the whole world's beauty w'd I stand in the sunshine or the shadow of them any more - it w'd be a mockery - like the taking back of a broken flower to its stalk;" describing the various moves by her family before getting to London, "And then came the failure in my health which never had been strong (at fifteen I nearly died) & the publication of the "Seraphim' the only work I care to acknowledge; & then the enforced exile to Torquay, . . with prophecy in the fear & grief & reluctance of it - a dreadful dream of an exile, which gave a nightmare to my life for ever, & robbed it of more than I can speak of here - do not speak of t̲h̲a̲t̲ anywhere;" giving him the titles and dates of her three published works, and asking that he not call attention to the first two as the first was written when she was quite young and the second had a very small circulation; telling him she has "recovered my pet - no, I have 'idealized' none of the dog-stealing! I had no time. I was crying while he was away; & I was accused so loudly of 'silliness' & 'childishness' afterwards, that I was glad to dry my eyes, & forget my misfortunes by way of rescuing my reputation. After all it was excusable that I cried. Flushie is my friend - my companion - & loves me better than he loves the sunshine without. Oh, and if you had seen him, when he came home & threw himself into my arms . . palpitating with joy . . in that dumb inarticulate ecstasy which is so affecting . . love without speech! 'You had better give your dog something to eat' said the thief to my brother when he yielded up his prize for a bribe . . 'for he has tasted nothing since he has been with us.' A̲n̲d̲ h̲e̲ h̲a̲d̲ b̲e̲e̲n̲ w̲i̲t̲h̲ t̲h̲e̲m̲ f̲o̲r̲ t̲h̲r̲e̲e̲ d̲a̲y̲s̲! - And yet his heart was so full when he came home that he could not eat, but shrank away from the plate & laid down his little head on my shoulder. The spirit of love conquered the animal appetite even in that dog! He is worth loving - is he not?;" wishing him "...all success prosperity & laurels in your new field...Are you aware that Mr. Chorley published a work called 'The authors & authoresses of England' some time ago, with profiles & short notices?...And your book will probably assume a higher character, & go deeper."