Friday Morning.
September 19, 1845.
It is not ‘misunderstanding’ you to know you to be the most generous and loyal of all in the world — you overwhelm me with your generosity — only while you see from above and I from below, we cannot see the same thing in the same light. Moreover, if we did, I should be more beneath you in one sense, than I am. Do me the justice of remembering this whenever you recur in thought to the subject which ends here in the words of it.
I began to write last Saturday to thank you for all the delight I had had in Shelley, though you beguiled me about the pencil-marks, which are few. Besides the translations, some of the original poems were not in my copy and were, so, quite new to me. ‘Marianne’s Dream’ I had been anxious about to no end — I only know it now. —
On Monday at the usual hour. As to coming twice into town on Saturday, that would have been quite foolish if it had been possible.
Dearest friend,
I am yours,
E.B.B.