Wednesday.
November 6, 1845.
I had your note last night, and am waiting for the book to-day; a true living breathing book, let the writer say of it what he will. Also when it comes it won’t certainly come ‘sine te.’ Which is my comfort.
And now — not to make any more fuss about a matter of simple restitution — may I have my letter back? . . . I mean the letter which if you did not destroy . . . did not punish for its sins long and long ago . . . belongs to me — which, if destroyed, I must lose for my sins, . . . but, if undestroyed, which I may have back; may I not? is it not my own? must I not? — that letter I was made to return and now turn to ask for again in further expiation. Now do I ask humbly enough? And send it at once, if undestroyed — do not wait till Saturday.
I have considered about Mr. Kenyon and it seems best, in the event of a question or of a remark equivalent to a question, to confess to the visits ‘generally once a week’ . . . because he may hear, one, two, three different ways, . . . not to say the other reasons and Chaucer’s charge against ‘doubleness.’ I fear . . . I fear that he (not Chaucer) will wonder a little — and he has looked at me with scanning spectacles already and talked of its being a mystery to him how you made your way here; and I, who though I can bespeak self-command, have no sort of presence of mind (not so much as one would use to play at Jack straws) did not help the case at all. Well — it cannot be helped. Did I ever tell you what he said of you once — ‘that you deserved to be a poet — being one in your heart and life:’ he said that of you to me, and I thought it a noble encomium and deserving its application.
For the rest . . . yes: you know I do — God knows I do. Whatever I can feel is for you — and perhaps it is not less, for not being simmered away in too much sunshine as with women accounted happier. I am happy besides now — happy enough to die now.
May God bless you, dear — dearest —
Ever I am yours —
The book does not come — so I shall not wait. Mr. Kenyon came instead, and comes again on Friday he says, and Saturday seems to be clear still.