March 18, 1846.
Indeed, dearest, you shall not have last word as you think, – – all the ‘risk’ shall not be mine, neither; how can I, in the event, throw ambs-ace (is not that the old word?) and not peril your stakes too, when once we have common stock and are partners? When I see the unicorn and grieve proportionately, do you mean to say you are not going to grieve too, for my sake? And if so – – why, you clearly run exactly the same risk, – – must, – – unless you mean to rejoice in my sorrow! So your chance is my chance; my success your success, you say, and my failure, your failure, will you not say? You see, you see, Ba, my own – – own! What do you think frightened me in your letter for a second or two? You write ‘Let us talk on Thursday . . . Monday I forgot’ – – which I read, – – ‘no, not on Thursday – – I had forgotten! It is to be Monday when we meet next’! – – whereat
. . . as a goose
In death contracts his talons close,
as Hudibras sings – – I clutched the letter convulsively – – till relief came.
So till to-morrow – – my all-beloved! Bless you. I am rather hazy in the head as Archer Gurney will find in due season – – (he comes, I told you) – – but all the morning I have been going for once and for ever through the ‘Tragedy,’ and it is done – – (done for). Perhaps I may bring it to-morrow – – if my sister can copy all; I cut out a huge kind of sermon from the middle and reserve it for a better time – – still it is very long; so long! So, if I ask, may I have ‘Luria’ back to morrow? So shall printing begin, and headache end – – and ‘no more for the present from your loving’
R.B.