[Postmark: April 23, 1846]
Dear, dear Ba, I was never very ill, and now am very
much better, quite well, indeed. I mean to co-operate
with your wishes, and my doctor’s doings, which are luckily
gentle enough, — and so, how should I fail of bringing into
subjection this restive, ill-conditioned head of mine ?
This morning I have walked to town and back — leaving
myself barely time to write — but just before going out, I
got your letter, for which I was waiting ; and the joy of it,
the entire delight, carried me lightly out and in again. Ah,
my own Ba, — of the two ‘ extravagances which you never
write nor speak,’ — after all, if I must, I concede the praises
and eagle-soaring and, and — because, if I please, I can say,
if you do persist in making me, ‘ why, it may be so, — how
should I know, or Ba not know ? ‘ And as a man may
suppose himself poor and yet be rightful owner to a wonder-
ful estate somewhere (in novels &c) — so, I, the intellectually
poor &c &c — But, dearest, if you say ‘ My letters
tire you’ —— say that again — and then what unknown
gadge ought to stop the darling mouth ? How does honey
dew bind up the rose from opening ? Moreover it is one
peculiarity of my mind that it loses no pleasure, — must not
forego the former for the latter pleasure. How shall I ex-
plain ? I believe that, when I should have been your
husband for years, — years — if I were separated from you for
a day and a letter came — I think my heart would move to it
just as it now does — because now, when I see you, know
what that blessing is — still the very oldest first flutter of
delight at ‘ Miss Barrett’s ‘ writing it is all here, all !
Shall my heart flutter, then, to-morrow, my dear dear
heart’s heart ? And it shall be not April when I read it
your letter — but June and May — if it tells me you are well,
as I am well — now, if I say that, can you doubt what I
consider my present state ? But be better, dear Ba, and
make me better — I should like to breathe and move and
live by your allowance and pleasure — being your very very
own
R.B.
I see this morning a characteristic piece of news in the
paper. President Polk, with an eye to business, gets his
brother, a tall gaunt hungry man, appointed Ambassador to
Naples — why not? So he arrives a year ago, — finds the
Neapolitans speak Italian, or else French, or else German
— that is, the Diplomatic Body at Naples don’t speak
English — on which discovery, Polk secundus sees he may
as well amuse himself, so goes to Paris for half a year, —
then to Rome where he is now, seeing sights — who could
tell the Italians were not able to talk English ? Is not that
American entirely ? Carlyle told me of an American who
was commissioned by some learned body of his countrymen
to ask two questions . . ‘What C.’s opinion was as to
a future state?’ — and next ‘ what relation Goethe was to
Goethe’s mother’s husband ? ‘ —