Day: May 1, 2018

[Postmark: May 1, 1846]

I go to you, my Ba, with heart full of love, so it seems,—
yet I come away always with a greater capacity of
holding love, — for there is more and still more, — that seems
too ! At the beginning, I used to say (most truly) that
words were all inadequate to express my feelings, — now,
those very feelings seem, as I see them from this present
moment, just as inadequate in their time to represent what
I am conscious of now. I do feel more, widelier, strangelier
. . how can I tell you ? You must believe, — my only,
only beloved ! I daresay I have said this before, because
it has struck me repeatedly, — and, judging by past experi-
ence, I shall need to say it again — and often again. Am I
really destined to pass my life sitting by you ? And you
speak of your hesitation at trusting in miracles ! Oh, my Ba,
my heart’s — well, Ba, I am so far guiltless of presumption,
let come what will, that I never for the moment cease to be
. . tremblingly anxious I will say, — and conscious that the
good is too great for me in this world. You do not like
one to write so, I know, but there is a safety in it — the
presumptuous walk blindfold among pits, to a proverb —
and no one shall record that of me. And if I have cares
and scruples of this kind at times, or at all times, I have
none where most other people would have very many. I
never ask myself, as perhaps I should, — ‘ Will she be happy
too ? ‘ — All that seems removed from me, far above my con-
cernment — she — you, my Ba . . will make me so entirely
happy, that it seems enough to know . . my palm-trees
grow well enough without knowing the cause of the sun’s
heat. Then I think again, that your nature is to make
happy and to bless, and itself to be satisfied with that. — So
instead of fruitless speculations how to give you back your
own gift, I will rather resolve to lie quietly and let your
dear will have its unrestricted way. All which I take up the
paper determining not to write, — for it is foolish, poor en-
deavour at best, but, — just this time it is written. May
God bless you —

R. B.

I called on Moxon, who is better, and reports cheeringly.
Then I went to my friend’s, and thence home, not much
tired. I have to go out (to-day) with my sister but only
next door. To-morrow I hear from you, love, and on
Monday — (unless a pressing engagement &c|. — ah!

What do you say to this little familiar passage in the
daily life of friend Howitt, — for which I am indebted to
Moxon. Howitt is book-making about Poets, it seems —
where they were born, how they live, ‘ what relation their
mothers’ sons are to their fathers ‘ — etc. In the prosecution
of this laudable object he finds his way to Ambleside, calls
on Wordsworth ‘ quite promiscuously ‘ as Mrs. Malaprop says,
meaning nothing at all. And so after a little ordinary com-
plimenting and play-talk, our man of business takes to
good earnest, but dexterous questioning . . all for pure
interest in poetry and Mr. W. ‘ So, sir, after that school . .
if I understand — you went to . . to . . ? — and so on. Mr.
Wordsworth the younger having quicker eyes than his
father detected a certain shuffling movement between the
visitor’s right hand and some mysterious region between the
chair’s back and his coat-pocket . . glimpses of a pocket
case and paper note book were obtained. He thought it
(the son) high time to go and tell Mrs. Wordsworth, —
who came in and found the good old man in the full out-
pouring of all those delightful reminiscences hitherto
supposed the exclusive property of Miss Fenner no doubt !
Mrs. W — ‘desired to speak with William for a moment’
(the old William) — and then came the amazement, horror
&c. &c., and last of all came Mr. Howitt’s bow and ‘ so no
more at present from your loving &c.’ — Seriously, in my
instinct — instinct — instinct thrice I write it and thank
my stars ! Moxon said, Howitt is ‘ just gone to call on
Tennyson for information — having left his card for that
purpose.’ ‘ And one day will call on you ‘ quoth Moxon,
who is but a sinister prophet, as you may have heard — Dii
meliora piis ! It is fair enough in Tennyson’s case, for he
is apprised by Howitt’s self of the purpose of his visit, but
to try and inveigle Wordsworth into doing what he would
hate most . . to his credit be it said — why, it is abominable
— abominable !

Then I heard another story — his wife, Mary, finds out, —
at all events, translates Miss Bremer. Another publisher
gets translated other works — or may be the same, — as who
shall say him nay ? Howitt writes him a letter (which is
shown my informant), wherein ‘ rogue,’ ‘ thief,’ ‘ rascal ‘ and
similar elegancies dance pleasantly through period after
period.

‘ Come out from among them my soul, neither be thou
a partaker of their habitations ! ‘

From all which I infer — I may kiss you, may I not, love
Ba ? It is done, may I or may I not — Ever your own

[Postmark: May 1, 1846]

I am delighted with the verses and quite surprised by
Mr. Arnould’s, having expected to find nothing but love
and law in them, and really there is a great deal besides.
Hard to believe, it was, that a university prize poet (who was
not Tennyson) could write such good verses : but he wrote
them of you, and that was enough inspiration for him, I
suppose, as it would be for others, my own dearest. How
I delight in hearing you praised ! — it is such a delightful
assent to the word which is in me, in the deepest of me.
You know that mysterious pleasure we have, in listening to
echoes ! — we hear nothing new, nothing we have not said
ourselves — yet we stand on the side of the hill and listen . .
listen . . as if to the oracles of Delphi. The very pleasure
of it all is in the repetition . . the reverberation.

When you had gone yesterday and I had taken my
coffee, holding my book . . ‘La Gorgone’ a sea-romance
by Landelle, (those little duodecimo books are the only
possible books to hold in one’s hand at coffee-times . . and
the people at Rolandi’s library sent me this, which is not
worth much, I think, but quite new and very marine) . .
holding my book at one page, as if fixed . . transfixed, . .
by a sudden eternity, . . . well, after all that was done
with, coffee and all, . . in came George, and told me that
the day before he had seen Tennyson at Mr. Venables
house, or chambers rather. Mr. Venables was unwell,
and George went to see him, and while he was there, came
the poet. He had left London for a few days, he said, and
meant to stay here for a time . . ‘ hating it perfectly ‘ like
your Donne . . ‘seeming to detest London,’ said George
. . ‘abusing everything in unmeasured words.’ Then he
had been dining at Dickens’s, and meeting various cele-
brities, and Dickens had asked him to go with him
(Dickens) to Switzerland, where he [is] going, to write his new
work : ‘ but,’ laughed Tennyson, ‘ if I went, I should be
entreating him to dismiss his sentimentality, and so we
should quarrel and part, and never see one another any
more. It was better to decline — and I have declined.’
When George had told his story, I enquired if Tennyson
was what was called an agreeable man — happy in con-
versation. And the reply was … ‘ yes — but quite inferior
to Browning ! He neither talks so well,’ observed George
with a grave consideration and balancing of the sentences,
. . ‘ nor has so frank and open a manner. The advantages
are all on Browning’s side, I should say.’ Now dear George
is a little criticised you must know in this house for his
official gravity and dignity — my sisters murmur at him very
much sometimes . . poor dear George ! — but he is good
and kind, and high and right minded, as we all know, and
I, for my part, never thought of criticising him yesterday
when he said those words rather . . . perhaps . . barris-
terially, . . had they been other words.

My other words must go by my next letter — I am to
write to you again presently, you are to be pleased to
remember . . and that letter may reach you, for aught I
can guess, at the same moment with this. In the mean-
time, ever beloved,

I am your

Ba.