[Postmark: May 7, 1846]
Now, dearest, you are close by and I am writing to you
as if you were ever so far off. People are not always the
better, you see, for being near one another. There’s a moral
to put on with your gloves — and if you were not quite
sufficiently frightened by Mrs. Jameson’s salutation, it may
be of some use to you perhaps — who knows ?
She left word yesterday that she should come to-day or
to-morrow, and as to-day she didn’t, I shall hear of you from
her to-morrow . . that is, if you go to her breakfast, which
you will do I dare say, supposing that you are not perfectly
ill and exhausted by what came before. Ah — you do not
say how you are — and I know what that means. Even
the music was half lost in the fatigue . . that is what you
express by ‘ stupefaction.’ And then to have to dine at Mr.
Procter’s without music . . say how you are . . do not omit
it this time.
Nor think that I shall forget how to-morrow is the seventh
of May . . your month as you call it somewhere . . in
Sordello, I believe . . so that I knew before, you had a
birthday there — and I shall remember it to-morrow and send
you the thoughts which are yours, and pray for you that you
may be saved from March-winds . . ever dearest !
I am glad you heard the music after all : it was something
to hear, as you describe it.
To-day I had a book sent to me from America by the
poetess Mrs. Osgood. Did you ever hear of a poetess Mrs.
Osgood ? . . and her note was of the very most affectionate,
and her book is of the most gorgeous, all purple and gold —
and she tells me . . oh, she tells me . . that I ought to go
to New York, only ‘ to see Mr. Poe’s wild eyes flash through
tears ‘ when he reads my verses. It is overcoming to think
of, even . . isn’t it ? Talking of poetesses, such as Mrs.
Osgood and me, Miss Heaton, . . the friend of your
intimate friend, . . told me yesterday that the poetess proper
of the city of Leeds was ‘ Mrs, A.’ . ‘ Mrs. A. ? ‘ said I with
an enquiring innocence. ‘ Oh,’ she went on, (divining
sarcasms in every breath I drew) . . ‘ oh ! I dare say, you
wouldn’t admit her to be a real poetess. But as she lives in
Leeds and writes verses, we call her our poetess ! and then,
really, Mrs. A. is a charming woman. She was a Miss
Roberts . . and her ‘ Spirit of the Woods,’ and of the ‘Flowers’
has been admired, I assure you.’ Well, in a moment I
seemed to remember something, — because only a few months
since, surely I had a letter from somebody who once was a
spirit of the Woods or ghost of the Flowers. Still, I could
not make out Mrs. A. . . ! ‘ Certainly ‘ I confessed modestly,
‘ I never did hear of a Mrs. A. . . and yet, and yet ‘ . . .
A most glorious confusion I was in . . when suddenly my
visitor thought of spelling the name . . ‘ H e y ‘ said she.
Now conceive that ! The Mrs. Hey who came by solution,
had both written to me and sent me a book on the Lakes
quite lately . . ‘ by the author of the Spirit of the Woods ‘ . .
There was the explanation ! And my Leeds visitor will go
back and say that I denied all knowledge of the charming
Mrs. A. the Leeds poetess, and that it was with the greatest
difficulty I could be brought to recognise her existence. Oh,
the arrogance and ingratitude of me ! And Mrs. A. . . being
‘ a churchwoman ‘ . . . will expose me of course to the
churchwardens ! May you never fall into such ill luck !
You could not expect me to walk to the post office afterwards
— now could you ?
What nonsense and foolishness I take it into my head to
send you sometimes.
I was down-stairs to-day but not out of the house. Now
you are talking, now you are laughing — I think that almost
I can hear you when I listen hard . . at Mr. Procter’s !
Do you, on the other side, hear me ? . . and how I am
calling myself your very own
Ba.