Day: May 25, 2018

[Postmark: May 25, 1846]

Monday.

Dear, dear love, your letter comes at half past three by a
new Postman, — very bewildered. You will perhaps have
received my parcel and note — if not, such things are on the
road. All in your note delights me entirely. As for my
walking fast, that is exactly my use and wont . . I am
famous for it, — as my father is for driving old lady-friends
into illnesses, and then saying innocently, ‘ I took care to
walk very slowly.’ When I have anything to occupy my mind,
I all but run — but the pen can’t run, for this letter must go,
and nothing said.

So, Ba, my Ba, Goodbye till to-morrow from

Your own, own.

Monday. 12 o’clock.

I get nothing by the post this morning : — perhaps
at next delivery ! Well, I had the unexpected largess
yesterday, you know. At this time last year the letters
came once a week ! Now the manna falls as manna should
omitting only the seventh day.

Do you know, my Ba, — the Campbell mystery is all but
solved, to my thinking, by supposing, as one may, that,
those foolish ladies confound their cousin’s friend Brown,
an indubitable Scot and Lord Jeffrey’s nephew, — (and their
intimate for aught I know) — with me. He is in town now ;
did dine with them just before I saw him a fortnight ago ;
and may meditate happiness with Miss Campbell, and be
provided with a paragon of a ‘ sister ‘ besides. Those
ladies have been to Scotland — may easily know him there
and see ‘ sights ‘ with him here. Is not all this likely ?
It is not worth writing about to White, nor a visit to him at
Doctors’ Commons, but when I next chance on his company,
I will enquire.

Here is the review, — which I like very much — the introductory,
abstract remarks might be better, but so it always
is when a man, having really something to say about one
precise thing your poems, thinks he had better preface it by
a little graceful generality. All he wanted to write, I agree
in, thoroughly agree, — though I cannot but fancy my own
selection, — that might be, — of passages and single poems !

And, dearest, I venture to keep back the Statesmen,
as I asked leave to do yesterday, for the reasons then given
— may I keep it back ?

Also I return those sketches, — now they have been in
your hand, they cannot lie about here — I keep brown paper
with your writing on it, and string, and the wrappage of
this pen of mine — to be sure) so I shall get you to bear
with them again, two or three being added, just as I find
them. There is, too, the ode which was presented to me
on my departure from Rome by an enthusiastic Roman ;
red ribbon and all ! And last of all you have my play as
altered by Macready : greater excisions had been determined
on, but on the appearance of the printed copy had the
effect it intended . . it would have been too ludicrous to
leave out the whole of the first scene, for instance (as was
in contemplation), and then to tell the public ‘ my play ‘ had
been acted. I refer to this silly business only to show
you what success or non-success on the stage, means and is
worth. It is all behind me now — so far behind !

Now I will wait and see what next post may bring me
from dearest Ba — Ba, the dear, and the beloved, e sopra
tutto, the tall ! Does she not ‘ stand high in the affection ‘
— of her very own

R. B. ?

[Postmark: May 25, 1846]

Sunday.

When you came yesterday I had scarcely done my
grumbling over the AthenÊum, which really seems to me
to select its subjects from the things least likely to interest
and elevate. It goes on its own level perhaps — but to
call itself a Journal of Art and Literature afterwards, is too
much to bear patiently when one turns it over and considers.
Lady Hester Stanhope’s physician, antiquities of the mayors
of London, stories re-collected from the magazines by Signor
Marcotti— and this is literature . . art ! Without thinking
of ‘ Luria,’ it is natural and righteous to be angry even after
the sun has gone down. These are your teachers, O Israel !
Mr. Dilke may well fly to the Daily News for congenial
occupation and leave literature behind him, and nobody
hang on the wheels of his chariot, crying, ‘ Come back, Mr.
Dilke.’

Talking of chariots, George met you, he said, yesterday,
wheeling down Oxford Street, . . (this he told me when he
came in . .) going as fast as an express train, and far too
fast, of course, either to recognize or be recognized.

Oh — I forgot to tell you one thing about the review in
the Methodist Quarterly. You observe there some very
absurd remarks about Tennyson — but, just there, is an
extract from the ‘ Spirit of the Age,’ about his ‘ coming out
of himself as the nightingale from under the leaves,’ . . you
see that ? Well . . it is curious that precisely what is
quoted there is some of my writing, when I contributed to
Mr. Home’s book. It amused me to recognize it, (as you
did not George) . . but I was vexed too at the foolish
deduction, because. …

In the midst I had to hold my Sunday-levee, when for
the only day in the week and for one half hour I have to
see all my brothers and sisters at once : on the week days,
one being in one place and one in another, and the visits to
me only coming by twos and threes. Well, and Alfred,
who never had said a word to me before, gave me the
opportunity of saying ‘ no, no, it is not true ‘ — followed hard
by a remark from somebody else, that ‘ of course Ba must
know, as she and Mr. Browning are such very intimate
friends,’ and a good deal of laughter on all sides : on which,
without any transition and with an exceeding impertinence,
Alfred threw himself down on the sofa and declared that
he felt inclined to be very ill, . . for that then perhaps
(such things being heard of) some young lady might come
to visit him^ to talk sympathetically on the broad and
narrow gauge ! Altogether, I shall leave you for the future
to . . . contradict yourself ! I did not mean to do it this
time, only that Alfred forced me into it. But he said . . .
‘ How the Miss Cokers praised him ! …” It was delightful,”
they cried, ” to see a man of such a great genius condescend
to little people like them.” ‘ So they are better than the
AthenÊum, and I shall not have them spoken of ungently,
mind, even if they do romance a little wildly, and marry me,
next time, to the man in the moon.

In the meantime, dearest, it is no moonshine that I was
out walking to-day again, and that I walked up all these
stairs with my own feet on returning. I sate down on the
stairs two or three times, but I could not rest in the
drawing-room because somebody was there, and I was not carried,
as usual — see how vain-glorious I am. And what a summersense
in the air — and how lovely the strips of sky between
the houses ! And yet I may tell you truly, that, constantly,
through these vivid impressions, I am thinking and feeling
that mournful and bitter would be to me this return into
life, apart from you, apart from the consideration of you.
How could ever I have borne it, I keep feeling constantly.
But you are there, in the place of memory. Ah — you said
yesterday that you were not ungrateful ! I cannot say so.
I blame myself often. And yet again I think that the wrong
may be pardoned to me, for that those affections had
worked out on me their uttermost pang — nearly unto death
I had felt them — and now if I am to live, it must be by
other means — or I should die still, and not live. Also I
owe you gratitude —— do I not owe you gratitude ? Then,
I cannot help it . . right or wrong, I cannot help it . . you
are all to me, and, beloved — whichever way I look, I only
can see you. If wrong, it is not for you to be severe on
me —

Your own
Ba.

[Postmark: May 25, 1846]

Sunday Morning.

My own Ba is entreated to observe, that when she sends
me reviews about herself, and songs by herself, and a make-
weight book about ‘ Junius ‘ happens to be sent also . . I
do not ordinarily plunge into the Junius-discussion at
once — perhaps from having made up my mind that the
Author is Miss Campbell : — at all events, while the review
was read and re-read and the music done justice and in-
justice to, the Junius was opened for the first time this
morning, at eight of the clock, and Ba’s letter which lay
between pages 16 and 17, ‘ came to hand’ — was brought to
me by my mother, from my father ! but for whose lucky
inspiration of curiosity the said note had perhaps lain shut
in till the book’s secret was found out . . certainly I should
never have touched the book before then ! And from this
note, duly studied, I learn that yesterday I must have
appeared to Ba touched by a general mental paralysis — inasmuch
as I was surprised, over and above the joyfulness,
to hear that she was in the Park on Thursday, as well as
Friday . . (oh, I know the letter I did receive mentioned it,
but it seems as if one of the two excursions were unrecorded)
— and seeing that I enquired whether Ba had heard with
her own ears the song . . and altogether omitted thanking
her for the gift of it : and lastly, brought no Statesmen,
even on Ba’s request ! Of all which matters I ought to have
been made acquainted by the note : what must you think of
me, you Ba ; dearest-dearest, that expect me to know the
face through the bonnet, and the letter through the book
covers — (Ba sitting in the Bookseller’s shop was a type, I
see !). What did you think of me yesterday, I want to know ?
Well, and now my letter does come I thank you — (for
all the trouble this precedent will give me — next time a
parcel comes — of poking into all impossible places to see
and to see !) You are the dearest, dearest, impossibly dear
Ba that heart ever adored,

‘ And the roses which thou strowest,
All the cheerful way thou goest,
Would direct to follow thee,’

as Shirley sings — and every now and then the full sense
of the sweetness collects itself and overcomes me entirely,
as now, on the occasion of this note that I find ; I am
blessed by you in the hundred unspeakable ways — but
were it only for this and similar pure kindness, I find it in
my heart to give you my life could it profit you ! Here
ought I, by every law and right and propriety . . ask Miss
Campbell ! . . to be ministering to you, caring for you ;
and . . oh, Ba, do please, please, throw a coffee cup at me !
— (giving some grounds for complaint !) — and after it the
soucoupe (‘ glaring with saucer eyes’) — and see what you
shall see, and hear what you shall hear ! You ‘ strongest
woman that has written yet’ ! Have they found that out?
I know it, I think, by this ! So I will go and think over it
in the garden, and tell you more in the afternoon.

12 o’ clock ! — What strange weather ! — but pleasant, I
think — you have been out, or will go out, perhaps. Tell
me all, dearest, and how you feel after it. To-morrow I
will send you the Review and some of the other books you
have spoken of from time to time — but, I almost dare to
keep the Statesmen, spite of your positive request. Why,
dear, want to see what I desire to forget altogether ? So
my other poems, ‘ Sordello ‘ &c. — I most unaffectedly
shudder at the notion of your reading them, as I said
yesterday. My poetry is far from the ‘ completest expression
of my being ‘ — I hate to refer to it, or I could tell you
why, wherefore, . . prove how imperfect (for a mild word),
how unsatisfactory it must of necessity be. Still, I should not
so much object, if, such as it is, it were the best, the flower of
my life . . but that is all to come, and through you, mainly,
or more certainly. So will it not be better to let me write
one last poem this summer, — quite easily, stringing every
day’s thoughts instead of letting them fall, — and laying them
at the dear feet at the summer’s end for a memorial ? I
have been almost determining to do this, or try to do it, as
I walked in the garden just now. A poem to publish or
not to publish ; but a proper introduction to the afterwork.
What do you think, my Ba, my dearest siren, and muse,
and Mistress, and . . something beyond all, above all and
better . . shall I do this? And what are you studying
about Amalfi, my Ba ? Will you please keep that Naples’
Note-book till I ask for it — at Amalfi. Till holy church
incorporate two in one ; and I take the degree of my
aspiration. Rt. Bg. B.A. — in earnest of which, kiss me dear,
‘ earnest, most earnest of poets,’ and let me kiss you as I do
. . loving you as I love you. Bless you, best and dearest.