[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.