Month: May 2018

[Postmark: May 12, 1846]

My Ba, your flower is the one flower I have seen, or see
or shall see — when it fades ‘ I will bless it till it shine,’ and
when I can bless you no longer it shall fade with me and
my letters and . . perhaps . . my ring. Ba, if . . I was
going to say, if you meant to make me most exquisitely
happy . . and you did surely mean it . . well, you succeed,
as you know ! And I see you on the grass, and am with
you as you properly acknowledge. And by this letter’s
presence and testimony, I may judge you to be not much
the worse, — not fatigued . . is it so ? Oh, it was a good
inspiration that led you through the half-opened gate and
under the laburnum, and, better still, that made you see us
‘ one day walking by the trees together ‘ — when all I shall
say is, — I hope, in spite of that felicity to remember and
feel this, as vividly as now.

‘ For the chain you hear rattle’ . . there comes the
earthly mood again and the inspiration goes away altogether !
So you being Miss Barrett and not my Ba for the moment,
I will give you none of my, and Ba’s, syren-island illustrations,
but ask you, what a fine lady would say if you caught
at her diamond necklace and cried — ‘ You shall wear no
such chains,— indeed you shall not ! ‘ Why even Flush is
proud of his corals and blue beads, you tell me ! As for
me, — being used to bear sundry heavier chains than this of
writing to you — owning the degradation of being, for
instance, forced to respire so many times a minute in order
to live — to go out into the open air so as to continue well —
with many similarly affronting impositions on a free spirit . .
on the whole, I can very patiently submit to write a letter
which is duly read, and forgiven for its imperfections, and
interpreted into a rationality (sometimes) not its own, and
then answered by the sweetest hand that ever ministered to
the dearest, dearest Ba that ever was imagined, or can be !
Ba, — there are three Syren’s Isles, you know : I shall
infallibly get into the farthest of them, a full thirty yards
from you and the tower, — so as to need being written to —
— for the cicale make such a noise that you will not be able
to call to me — which is as well, for you may . . that is, I
might — break my neck by a sudden leap on the needles of
rocks . . as I remember the boatman told me.

As for what you wish yesterday . . the mode of my
expressing my love . . I never think of it, — I have none —
no system, nor attempt at such a thing — I begin and end by
saying I love you — whatever comes of it. There is one obvious
remark to make however . . that unless I had loved you
and felt that every instant of my life depended on you for
its support and comfort, — I should never have dreamed of
what has been proposed and accepted . . Your own good-
ness at the very beginning would have rendered that super-
fluous ; for I was put in possession of your friendship, —
might write to you, and receive letters — might even hope to
see you as often as anybody — would not this have sufficed a
reasonable friendship? May not Mr. Kenyon be your
satisfied friend ? . But all was different — and so ——

So I am blessed now — and can only bless you. But
goodbye, dearest, till to-morrow — and next day, which is
ours. At 8 — eight I conjecture my martyrdom may take
place . . oh, think of me and help me ! I shall feel you, —
as ever. You forgot the letter after all . . can you send
it ? It may be convenient to produce, as I know nobody of
them all — terrible it is altogether ! ‘ At six ‘ the dinner
begins —— 1 shall get behind my brother Dramatists . .
and say very little about them, even.

Kiss me, in any case, of failure, or success, — and the
one will be forgotten, and the other doubled, centupled — to
your own —

[Postmark: May 12, 1846]

It is too bad, or too good, or something. Almost I
could reproach you, and quite would thank you ! . yet do
not let it be so again. You are supernaturally kind . .
kindestest, bestestest . . . and, so, dearestest by the merest
justice ; only, to think of your hastening home, as if you
were under an obligation to write to me in the face of the
seven worlds, . . that is too much, and shall not be again —
— now see that it shall not. I seem to hear the rattling of the
chain all this distance. And do, for the future, let it be
otherwise. When you are kept in London, or in any way
hindered, or unwell, . . in any case of the sort, let the vow
be kept by one line, which, too late for the day’s post, may
reach me the next day, — and I shall not be uneasy at eight
o’clock, but wait ‘ as those who wait for the morning.’ In
the meanwhile how I thank you ! The second dear letter
comes close in the footsteps of the first, as your goodnesses
are so apt to do.

Well ! — and whatever you may think about Wednesday,
I am pleased, and feel every inclination to ‘ return thanks ‘
myself in reply to the bishop of Lincoln. I send the letter
back lest you should want it. The worst is that you are
likely to have a very bad headache with the noise and con-
fusion — and the bishop’s blessing on the dramatists of
England, will not prevent it, I fear.

Look what is inside of this letter — look ! I gathered it
for you to-day when I was walking in the Regent’s Park.
Are you surprised ? Arabel and Flush and I were in the
carriage — and the sun was shining with that green light
through the trees, as if he carried down with him the very
essence of the leaves, to the ground, . . and I wished so
much to walk through a half open gate along a shaded path,
that we stopped the carriage and got out and walked, and I
put both my feet on the grass, . . which was the strangest
feeling ! . . and gathered this laburnum for you. It hung
quite high up on the tree, the little blossom did, and Arabel
said that certainly I could not reach it — but you see ! It
is a too generous return for all your flowers : or, to speak
seriously, a proof that I thought of you and wished for you
— which it was natural to do, for I never enjoyed any of my
excursions as I did to-day’s — the standing under the trees
and on the grass, was so delightful. It was like a bit of that
Dreamland which is your especial dominion, — and I felt
joyful enough for the moment, to look round for you, as for
the cause. It seemed illogical, not to see you close by.
And you were not far after all, if thoughts count as bringers
near. Dearest, we shall walk together under the trees some
day !

And all those strange people moving about like phan-
toms of life. How wonderful it looked to me ! — and only
you, . . the idea of you . . and myself seemed to be real
there ! And Flush a little, too ! —

Ah — what . . next to nonsense, . . in the first letter,
this morning ! So you think that I meant to complain
when we first met, of your ‘ loving me only for my poetry ‘ !
Which I did not, simply because I did not believe that you
loved me ! — for any reason. For the rest, I am not over-
particular, I fancy, about what I may be loved for. There
is no good reason for loving me, certainly, and my earnest
desire (as I have said again and again) is, that there should
be by profession no reason at all. But if there is to be any
sort of reason, why one is as welcome as another . . you
may love me for my shoes, if you like it . . except that they
wear out. I thought you did not love me at all — you loved
out into the air, I thought — a love a priori, as the philosophers
might say, and not by induction, any wise ! Your only
knowledge of me was by the poems (or most of it) — and
what knowledge could that be, when I feel myself so far
below my own aspirations, morally, spiritually? So I
thought you did not love me at all — I did not believe in
miracles then, nor in ‘ Divine Legations ‘ — but my miracle is
as good as Constantine’s, you may tell your bishop on
Wednesday when he has delivered his charge.

Is it eight o’clock, or three ? You write a ‘8’ which
looks like both, or at least either.

Love me, my only beloved ; since you can. May God
bless you !

I am ever and wholly your Ba.

Say how you are.

[Postmark: May 11, 1846]

Sweetest, I have this moment come from Town and Mrs.
Jameson the Marc-Antonio Prints kept us all the morning
— and at last I said ‘ There is a letter for me at home which
I must go and answer.’ And now I cannot answer it — but I
can love you and say so . God bless you, ever dearest. I
have read your letter . . but only once. Now I shall begin
my proper number of times —

Ever your very own

[Postmark: May 11, 1846]

I am always telling you, because always feeling, that I
can express nothing of what goes from my heart to you, my
Ba ; but there is a certain choice I have all along exercised,
of subjects on which I would try and express somewhat —
while others might be let alone with less disadvantage.
When we first met, it was in your thought that I loved you
only for your poetry . . I think you thought that. And be-
cause one might be imagined to love that and not you, —
because everybody must love it, indeed, that is worthy, and yet
needs not of necessity love you, — yet might mistake or determine
to love you through loving it . . for all these reasons,
there was not the immediate demand on me for a full ex-
pression of my admiration for your intellectuality, — do you
see ? Rather, it was proper to insist as little as possible on
it, and speak to the woman, Ba, simply — and so I have tried
to speak, — partly, in truth, because I love her best, and love
her mind by the light and warmth of her heart — reading her
verses, saying ‘ and these are Ba’s,’ — not kissing her less
because they spoke the verses. But it does not follow that
I have lost the sense of any delight that has its source in
you, my dearest, dearest — however I may choose to live
habitually with certain others in preference. I would shut
myself up with you, and die to the world, and live out fifty
long, long lives in bliss through your sole presence — but it
is no less true that it will also be an ineffable pride, — some-
thing too sweet for the name of pride, — to avow myself,
before anyone whose good opinion I am soliciting to retain,
as so distinguished by you — it is too sweet, indeed, — so I
guard against it, — for frequent allusion to it, might, — (as I
stammer, and make plain things unintelligible) . . might
cause you to misconceive me, which would be dreadful
. . for after all, Ba’s head has given the crown its worth, —
though a wondrous crown it is, too ! All this means . .
the avowal we were speaking of, will be a heart’s pride above
every other pride whenever you decide on making such an
avowal. You will understand as you do ever your own R.

On getting home I found letters and letters — the best
being a summons to meet Tennyson at Moxon’s on Tuesday,
— and the frightfullest . . nay, I will send it. Now, Ba,
hold my hand from the distant room, tighter than ever, at
about 8 o’clock on Wednesday . . for I must go, I fear
— ‘ Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking’ &c. &c.
‘ ἐα, ἐα, ἀπεχε, φεῦ.’ Then Mr. Kenyon writes that his
friend Commodore Jones is returned to England in bad
health and that he must away to Portsmouth and see him
— so I do not go on Monday. While I was away Chorley’s
brother (John Chorley) called, — having been put to the
trouble of a journey hither for nothing.

I have been out this morning — to church with my sister
— and the sun shone almost oppressively, — but now all is
black and threatening. How I send my heart after your
possible movements, my own all-beloved ! Care for your-
self, and for me. But a few months more, — if God shall
please. May He bless you —

Ever your own

Hail and rain — at a quarter to four o’clock !

[Postmark: May 11, 1846]

Dearest when you use such words as ‘ eligible . . .’ in-
vestment . . was it ?) and I do not protest seriously and at
length, it is through the very absurdity and unnaturalness
. . as if you were to say that the last comet was made of
macaroni, and Arago stood by, he would not think it worth
while to confute you. Talking the worldly idiom, as you
will tell me you just meant to do in those words, and con-
sidering the worldly considerations, why still the advantage
is with you — I can do nothing that I can see, but stand in
your sunshine. I solemnly assure you that only the
apparent fact of your loving me, has overcome the scruple,
which, on this ground, made me recoil from . . . Well !
there is no use now in talking. But for you to talk of what
is eligible and ineligible for me, is too absurd — indeed it is.
You might be richer, to be sure — but I like it better as it is,
a hundred times — I should choose it to be so, if it were left
to my choice. In every other respect, using the world’s
measures, . . or the measure of the angel who measured
the heavenly Jerusalem, . . you are beyond me . . above
me — and nothing but your love for me could have brought
us to a level. My love for you could not have tried, even !
Now, if I teaze you with saying such things over and over,
it is the right punishment for what you said yesterday about
‘ eligible marriages ‘ — now, isn’t it ?

But your conclusion then was right. For if you were
twice yourself, with a duchy of the moon to boot, it would
avail nothing. We should have to carry all this underground
work on precisely the same. Miserable it is, nevertheless —
only, I keep my eyes from that side, as far as I can. I keep
my eyes on your face. Yesterday Henrietta told me that
Lady Carmichael, a cousin of ours, met her at the Royal
Academy and took her aside to ‘ speak seriously to her ‘ . .
to observe that she looked thin and worried, and to urge
her to act for herself . . to say too, that Mrs. Bayford, an
old hereditary friend of ours, respected by us all for her
serene, clear-headed views of most things, — and ‘ of the
strictest sect,’ too, for all domestic duties, — ‘ did not like, as
a mother, to give direct advice, but was of opinion that the
case admitted certainly and plainly of the daughter’s acting
for herself.’ In fact, it was a message, sent under cover of
a supposed irresponsibility. Which is one of a hundred
proofs to show how this case is considered exceptional
among our family friends, and that no very hard judgment
will be passed at the latest. Only, on other grounds, I
shall be blamed . . and perhaps by another class of
speakers. As for telling Mr. Kenyon, it is most un-
advisable, both for his sake and ours. Did you never hear
him talk of his organ of caution ? We should involve him
in ever so many fears for us, and force him to have his share
of the odium at last. Papa would not speak to him again
while he lived. And people might say, ‘ Mr. Kenyon did it
all.’ No — if we are to be selfwilled, let us be selfwilled . .
at least, let me ! for you, of course, are free to follow your
judgment in respect to your own friends. And then, it is
rather a matter of feeling with me after all, that as I cannot
give my confidence to my father, I should refuse it to
others. I feel that a little.

Henrietta will do nothing, I think, this year — there are
considerations of convenience to prevent it ; and it is
better for us that it should be so, and will not be worse for
her in the end. I wish that man were a little nobler, higher
. . more of a man ! He is amiable, good-natured, easy-
tempered, of good intentions in the main : but he eats and
drinks and sleeps, and shows it all when he talks. Very
popular in his regiment, very fond of his mother — there is
good in him of course — and for the rest. . .

Dearest . . to compare others with you, would be too
hard upon them. Besides, each is after his kind. Yet . .
as far as love goes . . and although this man sincerely loves
my sister, I do believe, . . I admit to myself, again and
again, that if you were to adopt such a bearing towards me,
as he does to her, I should break with you at once. And
why? Not because I am spoilt, though you knit your
brows and think so . . nor because I am exacting and
offensible, though you may fancy that too. Nor because
I hold loosely by you . . dearest beloved . . ready at a
caprice to fall away. But because then I should know you
did not love me enough to let you be happy hereafter with
me . . you, who must love according to what you are !
greatly, as you write ‘ Lurias ‘ !

To-morrow, shall you be at Mr. Kenyon’s ? To-morrow
I shall hear. Nothing has happened since I saw you.
May God bless you.

Your own, I am.

[Postmark: May 8, 1846]

‘ Look down on you ‘ — my Ba ? I would die for you,
with triumphant happiness, God knows, at a signal from
your hand ! But that, — look down, — never, though you bade
me again and again, and in such words ! I look up, —
always up, — my Ba. When I indulge in my deepest luxury, I
make you stand . . do you not know that ? I sit, and my
Ba chooses to let me sit, and stands by, — understanding all
the same how the relation really is between us, — how I would,
and do, kiss her feet, — my queen’s feet !

Do you feel for me so, my love ? I seldom dare to try
and speak to you of your love for me . . my love I am
allowed to profess . . I could not steadily (I have tried,
whether you noticed it or no, and could not,) say aloud
‘ and you love me ‘ ! Because it is altogether a blessing of
your gift, — irrespective of my love to you — however it may
go to increase it. Here are the words however. Human
conviction is weak enough, no doubt, — but, when I forget
these words, and this answer of my heart to them, — I can-
not say it —

May God bless you, dearest dearest, — my Ba ! I was
at Mrs. Jameson’s this morning — she spoke of you so as to
make my heart tremble with very delight — I never liked her
so much . . I may say, never liked her before — by com-
parison. She read me your three translations, — clearly
feeling their rare beauty ; and now, — let me clap hands, my
Ba, and ask you who knows best? She means to print
both versions — the blank verse and the latter rhymed one.
Of course, of course ! But she said so many things — I must
tell you to-morrow, — if you remind me. She felt such
gratifications, too, at your thinking her etching of St.
Cecilia worthy to hang by your chair, in your sight. Do
you know, Ba, at the end, — à propos of her breakfast, I
fairly took her by both hands, and shook them with a
cordiality which I just reflect, tardily, may subject the
Literary Character to a possible misconstruction. ‘ He
must have wanted a breakfast,’ she will say !

I am going to the Museum on Monday with her, to see
Italian prints. I like her very much. And after breakfast,
Mr. Kenyon came in, and Mr. Bezzi — and Mr. K. means to
make me go and see him next Monday also, I believe.

But my seeing, and hearing, and enjoying — Saturday is
my day for all that ? To-morrow — by this time ! — too
great happiness it is, I know.

And I, too, look long over the grave, to follow you, my
own heart’s love. Let Mrs. Jameson repeal those acts, —
limit the seven years to seven days or less, — what matters ?
If the seven days have to be endured because of a law, —
then I see the weariness of course — but in our case, if a
benevolent Legislature should inform me, now, that if I
choose, I may decline visiting you to-morrow —

. . Ah, nefandum, — kiss me, my own Ba, and let the
world legislate and decree and relieve and be otherwise
notable — so they let me be your own for ever

R.

[Postmark: May 8?, 1846]

Beloved, my thoughts go to you this morning, loving
and blessing you ! May God bless you for both His worlds
— not for this alone. For me, if I can ever do or be any-
thing to you, it will be my uttermost blessing of all I ever
knew, or could know, as He knows. A year ago, I thought,
with a sort of mournful exultation, that I was pure of wishes.
Now, they recoil back on me in a spring-tide . . flow back,
wave upon wave, . . till I should lose breath to speak
them ! and it is nothing, to say that they concern another
… for they are so much the more intensely mine, and of
me. May God bless you, very dear ! dearest.

So I am to forget to-day, I am told in the letter.
Ah ! But I shall forget and remember what I please.
In the meanwhile I was surprised while writing thus to you
this morning . . as a good deed to begin with . . by Miss
Bayley’s coming. Remembering the seventh of May I
forgot Thursday, which she had named for her visit, and
altogether she took me by surprise. I thought it was
Wednesday ! She came — and then, Mr. Kenyon came, . .
and as they both went down-stairs together, Mrs. Jameson
came up. Miss Bayley is what is called strong-minded,
and with all her feeling for art and Beauty, talks of utility
like a Utilitarian of the highest, and professes to receive
nothing without proof, like a reasoner of the lowest. She
told me with a frankness for which I did not like her less,
that she was a materialist of the strictest order, and believed
in no soul and no future state. In the face of those con-
clusions, she said, she was calm and resigned. It is more
than I could be, as I confessed. My whole nature would
cry aloud against that most pitiful result of the struggle here
— a wrestling only for the dust, and not for the crown.
What a resistless melancholy would fall upon me if I had
such thoughts ! — and what a dreadful indifference. All grief,
to have itself to end in ! — all joy, to be based upon nothing-
ness ! — all love, to feel eternal separation under and over
it ! Dreary and ghastly, it would be ! I should not have
strength to love you; I think, if I had such a miserable
creed. And for life itself, . . would it be worth holding on
such terms, — with our blind Ideals making mocks and
mows at us wherever we turned? A game to throw up,
this life would be, as not worth playing to an end !

There’s a fit letter for the seventh of May ! — but why
was Thursday the seventh, and not Wednesday rather, which
would have let me escape visitors ? I thank God that I
can look over the grave with you, past the grave, . . and
hope to be worthier of you there at least.

Mrs. Jameson did not say much, being hoarse and weak
with a cold, but she told me of having met you at dinner,
and found you ‘ very agreeable.’ Also, beginning by a
word about Professor Longfellow, who has married, it
appears, and is a tolerably merciful husband for a poet . .
(‘ solving the problem of the possibility of such a thing,’
said she !) . . beginning so, she dropped into the subject of
marriage generally, and was inclined to repropose Lady Mary
Wortley Montagu’s septennial act . . which might be a
reform perhaps ! . . . . what do you think ? Have I not,
altogether, been listening to improving and memorable dis-
course on this seventh of May ? The ninth’s will be more
after my heart.

I like Mrs. Jameson, mind ! — and I like her views
on many subjects — exclusive of the septennial marriage
act, though.

How you amuse me by your account of the sponsorship !
the illustrious D’Orsay with his paletot reputation, in a cleft
stick of Alfred . . . Tennyson ! Bunn in the distance !
A curious combination it makes really . . and you read it
like a vates that you are ! —

So, good night — dearest ! — I think of you behind all
these passing clouds of subjects, my poet of the Lyre and
Crown ! Look down on your own

Ba.

[Postmark: May 7, 1846]

No, dearest, — I get Mrs. Jameson’s leave to put the
breakfast off till to-morrow— and this morning, instead of
resting as I had intended, I wisely went to town, to get a
call on Forster off my mind — I have walked there and back
again . . see the weakness you pity ! I cheat you, my Ba,
of all that pity . . yet when I have got it, however unjustly,

I lay it to my heart.

And I was at Mrs. Procter’s last night — Kinglake and
Chorley, with a little of Milnes and Coventry Patmore —
but no Howitts : because they have a sick child, — dying, I
am afraid. On my return I found a note from Home, who
is in London of a sudden for a week.

Oh, — The Daily News passes into the redoubtable
hands of Mr. Dilke, — and the price is to be reduced to

2d½, in emulation of the system recently adopted by the
French Journals. Forster continues to write, on the new
Editor’s particular entreaty. I rather think the scheme will
succeed, Dilke having the experience the present regime
wants — he will buy his privileges cheaply too. So that
Chorley may possibly be employed. Here ends my
patronage of it, at all events — not another number do I
groan over !

Patmore told me in his quiet way that his criticisms —
his book on which he had been expending a world of pains,
is altogether superseded by the appearance of ‘ Ulrici on
Shakespeare’ — ‘ the very words of many of his more im-
portant paragraphs are the same.’ That astounds one a
little, does it not ?

And what, what do you suppose Tennyson’s business to
have been at Dickens’ — what caused all the dining and
repining? He has been sponsor to Dickens’ child in
company with Count D’Orsay, and accordingly the novus
homo glories in the prænomina, Alfred D’Orsay Tenny-
son Dickens ! Ah, Charlie, if this don’t prove to posterity
that you might have been a Tennyson and were a D’Orsay
— why excellent labour will have been lost ! You observe,
‘ Alfred ‘ is common to both the godfather and the — devil-
father, as I take the Count to be : so Milnes has been
goodnaturedly circulating the report that in good truth
it is the Alfred of neither personage, but of — Mr. Alfred
Bunn. When you remember what the form of sponsorship is,
to what it pledges you in the ritual of the Church of England
— — and then remember that Mr. Dickens is an enlightened
Unitarian, — you will get a curious notion of the man, I
fancy.

Have you not forgotten that birthday? Do, my Ba,
forget it — my day, as I told you, is the 20th — my true,
happiest day ! But I thank you all I can, dearest — All
good to me comes through you, or for you — every wish and
hope ends in you. May God bless you, ever dear Ba. —

Your own R.

[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.

[Postmark: May 6, 1846]

Dearest Ba let me silent, as on other occasions, over
what you promise : one reads of ‘ a contest in generosity,’
and now this party was as determined to give, as that party
not to accept — far from anything so graceful, I am com-
pelled to clutch at the offering, I take all, because, because
— because I must, now ! May God requite you, my best
beloved !

I met Mrs. Jameson last evening and she began just as
I prophesied . . ‘ but ‘ said she ‘ I will tell you all when
you come and breakfast with me on Thursday — which a
note of mine now on its way to you, desires may happen ! ‘

A large party at Chorley’s, and admirable music — not
without a pleasant person or two. I wish you could hear
that marvellous Pischek, with his Rhine songs, and Bohemian
melodies. Then a Herr Kellerman told a kind of crying
story on the violoncello, full of quiet pathos, and Godefroi
— if they so spell him — harped like a God harping, im-
mortal victorious music indeed ! Altogether a notable
evening . . oh, the black ingratitude of man . . these few
words are the poor ‘set-off’ to this morning’s weary
yawning, and stupefaction. To-night having to follow beside !
So near you I shall be ! Mrs J. is to at the Procters’
to-night too. Oh, by the way, and in the straight way to
make Ba laugh . . Mrs J.’s first word was ‘ What ? Are
you married ?’ She having caught a bit of Miss Chorley’s
enquiry after ‘ Mrs. Browning’s health ‘ i.e. my mother’s.
Probably Miss Heaton’s friend, who is my intimate, heard
me profess complete infidelity as to — homœopathy . . que
sais-je ? But of all accusations in the world . . what do
you say to my having been asked if I was not the Author of
‘ Romeo and Juliet,’ and ‘ Othello ‘? A man actually asked
me that, as I sate in Covent Garden Pit to see the second
representation of ‘ Strafford ‘ — I supposed he had been set
on by somebody, but the simple face looked too quiet
for that impertinence — I was muffled up in a cloak, too ; so
I said ‘ No — so far as I am aware.’ (His question was ‘ is
not this Mr. Browning the author of &c. &c. ‘) After the
play, all was made clear by somebody in Macready’s dress-
ing room — two burlesques on Shakespeare were in the course
of performance at some minor theatre by a Mr. Brown, or
Brownley, or something Brown-like — and to these my friend
had alluded.

So is begot, so nourished ‘ il mondan rumore ‘ — I, author
of ‘ Othello ‘ ! — when I can be, and am, and may tell Ba I
am, her own, own
R.

The news about the post — the walk there which might
have been, — that is pure delight ! But take care, my all-
precious love—festina lente. All the same, what a vision I
have of the Bonnet !