[Postmark: July 18, 1846]
It is out of time to-night to write to you, since to-morrow
we are to meet but the letter which did not reach you,
has been recoiling on me all day. Perhaps you have it by
this time . . an uncomfortable letter, better away from
you, notwithstanding all the kindness you speak, about my
silence and the effect of that. So I write just a few words
The post office was in fault as usual. May it do perfecter
duty to-morrow.
Saturday ! our day ! At least if anything should be
against it, you shall hear at the door by a note, when you
come at three o’clock. I have put away my Thursday
night’s melancholy . . except the repentance of troubling
you with it understand that I have !
Mrs. Jameson was here to-day, and her niece, . . and
you, never named, but she is coming another day, she says,
to pay me a longer visit. I like her . . I like her. Then,
there came another visitor, . . my uncle Hedley, who
began, as usual, to talk of Italy he advises me to go this
year. ‘ If you don’t go this year, you never will go . .
and you ought at once to make an effort, and go.’ We
talked of places and of ways, and after he had said many
words in favour of Pisa, desired, if I went through Paris,
that I would pay him a visit. ‘ Ah,’ said I, ‘ uncle
Hedley, you are very good to me always, but when that
day arrives, you may be inclined, perhaps, to cast me off,’
‘ Cast you off, Ba,’ he cried in the most puzzled astonish-
ment ‘ why what can you mean ? what words to use !
Cast you off ! now do explain what you mean.’ ‘ Ah, no
one can tell,’ said I musingly. ‘Do you mean,’ he
insisted, ‘ because you will be a rebel and a runaway ? ‘ . .
(laughing !) ‘ no, no I won’t cast you off, I promise you !
Only I hope that you may be able to manage it quietly ‘
&c. &c.
He is a most amiable man, so gentle and tender ; and
fond of me ; exclusively of the poetry. I am certain that
he never can make out how anyone in the world can
consent to read my verses. But Ba, as Ba, is a decided
favourite of his, beyond all in the house not that he is a
real uncle . . only the husband of my aunt, and caring
more for me than both my real uncles, who, each of them,
much prefer a glass of claret, thank you ! The very
comparison does me too much honour for either of them.
Claret is a holy thing. If I had said half a glass, and
mixed it with water, I should have been more accurate by
so much.
Now, dearest, dearest, I say good-night and have done.
I am wholly yours and always.