Month: July 2018

[Postmark: July 24, 1846]

Friday.

Sweet, sweet, sweet Ba, look to be kissed to-morrow till
it hurts you, — punished you ought to be for such a letter !
When the ancients were in doubt about a man’s identity
(the ancient fathers) they called him ‘ aut Erasmus (or
whoever it might be) aut — diabolus ! ‘ — no gradation, no
mean between best and worst ! Or do you think Flush bit me
and inoculated me with super-cynical snappishness ? Well,
I do think I should not have conducted myself as you consider
highly possible, — even if you had made, let me say at
once, the most preposterous of proposals, even that of going
without Wilson, or her substitute. I think and am sure I
should, like a rational being, write all the faster to try and
get you to reconsider the matter — convinced as I should be
that your perfect good sense would, after a few minutes’
examination, see that I could no more take you away without
such assistance than desire you to perform the passage
of the Mont Cenis on foot. Do I not remember that you
intended to be thus accompanied even when your sister was
to be of the party ? But the absolute necessity of what you
fancy I may object to . . it is not that, I complain about —
but of the strange notion, that whenever Fate shall decree
that you say, or do, or think anything, from which I shall
be forced to differ, — my proceedings will needs take this
fashion and colour — I shall ‘ sulk ‘ and say nothing, — or
perhaps turn aside grandly offended and meditative of noble
vengeance ! Oh, Ba, dearest, dearest beyond all words,
come for once and always into the heart which is your own,
and see how full it is of you, and if you say, that does not
prevent the head being weak and acting accordingly, I will
begin exemplifying the very point I want to convince you of
by at once writing and speaking and by every imaginable
means making you know, that the heart does teach the head
better than such foolishness — ought to do it, and does do it !

Do you believe me, Ba, my own ? Or, what nonsense !
Did you wonder at my letter when it did come ? Or did
it come? It was duly posted at Deptford — moreover the
‘ Thursday ‘ at the top was written ‘ Wednesday ‘ — because
all day long I was in that error — having been used to see
you on Mondays, and to calculate my time by the number
of days since I saw you — whence, knowing to my cost that
two days had gone by since such an event, I thought what
I wrote.

Now kiss me, my very own, for an end to every thing —
your doubt and my impudent making the most of it, — for
I do not doubt you, sweetest, truest, best love !

To-morrow brings me to you, Ba, I trust — I will be
careful to-day, never fear your

own devoted R.

[Postmark: July 24, 1846]

Thursday Evening

No letter for me to-night ! not a word ! — Perhaps the post
is sinning again. If so, I shall hear to-morrow morning, if
not . . may it be anything rather than that you are more
unwell than usual ! anything !

There is not much to say on my part. I had a letter
from Miss Mitford this morning, and she encloses to me . . .
you will not guess what — a lyric of the ubiquitous Bennett
— the ‘ Mignonette.’ Are you not amused ? That’s the
way to ‘ agitate ‘ for readers and praisers. She sees
something in Bennett. He is to be ‘ heard of in our
literature.’ She shed tears over the ‘ Mignonette,’ herself —

Your portrait of Victor Hugo, I like less and less — there
is something ignoble in the face — and even the forehead is
rather big than large. He does not ‘ look like a poet ‘ in any
case — now does he ?

Dearest, did I annoy you . . frighten you, . . about
Wilson yesterday ? Did that prevent you from writing to
me to-day — if really you did not write to me to-day ? It yet
was the merest question, . . I wished you to understand —
the merest question for a yes or a no — and I shall not mind,
however you may answer, be certain. I have been thinking
to-day that it would be possible enough to leave a direction
which might supply everything, and so escape inflicting the
injury apprehended — yes, and as for myself, I shall manage
perfectly. Observe how I pinned your coat, miraculously
pricking you at the same moment. I shall do for myself
and by myself, as well as possible. And therefore, judge,
speak your thoughts out to the purpose and without drawback.
I shall always feel to thank you for speaking the
truth, even where it goes against me. But this will not
go against me, however you speak it, . . understand.

And as for what my sisters think, it is nothing to the
purpose. Say your ‘ no,’ and they never shall hear it. I
will avoid the subject from henceforth, with them . . that is
all.

And take care of Mr. Kenyon to-morrow. I feel afraid
of Mr. Kenyon. But take care of yourself most — look well
that you never let me do, in the least or greatest matter,
what would seem better undone hereafter. Not in the least,
not in the greatest. For me, if I am to be thought of,
remember that you kill me, if you suffer me to injure you.
That is for me.

See how I exhort people who do not write to me ! .
Ah no ! It must be the post’s fault. You could not be
very much vexed with me, I think, for a mere proposal
about Wilson. And the rest of my letter was all made up
of assent and agreement. You could not be vexed about
Wilson. And you shall not be ill, because I cannot bear to
think of it — which, dearest, is a good reason and
irrefragable.

The Hedleys dine here, and others. I hear the voices
and the laughing. I wish I could, your voice, as near.
May God bless you . . bless you —

Your own BA.

[Postmark: July 23, 1846]

R. B. to E. B. B.

Wednesday.

I have just returned from Town and Mr. Kenyon’s, my
own Ba. I called, according to compact, to point out the
precise way he must go to reach us. He seemed to make sure
I was going to Wimpole Street — ‘ Oh, no ! ‘

So, losing Wimpole Street, I made haste home, and gain
my letter, — my dear letter : yesterday night, too, the first
letter arrived duly — you perfect in kindness !

My dearest — dearest, — you might go to Pisa without
shoes, — or feet to wear them, for aught I know, since you
may have wings, only folded away from me — but without your
Wilson, or some one in her capacity, you . . no, I will not
undertake to speak of you ; then, I, should be simply, exactly,
INSANE to move a step ; I would rather propose, let us live
on bread and water, and sail in the hold of a merchant-ship ;
THIS CANNOT be dispensed with ! It is most fortunate, most
providential, that Wilson is inclined to go — I am very
happy ; for a new servant, with even the best dispositions,
would never be able to anticipate your wants and wishes
during the voyage, at the very beginning. Yet you write of
this to me so, my Ba ! I think I will, in policy, begin the
anger at a good place. Yes, all the anger I am capable of
descends on the head — (not in kisses, whatever you may
fancy).

And so poor Flush suffered after all ! Dogs that are
dog-like would be at no such pains to tell you they would
not see you with comfort approached by a stranger who
might be — ! A ‘muzzle’? oh, no, — but suppose you have
him removed next time, and perhaps the next, till the whole
occurrence is out of his mind as the fly bite of last week
— because, if he sees me and begins his barking and valiant
snapping, and gets more and heavier vengeance downstairs,
perhaps, — his transient suspicion of me will confirm itself
into absolute dislike, hatred, whereas, after an interval, we
can renew acquaintance on a better footing. Dogs have
such memories ! My sister told me last week she saw in a
provincial newspaper an anecdote of one, — a miller’s dog,
that was a good fellow in the main, but chose to take an
especial dislike to one of his master’s customers, whom he
invariably flew at and annoyed — so much so that the man
declared he must carry his custom elsewhere unless the dog
was parted with : this the miller was unwilling to do ; so he
hit on an expedient — by some contrivance, the dog was
suffered to fall into a deep well, and bark himself hoarse
there in vain — no help came — till the obnoxious individual
arrived, let himself down and brought up the prisoner.
From which time nothing could exceed the devotion of the
dog to his rescuer ; whom he always insisted henceforth on
accompanying as far as his home, for one instance of it.

I wonder whether I have anywhere one of the sketches
my father made of my bulldog’s face.

What ‘ tired ‘ you, dearest ? You are not less well, I
trust ? Pray tell me, — and remember there are three days
before our Saturday. I am very much better — the walking
and riding of this morning did me good, too — and what
profits it, if you are not better also ? Love me in caring for
yourself, which is my truest self! And I will go on and
try to love you more than I do — for what may happen ?

Ever your own R.

[Postmark: July 23, 1846]

Wednesday.

Dearest, what you say is unnecessary for you to say — it
is in everything so of course and obvious ! You must have
an eccentric idea of me if you can suppose for a moment
such things to be necessary to say. If they had been unsaid,
it would have been precisely the same, believe me, in
the event.

As to the way of living — now you shall arrange that
for yourself. You shall choose your own lodging, order
your own dinner . . and if you choose to live on locusts and
wild honey, I promise not to complain . . I shall not indeed
be inclined to complain . . having no manner of ambition
about carriages and large houses, even if they were within
our possibilities, — which they may not be, according to Mr.
Surtees’s calculation or experience. The more simply we
live, the better for me ! So you shall arrange it for yourself,
lest I should make a mistake ! . . which, in that question,
is a just possible thing.

One extravagance I had intended to propose to you . .
but it shall be exactly as you like, and I hesitate a little as
I begin to speak of it. I have thought of taking Wilson
with me, . . for a year, say, if we returned then — if not, we
might send her home alone . . and by that time, I should
be stronger perhaps and wiser . . rather less sublimely
helpless and impotent than I am now. My sisters have urged
me a good deal in this matter — but if you would rather it
were otherwise, be honest and say so, and let me alter my
thoughts at once. There is one consideration which I sub-
mit to yours, . . that I cannot leave this house with the
necessary number of shoes and pocket handkerchiefs, without
help from somebody. Now whoever helps me, will
suffer through me. If I left her behind she would be turned
into the street before sunset. Would it be right and just of
me, to permit it ? Consider ! I must manage a sheltering
ignorance for my poor sisters, at the last, . . and for all our
sakes. And in order to that, again, I must have some one
else in my confidence. Whom, again, I would unwillingly
single out for an absolute victim.

Wilson is attached to me, I believe — and, in all the
discussions about Italy, she has professed herself willing to
‘ go anywhere in the world with me.’ Indeed I rather fancy
that she was disappointed bitterly last year, and that it
would not be a pure devotion. She is an expensive servant —
she has sixteen pounds a year, . . but she has her utilities
besides, and is very amiable and easily satisfied, and would
not add to the expenses, or diminish from the economies,
even in the matter of room — I would manage that for her.
Then she would lighten your responsibilities . . as the
Archbishop of Canterbury and company do Mr. Sevan’s.
Well — you have only to consider your own wishes. I
shall not care many straws, if you decide this way or that
way. Let it be as may seem to you wisest.

I like Mr. Chorley’s note. I began to write so late
that I, too, must send you a bare note to-night. May God
bless you, ever dearest. I am tired . . so tired — yet I have
not a long story to tell you of myself for the day’s chronicle
I was just out for the few minutes my walking occupies, and
came home and had coffee at half-past four ; and scarcely
was the cup empty, when Mrs. Jameson arrived — she stayed
while you might count to a hundred — and your name was
not once mentioned. And now, good-night. I hope the
‘ testimonials ‘ may be ‘ satisfactory,’ in this note which will
not wait to be a letter ! Dearest, say how your head is —
do.

I am your Ba, always !

[Postmark: July 22, 1846]

Wednesday Morning.

I did not go out yesterday, and was very glad not to
have a command laid on me to go out, the wind blew so
full of damp and dreariness. Then it was pleasanter to lie
on the sofa and think of you, which I did, till at last I
actually dreamed of you, falling asleep for that purpose.
As to Flush, he came upstairs with a good deal of shame
in the bearing of his ears, and straight to me — no indeed !
I would not speak to him — then he went up to Arabel . .
‘ naughty Flush, go away ‘ . . and Wilson, . . who had
whipped him before, ‘ because it was right,’ she said . . in a
fit of poetical justice, . . did not give him any consolation.
So he lay down on the floor at my feet looking from under
his eyebrows at me. I did not forgive him till nearly
eight o’clock however. And I have not yet given him your
cakes. Almost I am inclined to think now that he has not
a soul. To behave so to you ! It is nearly as bad as if
I had thrown the coffee-cup ! Wicked Flush ! — Do you
imagine that I scolded Wilson when she confessed to having
whipped him ? I did not. It was done with her hand, and
not very hardly perhaps, though ‘he cried,’ she averred to
me — and if people, like Flush, choose to behave like dogs
savagely, they must take the consequences indeed, as dogs
usually do ! And you, so good and gentle to him ! Anyone
but you, would have said ‘ hasty words ‘ at least. I
think I shall have a muzzle for him, to make him harmless
while he learns to know you. Would it not be a good
plan ?

But nobody heard yesterday of either your visit or of
Flush’s misdoings . . so Wilson was discreet, I suppose, as
she usually is, by the instinct of her vocation. Of all the
persons who are not in our confidence, she has the most
certain knowledge of the truth. Dearest, we shall be able
to have Saturday. There will be no danger in it.

Perhaps in the days to come we shall look back on these
days as covetable things. Will you do so, because you
were loved in them as a beginning, or because you were
free ? (Am I not as bad as Flush, to ask such questions ?)
I shall look back on these days gratefully and gladly, because
the good in them has overcome the evil, for the first time in
days of mine. Yet my position is worse than yours on some
accounts — now. Henrietta has had a letter from Capt.
Surtees Cook who says in it, she says, . . ‘ I hope that poor
Ba will have courage to the end.’ There’s a generous sympathy !
Tell me that there is none in the world !

Will you let me know how you are ? Such a letter
you wrote to me on Sunday ! Ah ! — to be anything to
you . . . what is the colour of ambition afterwards ? When
I look forwards I can see no work and no rest, but what is
for you and in you. Even Duty seems to concentrate
itself into one Debt — Dearest !

Yet it will be a little otherwise perhaps ! — not that ever
I shall love you otherwise or less — No.

You shall see some day at Pisa what I will not show you
now. Does not Solomon say that ‘ there is a time to read
what is written.’ If he doesn’t, he ought.

Your very own BA.

[Postmark: July 22, 1846]

Tuesday.

How I long, my sweetest Ba, to know whether any heavy
price is to be paid for our three hours yesterday, — if your
Aunt knew or has discovered since ? I shall not murmur in
any case, I hope . . they are too delicious, these three-hour
visits — and if I could pay for them by myself, Ba, — what
would I not pay ?

Will you let me write something, and forgive me ?
Because it is, I know, quite unnecessary to be written, and,
beside, may almost seem an interference with your own
delicacy, — teaching it its duty ! However, I will venture
to go on, with your hand before my two eyes. Then, — you
remember what we were speaking of yesterday, — house-rents
and styles of living ? You will never overlook, through its
very obviousness, that to consult my feelings on the only point
in which they are sensitive to the world you must endeavour
to live as simply and cheaply as possible, down to my own
habitual simplicity and cheapness, — so that you shall come
and live with me, in a sense, rather than I with Miss
Campbell ! You see, Ba, if you have more money than you
want, you shall save it or spend it in pictures or parrots or
what you please . . you avoid all offence to me who never
either saved money nor spent it — but the large house, I
should be forced to stay in, — the carriage, to enter, I suppose.
And you see too, Ba, that the one point on which I desire
the world to be informed concerning our future life, will be
that it is ordered so — I wish they could hear we lived in one
room like George Sand in ‘ that happy year — ‘

No, there I have put down an absurdity — because, I
shall have to confess a weakness, at some time or other,
which is hardly reconcilable to that method of being happy
— why may I not tell you now, my adored Ba, to whom I
tell everything as it rises to me ? Now put the hand on my
eyes again — now that I have kissed it. I shall begin by
begging a separate room from yours — I could never brush
my hair and wash my face, I do think, before my own
father — I could not, I am sure, take off my coat before you
now — why should I ever ? The kitchen is an unknown
horror to me, — I come to the dining-room for whatever
repast there may be, — nor willingly stay too long there,
— and on the day on which poor Countess Peppa taught me
how maccaroni is made, — then began a quiet revolution,
(indeed a rapid one) against ‘ tagliolini,’ ‘ fettucce,’ ‘ lasagne,’
etc., etc., etc. – typical, typical !

What foolishness . . spare me, my own Ba, and don’t
answer one word, — do not even laugh, — for I know the
exceeding unnecessary foolishness of it !

Chorley has just sent me a note which I will send you
because it is most graceful in its modesty — but you must
not, if you please, return it to me in an envelope that ought
only to hold your own writing, — and so make my heart beat
at first, and my brows knit at last ! (Toss it into ‘ my room,’
at Pisa ! !)

Thus it is to be made happy and unwise ! Never mind
— make me happier still by telling me you are well and have
been out, and where, and when, and how — the footsteps of
you, Ba, should be kissed if I could follow them.

Bless you, ever dearest, dearest, as yesterday, and always
you bless me — I love you with all my heart and soul — yes
Ba!

Your own, very own.

[Postmark: July 20, 1846]

Monday Evening.

Certainly you do know me, my own Ba, beyond all other
knowledge possible to relatives, — that I know — in fact, I
found myself speaking unwarily on a subject where speech
is obliged to stop abruptly — the fault was mine for bringing
up terms, remarks &c. quite inapplicable out of this house, —
where all, as you understand, have seen me so long that
they do not see differences in me, — increases or diminutions ;
I am twice as blind, most likely, to them, after the same
fashion. Still, one is slow to concede an excuse to such
blindness — hence the ‘ hasty words ‘ I told you they charge
me with uttering.

I apprehend no danger from that, to your feeling for me —
it is your own speech my Ba, which I will take from you,
and use — my own general short-comings, you will inevitably
see and be sorry for — but there will be the more need
of your love, which I shall go on asking for daily and nightly
as if I never could have enough — which is the exact
fact ; and also, I shall grow fitter through the love to be
what you would have me, so the end may be better than the
beginning, let us hope.

Will you not do what you can with me who am your
very own ? as you are my own too, but for a different end
— I am yours to operate on, as you are my only lady to
dispose of what belongs to you. Dear, dearest Ba, it is so ;
will ever be so !

Yes, that notice by Chorley is very kind and gratifying.
I wanted — (quite apart from the poor good to me or my
books — but for Chorley’s own sake, I rather wanted) — some
decided streak of red, or spot, or spark, — some life in the
increasing grey of the ashes — this is true, live lovingness of
him — I will tell him so.

For Domett’s letter, — he means, by all that nonsense, that
my health is more in his estimation than any works producible
at its expense. All the calculation about so many
lines a day, so many a month &c., he knows to be absurd . .
you can’t write ‘ so many lines to-day,’ and add next day’s
complement, and so ‘ grow to an end ‘ — any more than you
can paint a picture by thumb-breadths. The other paragraph
about intelligibility laughs at itself all the time . . is
not to be taken for serious.

Indeed I did desire with a great desiring that you should
go out, and now I thank you for all the good account of the
walk, and victory over the wind : and how kind that sister
is ! — I shall never forget it.

My own head, since you will be teazed with intelligence
about it, was not very well yesterday, but is better decidedly
this morning — I, too, will go and put this letter in the post
and think of to-morrow . . for do not I keep to-morrow ?
I shall be with you unless another order comes . . may it
be averted ! And may you be happy always with me, as I
shall be through you . . nay, but half as happy, dearest Ba,
my very own !

Your R.

[Postmark: July 20, 1846]

Sunday.

Dearest, the leaf of yesterday was folded down quite
smoothly and softly. A dinner party swept the thought
of you out of people’s minds. Otherwise I was prepared to
be a little afraid, — for my aunt said to Arabel, upon being
dispensed with so cavalierly from this room, . . (said in the
passage, Arabel told me, with a half-laugh,) ‘Pray which
of Ba’s lovers may this be ? ‘ So Arabel had to tell the
name of the visitor. But the dinner-party set all right, and
this morning I was asked simply whether it had been an
agreeable visit, and what you had written, and banalities
after such a fashion.

Oh, and I went out . . remembering your desire . .
was it not a desire, dearest, dearest ? I went out, any
way — but the wind blew, and I had to hold my veil against
my mouth, doubled, and trebled . . with as many folds,
indeed, as Ajax’s shield . . to keep myself in breathing
order. The wind always gives me a sort of strangling
sensation, which is the effect, I suppose, of having weak
lungs. So it was not a long walk, but I liked it because
you seemed to be with me still, — and Arabel, who walked
with me, was ‘sure, without being told, that I had had a
happy visit, just from my manner.’ The wisest of inter-
preters, I called her, and pour cause.

If ever I mistake you, Robert, doing you an injustice.
. . you ought to be angry, I think, rather and more with me
than with another — I should have far less excuse it appears
to me, for making such a mistake, than any other person in
the world. I thought so yesterday when you were speaking,
and now upon consideration I think so with an increasing
certainty. Is it your opinion that the members of our
family, . . those who live with us always, . . know us best ?
They know us on the side we offer to them . . a bare
profile . . or the head turned round to the ear — yes ! —
they do not, except by the merest chance, look into our
eyes. They know us in a conventional way . . as far from
God’s way of knowing us, as from the world’s — mid-way,
it is — and the truest and most cordial and tender affection
will not hinder this from being so partial a knowledge.
Love ! I love those who at the present moment, . . who
love me (and tenderly on both sides) . . but who are
so far from understanding me, that I never think of
speaking myself into their ears . . of trying to speak myself.
It is wonderful, it is among the great mysteries of life, to
observe how people can love one another in the dark,
blindly . . loving without knowing. And, as a matter of
general observation, if I sought to have a man or woman
revealed to me in his or her innermost nature, I would not
go to the family of the person in question — though I
should learn there best, of course, about personal habits,
and the social bearing of him or her. George Sand delights
me in one of her late works, where she says that the souls of
blood relations seldom touch except at one or two points.
Perfectly true, that is, I think — perfectly.

Remember how you used to say that I did not know
you . . which was true in a measure . . yet I felt I knew
you, and I did actually know you, in another larger measure.
And if now you are not known to me altogether, it is my
dulness which makes me unknowing.

But I know you — and I should be without excuse if
ever I wronged you with a moment’s injustice. I do not
think I ever could depreciate you for a moment, — that
would not be possible. There are other sins against you
(are they against you ?) which bring their own punishment !
You shall never be angry with me for those.

While I was writing, came Mr. Kenyon. As usual he
said that there was no use in his coming — that you had
taken his place, and so on. He was in a high good
humour, though, and spirits, and I did not mind much
what he was pleased to say. More I minded, that he
means ‘to stay in London all the summer ‘ . . which I
can’t be glad of, . . though I was glad at his not persisting
in going to Scotland against his own wishes. But he might
like to go somewhere else — it would be a pleasure, that, in
which I should sympathize ! The more shame for me !

Mr. Chorley pleases me more than he ever pleased me
before ! Only, as an analysis, he has done curiously with
‘Pippa.’ But it is good appreciation, good and righteous,
and he has given me, altogether, a great, great deal of
pleasure. As to the letter, I liked that too in its degree —
and the advice is wise for the head, if foolish for the work.
How can wise people be so foolish ?

I am going out to walk now with Henrietta, and shall
put this letter into the post with my own hand. It is seven
p.m. May God bless you. Do say how you are, dear,
dearest !

I am your very own BA.

[Postmark: July 20, 1846]

Dearest Ba’s face of yesterday, with the smiles and
perfect sweetness, oh, the comfort it is to me through this
day of my especial heaviness ! I don’t know when I have
felt more stupid, and I seem to keep the closelier to you,
Ba. Is that one of my felicities of compliment ? I think if
you were here I should lay my head on your bosom, my
own beloved, and never raise it again. In your last
letter, you speak of those who care less for you than for a
‘ glass of claret ‘ there is something sublime, at all
events, astounding, in the position we occupy each of us,
I, and those less-carers, standing in respect to each other
so like England and Owhyhee, at which, they told me
when I was a boy, I should be pretty sure to arrive if I dug a
hole just through the earth, dropped to the centre and then,
turning round, climbed straight up!

I left here, yesterday, without taking the prints of
Dumas and Hugo there is a head ‘ for remembering ! ‘ and
justifying your commodations ! Chorley says, you see, my
acquisitions are rather accumulated than digested or
words to that effect I am sure at this moment the stupid,
heavy head knows not one thing, as a clear point of know-
ledge, taken in and laid by, orderly and separately. So let
me say here, while I do remember, that a letter from
Forster puts off his visit and Moxon’s till Monday should
any reason therefore, prevent your confirming to me the
gift of Tuesday, this other day will lie open but only in
that case, I trust because Tuesday objects not to Saturday,
does it? while Wednesday looks grave, and Thursday
frowns downright on the same ! Friday, remember, is Mr.
Kenyon’s day.

I wish, dearest, you would tell me precisely what you
have written all my affectionate pride in you rises at once
when I think of your poetry, that is and that is to be you
dear, dear Ba, can you not write on my shoulder while my
head lies as you permit?

I found at home on my return yesterday my friend
Pritchard, who brought me an old notice of Rachel by Jules
Janin of course there is no believing a word but he does say
that she was, at the time he wrote, perfectly ignorant of
the most ordinary rules of grammar, that, for instance, on
meeting him she remarked (alluding to her having played
previously at another theatre than the T. Frangais) ‘ C’était
moi que j’était au Gymnase ! ‘ to which he ought to have
answered, he thinks, ‘ Je le savions ! ‘ I will bring her
portrait, too, if you please and this memoir, untrustworthy
as it is.

I will go now and walk about, I think did you go out,
as you promised, love ? Ah, dearest, you to wonder I
could look up to you for ever as you stand, you who
once wrote to me that, in order to verify a date about
Shelley in a book I lent you, ‘ You had accomplished a
journey to the other end of the room, even ‘ ! And now !
I thankfully know this to be miraculous nor have I to ask
my spiritual director’s opinion thereon to whom, how on
earth can one surrender one’s private right of judgment
when it is only by the exercise of that very right that I
select him from the multitude of would-be directors of me
and the whole world ? What but a deliberate act of judg-
ment takes up Dr. Pusey of Oxford rather than Mrs. Fox of
Finsbury and is it for that pernicious first step that I
determine on never risking a second?

Bless you, ever dearest and do you bless your

very own R.

[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.