Author: EBB

[Postmark: June 6, 1846]

Sunday.

This is the first word I have written out of my room,
these five years, I think . . if I dare count anything beyond
two . . for I do know that one comes after two . . (now
just see what I have written !) that two comes after one, I
meant to say, . . as well as a mathematician. I am writing
now in the back drawing-room, half out of the window for
air, driven out of my own territory by the angel of the sun
this morning. Oh — it is so hot — and the darkness does
not help when the lack is just of air. There is a thick
mist lacquered over with light — it is cauldron-heat, rather
than fire-heat. So different in the country it must be !
Well, everybody being at church or chapel, I knew I could
have this room to myself, without fear even of the dreadful
knocker . . more awful to me than the famous knocks
which used to visit the Wesley family — so here I curl up my
feet ‘more meo’ on the settee, and help to keep the
sabbath by resting upon you. Would Miss Goldsmid call
it as ‘ profane ‘ as anything in your poems ? But it will not:
be more profane for that — as I could prove if we wanted
proofs — only we do not.

Such flowers as you brought me yesterday — such roses !
The roses are best, as coming from your garden ! When I
began to arrange them, I thought I never saw such splendid
roses anywhere — they are more beautiful than what you
brought last year surely ! It seems so to me. Dearest,
how did you get home, and how are you ? and how is your
mother ? Remember to answer my questions, if you please.

After you were gone I received from Mr. Lough a very
gracious intimation that if I would go to see his studio, his
statue of the Queen and other works, he would take care
that no creature should be present, he would uncover all
the works and provide a clear solitude for me — he ‘ would
not do it for a Duchess,’ he said, but he ‘ would for me’ !
Now what am I to say. My sisters tell me that I can go
quite easily. The place is very near, and there are no
stairs. Well, I think I must go. It is very kind and
considerate, and there would be a pleasure, of course. Do
you know that statues have more power over me than all
the pictures and all the colours thereof which the world can
show ? Mr. Kenyon told me once that it was a pure affectation
of mine to say so — and for my own part I could not
see for a long while what was the reason of a most unaffected
preference. I think I see it now. Painting flatters the
senses and makes the Ideal credible in a vulgar way. But
with sculpture it is different — and there is a grand audacity
in the power of an Ideal which, appealing directly to the
Senses, and to the coarsest of them, the Touch, as well
as the Sight, yet forces them to receive Beauty through
the door of an Abstraction which is a means abhorrent to
them. Have I written what I mean, I wonder, or do you
understand it, without? Then there is a great deal, of
course, in that grand white repose ! Like the Ideas of the
Platonic system, these great sculptures seem — when looked
at from a distance.

When you were gone yesterday, and I had had my coffee
and put on my bonnet, I went, with the intention of walking
out, as far as the drawing-room, and there, failed : not even
with your recommendation in my ears, beloved, could I get
any further. Notwithstanding all my flatteries (meaning
the flatteries of me !) I was not at best and strongest,
yesterday, nor am even to-day, though it is nothing to mind
or to mention — only I think I shall not try to walk out in
this heat even to-day, and yesterday it seemed impossible.
So I came back and lay on my own sofa, and presently
began to read ‘ Le Comte de Monte Cristo,’ the new book
by Dumas, (observe how I waste my time — while you learn
how not to fortify cities, out of Machiavelli !) and really he
amuses me with his ‘ Monte Cristo ‘ . . six volumes I am
glad to see — he is the male Scheherazade certainly. Now
that the hero is safe in a dungeon (of the Chateau d’lf) it
will be delightful to see how he will get out — somebody
knocks at the wall already. Only the narrative is not
always very clear to me, inasmuch as, when I read, I unconsciously
interleave it with such thoughts of you as make
very curious cross readings . . j’avais cru remarquer quelques
infidelitÈs . . he really seems to love me — l’homme n’est
jamais qu’un homme . . never was any man like him — ses
traits Ètaient bouleversÈs . . the calmest eyes I ever saw . .
So, Dumas or Machiavelli, it is of the less consequence
what I read, I suppose, while I apply so undestractedly.

May God bless you, ever beloved ! I think of you, I
love you — I forgot again your ‘ Strafford ‘ — Mr. Forster’s
‘ Strafford,’ I beg his pardon for not attributing to him other
men’s works. Not that I mean to be cross — not to him
even.

I am your own.

[Postmark: June 5, 1846]

Thursday.

You are too perfect, too overcomingly good and tender
— dearest you are, and I have no words with which to answer
you. There is little wonder indeed that I, being used so
long to the dark, should stumble and mistake, and see men
like trees walking — and yet I must tell you that I did not
mistake to the extent you have set down for me . . and that
never was I so dull, so idiotic and ungrateful, as to fancy
you into one ‘ wishing to let me down gently with cowardly
excuses.’ Since I first looked you in the face, and before
that day, I have been incapable of defiling the idea of you
with such an unworthy imputation. And surely what I did
fancy, was consistent with the fullest faith in you and in the
completest verity of your affection for myself. You might
have had reasons, surely, which I did not see, without
aggrieving me in any fashion. So do not make me out too
stupid- it is bad enough actually. Yes — those questions
you refer to, turned me down that path— and do tell me
how I could be expected to guess at the real drift of them,
after having been accustomed to walk rather, with men than
with angels ! Ah —and now even, that I see, it makes me
smile and sigh together. To say that I am not worthy, all
at once grows too little to say. No one could be worthy of
such words from you. You are best, best ! ! How much
more do you want me to owe to you, when I begin owing
to you all things, . . the only happiness of my life?

As to Italy, I thought of it first, so I am in no danger of
thinking that you engage me as female courier and
companion . . the feminine of what Mr. Bezzi wants to be,
Miss Bayley told me to-day. So if it is the same thing to
you, we will put off Nova Zembla a little. But how is it
possible to jest, with this letter close by ? Dearest of all,
believe that I am grateful to you as I ought to be . .
penetrated . . touched to the bottom of my heart with the sense
of what you have been to me and are ; dearest beloved !

So do not reproach me with my dull questions, on
Saturday. I won’t ask them any more, . . and I did not
mean by them the wickedness you thought . . so now let
us be tranquil and happy till the fine weather ends. Brightly
it begins, does it not? So hot it is to-day — so very hot in
this room ! Miss Bayley came just as I had been out walking
and was tired ; but she talked and interested me, and I
found out from her that you were not in the gardens when
we drove round them, but in the house when I looked up at
the windows. Very happy and agreeable you all were, she
said, at Mr. Kenyon’s — though Mrs. Jameson missed the
flower-show.

I forgot to tell you that Treppy is a Creole — she would
say so as if she said she was a Roman. She lived, as an
adopted favourite, in the house of my great grandfather in
Jamaica for years, and talks to the delight of my brothers, of
that ‘ dear man ‘ who, with fifty thousand a year, wore
patches at his knees and elbows, upon principle. Then
there are infinite traditions of the great great grandfather,
who flogged his slaves like a divinity : and upon the
beatitude of the slaves as slaves, let no one presume to
doubt, before Treppy. If ever she sighs over the slaves, it
is to think of their emancipation. Poor creatures, to be
emancipated !

May God bless you, dear dearest ! Shall I ever be
better, I wonder, than the torment of your life ? It is I who
wanted to be ‘ justified,’ and not you my beloved, — except as
to your good sense for having made such a choice.

Such as I am however, I am

Your very own

Ba.

[Postmark: June 4, 1846]

Wednesday Evening.

Nothing at all had it to do with your Magna Charta,
beloved, that question of mine. After you were gone the
other day and I began turning your words over and over, . .
(so, I make hay of them to feed the horses of the sun !) it
struck me that you had perhaps an instinct of common
sense, which, with a hand I did not see and a voice I
could not hear, drew you perhaps. So I thought I would
ask. For after all, this is rather a serious matter we are
upon, and if you think that you are not to have your share
of responsibility . . that you are not to consider and arrange
and decide, and perform your own part, . . you are as much
mistaken as ever I was. ‘ Judge what I say.’ For my part,
I have done, it seems to me, nearly as much as I can do. I
do not, at least, seem to myself to have any power to doubt
even, of the path to choose for the future. If for any reason
you had seen wisdom in delay, it would have been a different
thing — and the seeing was a possible thing, you will admit.
I did not ask you if you desired a delay, but if you saw a
reason for it. In the meantime I was absolutely yours, I
remembered thoroughly, . . and the question went simply
to enquire what you thought it best to do with your
own.

For me I agree with your view — I never once thought of
proposing a delay on my own account. We are standing on
hot scythes, and because we do not burn in the feet, by a
miracle, we have no right to count on the miracle’s prolongation.
Then nothing is to be gained — and everything may be
lost — and the sense of mask-wearing for another year would
be suffocating. This for me. And for yourself, I shall not
be much younger or better otherwise, I suppose, next year.
I make no motion, then, for a delay, further than we have
talked of, . . to the summer’s end.

My good . . happiness ! Have I any that did not come
from you, that is not in you, that you should talk of my good
apart from yours ? I shudder to look back to the days when
you were not for me. Was ever life so like death before ?
My face was so close against the tombstones, that there
seemed no room even for the tears. And it is unexampled
generosity of yours, that, having done all for me, you should
write as you always do, about my giving . . giving ! Among
the sons of men there is none like you as I believe and
know, . . and every now and then declare to my sisters.

Dearest, if I vexed you, teazed you, by that question
which proved unnecessary . . forgive me ! Had you
uncomfortable thoughts in the gardens to-day ? Perhaps !
And I could not smooth them away, though I drew as
near as I dared . . though I was in a carriage at seven
o’clock, running a mystical circle round your tents and music.
Did you feel me, any more than if I were a ‘ quick spider,’ I
wonder.

Henrietta and Arabel were going to spend the evening
with cousins of ours, and as the carriage waited for the
plaiting of Henrietta’s hair, or the twisting of the ringlets,
Arabel said to me ‘ Will you go for a quarter of an hour ? ‘
And in a minute, we were off . . she and Flush and Lizzie
and I. Never did I expect again to see so many people —
but I thought of one so much that my head was kept from
turning round — and we drove once round the ‘ inner circle,’
so called, and looked up to Mr. Kenyon’s windows — and
there, or there, you were, certainly ! — and either there, or
there, you were being disquieted in your thoughts by me, as
certainly ! Ah forgive me. After all, . . listen . . I love
you with the fulness of my nature. Nothing of all this
unspeakable goodness and tenderness is lost on me. . . I
catch on my face and hands every drop of all this dew.

So now . . you are not teazed ? we are at one again, and
may talk of outside things again ?

But first, I must hear how the head is. How is it, best
and dearest ? And you had my letter at last, had you not ?
Because I wrote it as usual, of course. May God bless you
— and me as I am altogether your own.

Twice (observe) I have been out to-day — the first time,
walking. Also, twice have I written to you.

Say how your mother is — and yourself! —

George and Henrietta were asked to meet you at Mr.
Kenyon’s — but only to-day, and too late to forestall other
engagements. Did you enjoy any of it ? Tell me.

[Postmark: June 3, 1846]

Tuesday Night.

My own dearest who are never to offend me! — And,
true, that is — because I have tried, before now, to be offended,
and could not, . . being under a charm. So it is not my
fault but yours, that never you see me angry.

But your head, my head . . is it better, dearest, by this
time, or is it ringing and aching even, under the crashing
throat-peals of Mr. Landor’s laughter ? he laughs, I remember
like an ogre — he laughs as if laughter could kill, and he
knew it, thinking of an enemy. May it do his friends no
harm to-night ! How I think of you, and, in every thought,
love you ! Yes, surely I can love you as if I were worthier !
and better perhaps and if I were better, . . though that may
sound like a riddle. And dear dearest, why do you talk of
your faults so ? It is not at all gracious of you indeed. You
are on a high hill above me where I cannot reach your hand
— (in the myths, be it understood) and you sigh and say
querulously … ‘ By and bye I may have to take a step
down lower.’ Now is that gracious of you, or worthy of
your usual chivalry ? You ought to be glad, on the contrary,
to be so much nearer me — ! in the myths, be it understood !
For out of the myths we are near enough, as near as two
hearts can be,. . I believe. . I trust !

You will not mistake what I said to you this morning
my own beloved — you will not ? My promise to you was to
place the decision in your hands — and my desire is simply
that you should decide according to your judgment and
understanding . . I do not say, your affections, this
time. Now it has struck me that you have a sort of
instinct . .

But no — I shall not write on that subject to-night.
Rather I will tell you what I have been doing to-day to be so
very, very tired. To-day I paid my first visit — not to Mr.
Kenyon but to an older friend than even he — to Miss
Trepsack . . learn that name by heart . . whom we all of
us have called ‘ Treppy ‘ ever since we could speak. Moreover
she has nursed . . tossed up . . held on her knee —
Papa when he was an infant; the dearest friend of his
mother and her equal, I believe, in age — so you may suppose
that she is old now. Yet she can outwalk my sisters, and
except for deafness, which, dear thing, she carefully explains
as ‘a mere nervous affection,’ — is as young as ever. But
she calls us all ‘ her children ‘ . . and I, you are to understand,
am ‘ her child,’ par excellence . . her acknowledged
darling and favourite, — perhaps because tenderly she thinks
it right to carry on the love of her beloved friend, whom
she lived with to the last. Once she saw you in the
drawing-room — and you perhaps saw her. She dines here
every Sunday, and on the other days of course often, and has
the privilege of scolding everybody in the house when she
is out of humour, and of being ‘ coaxed ‘ by slow degrees
back into graciousness. So, she had full right to have me
on my first visit — had she not ? and the goodness and kindness
and funniness of the reception were enough to laugh
and cry over. First . . half way up-stairs, I found a chair,
to sit and rest on. Then the windows were all shut up,
because I liked it so in my room. And then, for occulter
reasons, a feast was spread for Arabel and Flush and me,
which made me groan in the spirit, and Flush wag his tail,
to look upon . . ice cream and cakes, which I was to taste
and taste in despite of all memories of dinner an hour before
. . and cherrybrandy ! ! ! which I had to taste too, . . just
then saved alive by an oath, on Arabel’s part, that I was
‘ better without it.’ Think of dear Treppy ! — of all the
kindness, and fondness ! Almost she kissed me. to pieces
as the ‘ darlingest of children.’ So I am glad I went — and
so is Flush, who highly approves of that class of hospitable
attentions, and wishes it were the way of the world every
day. But I am tired ! so tired ! The visiting is a new
thing.

It is an old one that I should write such long letters. If
I am tired, you might retort with the Ed io anche !— Yet you
will not, because you are supernaturally good ; and as it was
in the beginning, ever shall be, you say !

But will you explain to me some day why you are sorry
for Italy having been mentioned between us, and why you
would rather prefer Nova Zembla ? So as to kill me the faster,
is it ?

Your ∆lian says that the oldest painters used to write
under a tree, when they painted one, ‘ This is a tree.’ So I
must do, I suddenly remember, under my jests . . I being,
it would appear, as bad an artist in jesting, as they were in
painting. Therefore . . see the last line of the last paragraph
. . ‘ This is a jest. ‘

And this is the earnest thing of all . . that I love you as
I can love — and am for ever . . living and dying . .

Your own —

Take care of the head, I entreat ! and say how you
are ! and how your mother is ! I am grieved to hear of that
relapse !

[Postmark: June 2, 1846]

Tuesday.

You understand, dearest beloved, all I could mean about
your sister’s coming here. Both I was afraid of not being
liked enough . . which was one reason, and none the less
reasonable because of your being ‘ infatuated ‘ . . (oh, that
is precisely the word to use, and indeed I never falter to
myself in the applying of it !) and I felt it to be impossible
for me to receive so near a relative of yours, your own only
sister, as I should another and a stranger. There would be
the need in me of being affectionate to your sister ! how
could I not ? and yet, how could I? Everything is at once
too near and too far — it is enough to make me tremble to
think of it — it did, when Mr. Kenyon made his proposition.
I would rather, ten times over, receive Queen Victoria and
all her court do you understand ? can you
misunderstand ? can you pretend to fancy, as you talked yesterday,
that the reluctance came from my having ‘ too many visitors,’
or from any of those common causes. Why, she is your
sister — and that was the cause of the reluctance. You will
not dare to turn it into a wrong against yourself.

Now I am going to ask you a question, dearest of mine,
and you will consider it carefully and examine your own
wishes in respect to it, before I have any answer. In fact
it is not necessary to treat of the subject of it at all at this
moment — we have a great deal of time before us. Still, I
want to know whether, upon reflection, you see it to be wise
and better for me to go to Italy with Miss Bayley, or with
any other person who may be willing to take me, (supposing
I should find such a plan possible) and that you should
follow with Mr. Chorley or alone, . . leaving other thoughts
for another year. Or if I find this scheme, as far as I am
concerned, impossible, shall we gain anything, do you think,
on any side of the question that you can see, by remaining
quietly as we are, you at New Cross, and I here, until next
year’s summer or autumn? Shall we be wiser, more
prudent, for any reason, or in any degree, by such a delay ?

It is the question I ask you — it is no proposal of mine,
understand — nor shall I tell you my own impression about
it. I have told you that I would do as you should decide,
and I will do that and no other. Only on that very account
it is the more necessary that you should decide well, and
according to the best lights of your own judgment and
reason.

I forgot to talk to you yesterday of your Statesmen
which I read with a peculiar sort of pleasure, coming and
going as I see you and miss you. There is no mistaking
your footsteps along the sands.

May God bless you, dear dearest ! Say how your head
is, and love me so much more than Machiavelli, as to spare
it from farther injury. It is not hard to think of you to-day
in this chair, where you were sitting yesterday — do you
think it is ?

Your own

Ba.

[Postmark: May 30, 1846]

Saturday.

You shall have a visit from me on the seventh day as
on the others, I think, because I remember you every day
equally, and because, without waiting for your Saturday’s
letter, I have always with me enough of you, to thank you.
This morning, Henrietta and I went as usual to Hodgson’s
and took possession of the chair in waiting, as Flush did of
the whole territory, setting himself, with all the airs of a
landed proprietor, to snap at the shop boy. Nota bene —
Flush is likely to injure my popularity if I take him about
with me much. He has been used, you see, to be ‘ CÊsar
in his own house,’ and the transition to being CÊsar everwhere
is the easiest thing in the world. Yet as to leaving
him at home, it is impossible, . . not to mention other
objections ! His delight in going out in the carriage is
scarcely a natural thing — but I have told you of it. Yesterday
I was in the back drawing-room waiting to go out, and
just said to him, ‘ Flush ! go and see if the carriage is come’
— instantly he ran to the front windows, standing on his
hind legs and looking up the street and down. Now Mr.
Kenyon would declare that was my invention. Yet it
is the literal truth of history.

Coming back from Hodgson’s, we passed our door and
walked to 57 and home, which is an improvement in the
distance. Then I walked up-stairs to the drawing-room,
and was carried the rest of the way. May I be tired a
little, after it all ? Just a little, perhaps.

Henrietta dined at Mr. Lough’s yesterday, and met Miss
Camilla Toulmin who was gracious . . and Professor
Forbes, who can do nothing without the polka, . . and
sundries. There was a splendid dinner, and wine of all
vintages — one is in a strait in such cases to know how to
praise at once the hospitable intentions and to blame the
bad taste — surely it is bad taste in a man like Mr. Lough
who lives by his genius, to give ambitious dinners like a man
who lives by his dinners. The true dignity of simplicity in
these things were worth such a man’s holding, one might
think. But he is kind and liberal, and a good artist, . .
and sent me a very gracious invitation to go and see his
works.

The Hedleys are likely to be in England this summer
again more’s the pity. I am fond of them, but would
rather, rather, not see them just now, and not be seen by
them — for eyes have they, and can see. My uncle Hedley
comes next week, . . comes to London for several weeks
. . that is certain — and my aunt after settling the younger
part of her family, at Bareges for the summer, ponders
coming, . . as I behold from afar off, . . with her daughter
Arabella, who is to be married immediately to the younger
brother of the great Brewery partner, Barclay and Bevan, a
Mr. Bevan. But they will not be in this house, and we
must manage as we can, dearest ! One leap over Sunday,
and Monday comes bringing you ! Then, I shall have you
near on Tuesday besides, and Wednesday, afterwards ! how
the cup overflows ! May God bless you my beloved ! It
is not exaggeration to say that I feel you in the air and the
sun.

Ever and ever your own I am !

Ba.

[Postmark: May 30, 1846]

Friday.

I have your letter . . you who cannot write ! The
contrariety is a part of the ‘ miracle.’ After all it seems to
me that you can write for yourself pretty well— rather too
well I used to think from the beginning. But if you persist
in the proposition about my doing it for you, leaving room
for your signature . . shall it be this way ?

Show me how to get rid of you.

(signed) R. B.

Now isn’t it I who am . . not ‘balancing my jewel’
over the gulph . . but actually tossing it up in the air out
of sheer levity of joyousness ? Only it is not perhaps such
dangerous play as it looks : there may be a little string
perhaps, tying it to my finger. Which, if it is not imprudence
in act, is imprudence in fact, you see !

Dearest, I committed a felony for your sake to-day — so
never doubt that I love you. We went to the Botanical
Gardens, where it is unlawful to gather flowers, and I was
determined to gather this for you, and the gardeners were
here and there . . they seemed everywhere . . but I
stooped down and gathered it. Is it felony, or burglary on
green leaves — or what is the name of the crime ? would the
people give me up to the police, I wonder ? Transie de peur,
I was, . . listening to Arabel’s declaration that all gathering
of flowers in these gardens is highly improper, — and I
made her finish her discourse, standing between me and
the gardeners — to prove that I was the better for it.

How pretty those gardens are, by the way ! We went
to the summer-house and sate there, and then on, to the
empty seats where the band sit on your high days. What I
enjoy most to see, is the green under the green . . where
the grass stretches under trees. That is something unspeakable
to me, in the beauty of it. And to stand under
a tree and feel the green shadow of the tree ! I never knew
before the difference of the sensation of a green shadow and
a brown one. I seemed to feel that green shadow through
and through me, till it went out at the soles of my feet and
mixed with the other green below. Is it nonsense, or not ?
Remember that by too much use we lose the knowledge
and apprehension of things, and that I may feel therefore
what you do not feel.

But in everything I felt you — and always, dearest
beloved, you were nearer to me than the best.

Well ; to go on with my story. Coming home and
submitting to be carried up-stairs because I was tired, the
news was that Miss Bayley had waited to see me three
quarters of an hour. Then she sate with me an hour — and
oh, such kind, insisting, persisting plans about Italy ! I did
not know what to say, so I was niaise and grateful, and said
‘ thank you, thank you ‘ as I could Did Mrs. Jameson
tell you of her scheme of going to Florence for two years
and to Venice for one, taking her niece with her in order to
an ‘ artistical education ‘ ? And Mr. Bezzi, who is the ‘ most
accurate of men,’ furnishes the details of necessary expenses,
and assures her in his programme that she may ‘ walk in silk
attire ‘ and drive her carriage like an English aristocrat, for
three hundred a year, at Florence — but the place is English-
ridden . . filled and polluted. Sorrento is better or even
Pisa. We will keep our Siren-isles to ourselves . . will we
not?

And now tell me. Was there not a picture of Sirens by
Etty, exhibited years ago . . which was also ‘ abominable,’
as I thought when I saw it ? Is it the same picture returning
like a disquieted ghoule . . much more that, than like
a Siren at all, if it is the same, . . I remember it was
scarcely to be looked at for hideousness . . though I heard
some carnivorous connoisseurs praising the ‘ colouring ‘ ! !
Foreigners might refer such artistical successes to our
national ‘beef . . . ‘le bifteak’ ideal. The materialism
of Art.

Can you love me so? do you? . . will you always?
And is any of that love ‘ lost,’ do you think, . . as the saying
is ? Indeed it is not. I put golden basins all round (the
reverse shape of lachrymatories) to catch every drop as it
falls, . . so that when we two shall meet together in the
new world, I may look in your face (as I cannot at this
moment) and say ‘ None of the love was lost, though all of
it was undeserved.’ May God bless you, dearest, best !
My heart is in you, I think. You would laugh to see the
books I take up . . first, ‘ Strafford ‘ . . then Suetonius to
see about your Caesar . . then the Naples book. Oh, but I
find you out in the Statesmen . . for all the dim light.

Your very own

Ba.

[Postmark: May 29, 1846]

Thursday.

Dearest dearest, I thought I had lost my letter to-night,
for not a sound came like a postman’s knock . . I thought
I had lost my letter, talking of losing jewels. I waited and
waited, and at last broke silence to Arabel with, ‘ when will
the post come ? ‘ ‘ Not to-night,’ said she — ‘ it is nearly ten.’
On which I exclaimed so pitifully and with such a desperate
sense of loss, ‘ You mean to say that I shall have no letter
to-night,’ ? . . that after she had laughed a very little, she
went down-stairs to search the letterbox and brought me
what I wanted.

And you think it possible that I should give up my letters
and their golden fountain ? — I ! . . while I live and have
understanding ! I can’t fancy what manner of eagles you
believe in. If in real live eagles, . . why it is as probable
as any other thing of the sort, that I or you should be
snatched away by an eagle . . . the eagle who used to live,
for instance, at the Coliseum of Regent’s Park. And when
I ride away upon an eagle, I may take a wrong counsel perhaps
that hour from other birds of the air : . . . but till
then, I am yours to have and to hold, . . unless, as you say,
you open your hand wide and cry with a distinct voice, ‘ Go.’
It shall be your doing and not mine, if we two are to part —
or God’s own doing, through illness and death. And the
way to avert danger is to avoid observation and discussion,
as much as we can — and we have not been frightened much
yet, . . now have we ? As for Wednesday, there is time to
think. But how can you leave your sister ? you cannot.
So unless you derange your ‘ myth ‘ altogether, and find a
trysting place for us, . . . each mounted on an eagle, . .
in Nephelococcygia, we had better be satisfied, it seems to
me, with Monday and Saturday.

I was out to-day as you saw by my letter, which with my
own hand I dropped into the post. I liked to do it beyond
what you discern. And how the sun shone, — and the little
breath of wind could do nobody harm, I felt. Also there
was the ‘ Autography ‘ in the shop-window to see, before I sate
down in the shop. So you were thought of by necessity,
besides the freewill.

Do you not see that I am bound to you hand and foot ?
Why do you not see what God sees ?

But it is late, and the rest must be for to-morrow. The
sender of the rose-tree sent to-day a great heliotrope — so,
presently, you will have to seek me in a wood.

Everywhere your own

Ba.

[Postmark: May 28, 1846]

Thursday Morning.

Dearest it is my fancy to write quickly this morning and
take my letter to the post myself. Oh, I shall do it this time
— there will be no obstacle. The office is just below Hodgson’s,
the bookseller’s. And so with this letter, please to
understand that I go to you twice and wholly, once in the
spirit, and again in the body.

But there is nothing to tell you, except that I think of
you with the thought which never can change essentially,
while it deepens always. What I meant to say yesterday
was simply, that I, knowing that, should be ‘ bad ‘ if I could
fail practically to myself and you. I have known from the
beginning the whole painful side of what is before me, also
. . I should have no excuse therefore for any weakness in
any fear. Should I not be ‘ bad ‘ then, and more unworthy
of you than even according to my own account, if the obstacle
came from me ? It never can. Remember to be sure of it.

A change of feeling indeed would be a different thing,
and we think exactly alike on the fit consequences of it.
Which change is however absolutely impossible in my
position and to me, ‘ for reasons . . for reasons ‘ . . . . you
guess at some of them, some are spoken, and others cannot
be.

In one word for all, life seems to come to me only through
you.

I am your very own.

Ba.

[Postmark: May 26, 1846]

Monday Morning.

My beloved I scarcely know what to say about the poem.
It is almost profane and a sin to keep you from writing it
when your mind goes that way, — yet I am afraid that you
cannot begin without doing too much and without suffering
as a consequence in your head. Now if you make yourself
ill, what will be the end ? So you see my fears ! Let it be
however as it must be ! Only you will promise to keep from
all excesses, and to write very very gently. Ah — can you
keep such a promise, if it is made ever so ? There are the
fears again.

You are very strange in what you say about my reading
your poetry — as if it were not my peculiar gladness and
glory ! — my own, which no man can take from me. And
not you indeed ! Yet I am not likely to mistake your poetry
for the flower of your nature, knowing what that flower is,
knowing something of what that flower is without a name,
and feeling something of the mystical perfume of it. When
I said, or when others said for me, that my poetry was the
flower of me, was it praise, did you think, or blame ? might
it not stand for a sarcasm ? It might, — if it were not true,
miserably true after a fashion.

Yet something of the sort is true, of course, with all poets
who write directly from their personal experience and emotions
— their ideal rises to the surface and floats like the bell
of the waterlily. The roots and the muddy water are subaudita
you know — as surely there, as the flower.

But you . . you have the superabundant mental life and
individuality which admits of shifting a personality and
speaking the truth still. That is the highest faculty, the
strongest and rarest, which exercises itself in Art, — we are
all agreed there is none so great faculty as the dramatic.
Several times you have hinted to me that I made you
careless for the drama, and it has puzzled me to fancy how
it could be, when I understand myself so clearly both the
difficulty and the glory of dramatic art. Yet I am conscious
of wishing you to take the other crown besides — and after
having made your own creatures speak in clear human voices,
to speak yourself out of that personality which God made,
and with the voice which He tuned into such power and
sweetness of speech. I do not think that, with all that
music in you, only your own personality should be dumb,
nor that having thought so much and deeply on life and its
ends, you should not teach what you have learnt, in the
directest and most impressive way, the mask thrown off
however moist with the breath. And it is not, I believe, by
the dramatic medium, that poets teach most impressively —
I have seemed to observe that ! . . it is too difficult for the
common reader to analyse, and to discern between the vivid
and the earnest. Also he is apt to understand better always,
when he sees the lips move. Now, here is yourself, with
your wonderful faculty! — it is wondered at and recognised
on all sides where there are eyes to see — it is called wonderful
and admirable ! Yet, with an inferior power, you might
have taken yourself closer to the hearts and lives of men,
and made yourself dearer, though being less great. Therefore
I do want you to do this with your surpassing power —
it will be so easy to you to speak, and so noble, when
spoken.

Not that I usen’t to fancy I could see you and know you,
in a reflex image, in your creations ! I used, you remember.
How these broken lights and forms look strange and unlike
now to me, when I stand by the complete idea. Yes, now
I feel that no one can know you worthily by those poems.
Only . . I guessed a little. Now let us have your own voice
speaking of yourself — if the voice may not hurt the speaker
— which is my fear.

Evening. — Thank you, dearest dearest ! I have your
parcel — I have your letters . . . three letters to-day, it is
certainly feast day with me. Thank you my own dearest
The drawings I had just fixed in my mind, courageously to
ask for, because as you meant me to keep them I did not
see why I should throw away a fortune — and they return to
me with interest . . I observe these new vivid sketches !
Some day I shall put them into a book, as you should have
done. Then for the Roman ode, and all the rest, thank
you, thank you. I looked here and looked there, though,
for a letter — I could not find it at first, and was just saying
to myself quite articulately ‘ What wickedness ‘ ! . . . meaning
that it was wickedness in you to send me a parcel without
a word, . . when I came upon the folded paper. For I looked
inside the books, be sure. I did not toss them away . . .

There’s the gratitude of the world, you see ! and of
womankind in particular ! there’s the malign spirit of the
genus coffee-cup-throw-arum! Talking of which coffee-cups,
you dare me to it. Which is imprudent, to say the least of
it. I heard once of her most gracious Majesty’s throwing a
tea-cup, — whereupon Albertus Magnus, who is no conjurer,
could find nothing better to do than to walk out of the room
in solemn silence. If I had been he, I should have tied
the royal hands. I think ; for when women get to be warlike
after that demonstrative fashion, it seems to me to be allowable
to teach them that they are not the strongest. I say it,
never thinking of my ‘ licence to ‘ throw coffee-cups — which
you granted, knowing very well what I know intimately, . .
that . . that . .

I have a theory about you. Was ever anybody in the
world, . . a woman at least, . . angry with you? If anyone
ever tried, did she not fail in the first breath of the trying ? —
go out to curse like the prophet, and bless instead ? Tell
me if anyone was ever angry with you ? It is impossible, I
know perfectly. Therefore, as to the coffee-cup license, . .
the divine Achilles, invulnerable all but the heel, might as
well have said to his dearest foe ‘ Draw out your sword, O
Diomede, and strike me across the head, prick me in the
forehead, slash me over the ears, . .’ and that stand for a
proof of courage !

What stuff I do write, to be sure. I was out to-day walking,
with Arabel and Flush, and rested at the bookseller’s ;
but as I went farther than the other day, I let Stormie carry
me up-stairs, . . it is such a long way ! Say how you are,
dearest — you do not ! Shall you walk so fast when you
walk with me under the trees ? I shall not let you — I shall
hang back, as Flush does, when he won’t go with a string.
Ah — little (altogether) you know perhaps what a hard
Degree that B : A : is, to take the BA which is not a
Bachelor’s.

No, no, for the rest. It was not any Brown on earth,
but the only Browning of the great genius, who was shown
up as intimate friend to the Miss Cokers and elect husband
of that cloud, Miss Campbell the ‘ great heiress ‘ — all
in proportion, observe ! But I do entreat you not to say a
word to Dr. White or another. Why should you ? It is
mere nonsense, — so do let it evaporate quietly. Why, with
all my doubts for which you have blamed me, . . at the
thickest and saddest of the doubting, it never was what
people could say of you that could move me. And this is
so foolish, and unbelieved even by the very persons who say
it, perhaps ! Let it pass away with other dust, in the wind.
It is not worth the watering.

May God bless you ! This is my last letter . . already !
I had another criticism to-day from America, in a book called
‘ Thoughts on the Poets,’ which is written by a Mr. Tuckermann,
and selects its poets on the most singular principle . . or
rather on none at all . . beginning with Petrarch, ending with
Bryant, receiving Tennyson, Procter, Hunt, and your Ba . .
and not a word of you ! Stupid book — Petrarch and Alfieri
are the only foreign poets admitted — criticisms, swept back
to the desk from the magazines, I dare say. Very kind to
me — you shall see if you like.

And now . . good-night at last ! it must come. Have I
not written you one letter as long as the three ? Only not
worth a third as much — that I know.

Wholly and ever your

Ba.

Oh I must speak, though I meant to be silent ! though
first, I meant to keep the great subject of the Statesmen for
an explosion on Wednesday. I gave up the early poems
because I felt contented to read them afterwards — but listen
. . my Statesmen , I will not give up. Now listen — I expect
nothing at all from them — they were written for another
person, and under peculiar circumstances . . they are probably
as bad as anything written by you, can be. Will that
do, to say ? And may I see them ? Now I ask ever so
humbly . . Dearest !