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[Postmark: July 2, 1846]

Wednesday.

No, No ! indeed I never did. If you heard me say
‘ Robert,’ it was on a stair-landing in the House of Dreams
– never anywhere else ! Why how could you fancy such a
thing ? Wasn’t it rather your own disquieted Conscience
which spoke instead of me, saying ‘ Robert, don’t be extra-
vagant.’ Yes – just the speech that is, for a ‘ good uneasy,’
discerning Conscience and you took it for my speech !
‘ Don’t be extravagant ‘ I may certainly have said. Both I
and the Conscience might have said so obvious a thing.

Ah and now I have got the name, shall I have courage
to say it ? tell me, best councillor ! I like it better than
any other name, though I never spoke it with my own lips
– I never called any one by such a name . . except once
when I was in the lane with Bertha. One uncle I have,
called Robert but to me he is an ‘ uncle Hedley ‘ and no
more. So it is a white name to take into life. Isn’t this
an Hebraic expression of a preferring affection . . ‘ I have
called thee by thy name} ? And therefore, because you are
the best, only dearest ! – – Robert.

You passed by and I never knew ! How foolish – but
really it quite strikes me as something wonderful, that I
should not have known. I knew however of your being in
London, because . . . (don’t expect supernatural evidence)
Mrs. Jameson told me. She was here with me about five,
and brought her niece whom I liked just for the reasons you
give ; and herself was feeling and affectionate as ever : – it
is well that you should give me leave to love her a little.
Once she touched upon Italy . . and I admitted that I
thought of it, and thought it probable as an event . . on
which she pressed gently to know ‘on what I counted.’
‘ Perhaps on my own courage,’ I said. ‘ Oh,’ she exclaimed
‘ now I see clearly.’

Which made me smile . . the idea of her seeing clearly,
but earnestly and cordially she desired me to remember that
to be useful to me in any manner, would give her pleasure.
Such kindness ! The sense of it has sunk into my heart.
You cannot praise her too much for me. She was so kind,
that when she asked me to go to see her in Mortimer Street
on Friday, I could not help agreeing at once : and I am to
have the sofa and no company – that’s a promise. She
asked me to go at twelve o’clock, and to bring Mr. Kenyon
for an escort – but I would not answer for Mr. Kenyon’s
going, only half promising for myself. Now I must try to
fix a later hour, because . .

Listen to the because. My aunt, Miss Clarke, and my
cousin, her adopted daughter and niece, come to-morrow
evening, and stay in this house . . oh, I cannot tell you how
long : for a whole week as a beginning, certainly. I have
been sighing and moaning so about it that Arabel calls it
quite a scandal – but when one can’t be glad, why should it
be so undutiful to appear sad ? If she had but stayed in
Paris six months longer ! Well ! – and to-morrow morning
Miss Mitford comes to spend the day like the kind dear
friend she is ; and I, not the least in the world glad to see
her ! Why have you turned my heart into such hard por-
phyry ? Once, when it was plain clay, every finger (of these
womanly fingers) left a mark on it – and now, . . you see !
Even Mrs. Jameson makes me grateful to her chiefly (as I
know in myself) because she sees you as you are in part,
and will forgive me for loving you as soon as she hears of it
. . however she may, and must consistently, expect us to
torment one another, according to the way of the ‘ artistic
temperament,’ evermore, and ever more and more. But for
the rest, the others who do not know you and value you . .
I hate to see them . . and there’s the truth ! There is some-
thing too in the concealment, the reserve, the doubleness
enforced on occasion ! . which is painful and hateful.
Detestable it all is.

And I like La Cava too ! Think of a hollow in the
mountain . . something like a cave, do you think ? At least
it must be a hollow in the mountains. I wrote to my friend
this morning to ask if the place is considered warm, and if
she knew any more of it. The ‘ porticoes as at Bologna ‘ look
attractive too by the dreamlight we look at them by ; and
Baba may escape the forty thieves of English in the Cave,
with a good watchword like Sesame – now that’s half my
nonsense and half yours, I beg you to observe. I won’t be
at the charge of it all.

I was out to-day – walked up, walked down, in my old
fashion – only I do improve in walking, I think, and gain
strength.

May God bless you dear dearest ! I am your own.

[Postmark: 1846-07-0]

Wednesday.

Dearest – dearest, you did once, one time only, call me
by my name – Robert ; and though it was to bid ‘ R. not talk
extravagances ‘ (your very words) still the name so spoken
became what it never had been before to me. I never am
called by any pet-name, nor abbreviation, here at home or
elsewhere . . Oh, best let it alone . . it is one of my in-
communicable advantages to have a Ba of my own, and call
her so – indeed, yes, my Ba ! I write ‘ dearest,’ and ‘ most
dearest,’ but it all ends in – ‘ Ba,’ and the ‘my’ is its frame-
work, – its surrounding arm – Ba – my own Ba ! ‘ Robert ‘
is in Saxon, (ni fallor), ‘ famous in counsel,’ so let him give
a proof of his quality in counselling you to hold your good,
happy inspiration about La Cava (my French map-maker
must have had Ceva in Piedmont in his head) for at such a
place, so situate, we renounce not one sight at Salerno, nor
Amalfi, nor Sorrento . . four miles . . the distance between
your house and Highgate, perhaps ! Cava, – the hollow of
a hill ; and such hills and such hollows are in that land !
Oh, let it be La Cava or Seven Dials, with you !

I passed through Seven Dials this morning – and after-
ward, by your house, – with a heart full of thoughts, – not fuller
than usual, but they were more stirring and alive, near their
source. I called at Mrs. Procter’s door (proceeding from
Forster’s) and then on Mrs. Jameson whom I found and
talked with pleasantly till a visitor came. I do extremely
appreciate her, delight in her . . to avoid saying ‘ love ‘ – I
was never just to her before, far from it. I saw her niece,
a quiet earnest-looking little girl. But did it not please me
to call in at Moxon’s and hear that (amongst other literary
news dexterously enquired after) Miss Barrett’s poems were
selling very well and would ere long be out of print ? And,
after that pleasure, came the other of finding dear, generous,
noble Carlyle had sent his new edition of ‘ Cromwell,’ three
great volumes, with his brave energetic assurance of ‘ regards ‘
and ‘ many ‘ of them, in black manly writing on the first
page. So may he continue to like me till he knows you ;
when it will be ‘ mine ‘ instead of me, that he shall love –
‘ love ‘ ? I let the whole world love you – if they can over-
take my love. As I read on, about the visit to Mr. Boyd,
I thought, ‘ I trust she will kiss his forehead,’ – and I kiss
yours – thus – for that, too, – in gratitude for that. You dear,
good, blessing of a Ba, how I kiss you ! –

R. B.

I am quite well to-day, and my mother is quite well –
The good account of the visit is enough to make me happy
on a Wednesday – leading to a Saturday ! Then my two
letters !

I did not see Moxon – only the brother – who tells odd
stories drily ; one made me laugh to-day. Poor Mr. Reade,
Landor’s love, sent a book to Campbell the Poet, and then
called on him … to discover him in the very act of wiping
a razor on a leaf torn out of the book, laid commodiously by
his toilet-table for the express purpose.

[Postmark: July 1, 1846]

Tuesday Evening.

Thank you for letting me see dear Mr. Kenyon’s letter.
He loves you, admires you, trusts you. When what is done
cannot be undone, then he will forgive you besides – that
is, he will forgive both of us, and set himself to see all
manner of good where now he would see evil if we asked
him to look. So we will not, if you please, ask him to look
on the encouragement of ever so many more kind notes,
pleasant as they are to read, and worthy to trust to, under
certain conditions. Dear Mr. Kenyon – but how good he
is ! And I love him more (shall it be under-love ?) because
of his right perception and understanding of you – no one
among men sets you higher than he does as a man and as a
poet – even if he misses the subtle sense, sometimes.

So you dine with him – don’t you ? And I shall have
you on Wednesday instead of Thursday ! yes, certainly.
And on Saturday, of course, next time.

In the carriage, to-day, I went first to Mr. Kenyon’s, and
as he was not at home, left a card for a footstep. Then
Arabel and Flush and I proceeded on our way to Mr. Boyd’s
in St. John’s Wood, and I was so nervous . . so anxious for
an excuse for turning back . . that . . can you guess what
Arabel said to me ? ‘ Oh Ba ‘ ; she said, ‘ such a coward as
you are, never will be . . married, while the world lasts.’
Which made me laugh if it did not make me persevere – for
you see by it what her notion is of an heroic deed ! So,
there, I stood at last, at the door of poor Mr. Boyd’s
dark little room, and saw him sitting . . as if he had not
moved these seven years – these seven heavy, changeful
years. Seeing him, my heart was too full to speak at first,
but I stooped and kissed his poor bent-down forehead,
which he never lifts up, his chin being quite buried in his
breast. Presently we began to talk of Ossian and Cyprus
wine, and I was forced, as I would not have Ossian for a
god, to take a little of the Cyprus, – there was no help for
me, nor alternative : so I took as little as I could, while he
went on proving to me that the Adamic fall and corruption
of human nature (Mr. Boyd is a great theologian) were
never in any single instance so disgustingly exemplified as
in the literary controversy about Ossian; every man of the
Highland Society having a lost soul in him ; and Walter
Scott . . . oh, the woman who poisoned all her children
the other day, is a saint to Walter Scott, . . so we need not
talk of him any more. ‘ Arabel ! how much has she taken
of that wine ? not half a glass.’ ‘ But Mr. Boyd, you would
not have me be obliged to carry her home.’

That visit being over, we went into the Park, Hyde
Park, and drove close to the Serpentine, and then returned.
Flush would not keep his head out of the window (his
favourite pleasure) all the way, because several drops of rain
trickled down his ears. Flush has no idea of wetting his
ears : – his nose so near, too !

Right you are, I think, in opposition to Miss Martineau,
though your reasons are too gracious to be right . . except
indeed as to the physical inaptitude, which is an obvious
truth. Another truth (to my mind) is, that women, as they
are (whatever they may be) have not mental strength any
more than they have bodily ; have not instruction, capacity,
wholeness of intellect enough. To deny that women, as a
class, have defects, is as false I think, as to deny that women
have wrongs.

Then you are right again in affirming that the creators
have no business there, with the practical men – you should
not be there for instance. And / (if I am to be thought of)
would be prouder to eat cresses and maccaroni (Dearest
there is a manufactory of maccaroni and writing-paper at
Amalfi close by – observe that combination ! maccaroni and
writing-paper !) I would be prouder to eat cresses and mac-
caroni with you as you, than to sit with diamonds in my ears,
under the shelter of the woolsack, you being a law-lord and
parliamentary maker of speeches ! By the way, I couldn’t
have diamonds in my ears : they never were bored for it . .
as I never was born for it. A physical inaptitude, here too !

Shall I say what you tell me . . ‘You never seriously
believed ‘ . . . shall I ? I will, if you like. But it is not
Ceva, if you like it is Cava . . La Cava . . in my map,
and according to my authorities. Otherwise, the place is
the same four miles from Salerno, I think, and ‘ enchant-
ingly beautiful.’ It is worth an enquiry certainly, this en-
chanting place which has no English in it, with porticoes like
Bologna, and too little known to be spelt correctly by the
most accomplished geographers.

Ah – your head is ‘ dizzy,’ my beloved ! Tell me how it
is now. And tell me how your mother is. I think of you –
love you. I, who am discontented with myself, . . self-
condemned as unworthy of you, in all else . . am yet satisfied
with the love I have for you – it seems worthy of you, as
far as an abstract affection can go, without taking note
of the personality loving.

Do you see the meaning through the mist ? Do you
accept

Your very own BA?

[Postmark: June 30, 1846]

Tuesday.

I have looked in the map for ‘ L– ,’ the place praised
in the letter, and conclude it must be either Ceva, (La Ceva,
between Nocera and Salerno, about four miles from the
latter, and on the mountain-side, I suppose . . see a map,
my Ba !) – or else Lucera, (which looks very like the word . .
and which lies at about sixty miles to the N.E. of Naples, in
a straight line over the mountains and roadless country, but
perhaps twice as far by the mainway through Avellino, Ariano,
Bovino, and Savia – (exactly 120 Italian miles now that I
count the posts). So that there would be somewhat of a
formidable journey to undertake after the sea voyage. I
daresay at Ceva there is abundance of quietness, as the few
who visit Salerno do not go four miles inland, – can you
enquire into this ?

How inexpressibly charming it is to me to have a pretext
for writing thus . . about such approaches to the real event
these business-b’ke words, and names of places ! If at the
end you should bring yourself to say ‘ But you never
seriously believed this would take place – ‘what should I
answer, I wonder?

Let me think on what is real, indisputable, however . .
the improvement in the health as I read it on the dear, dear
cheeks yesterday. This morning is favourable again . . you
will go out, will you not ?

Mr. Kenyon sends me one of his kindest letters to ask
me to dine with him next week – on Wednesday. I feel his
kindness, just as you feel in the other case, and in its lesser
degree, I feel it, and then I know, dare think I know
whether he will be so sorry in the end, – loving you as he
does. I will send his letter that you may understand here as
elsewhere.

I think my head is dizzy with reading the debates this
morning – Peel’s speech and farewell. How exquisitely absurd,
it just strikes me, would be any measure after Miss Marti-
neau’s own heart, which should introduce women to Parlia-
ment as we understand its functions at present how essen
tially retrograde a measure ! Parliament seems no place for
originating, creative minds but for second-rate minds
influenced by and bent on working out the results of these
– and the most efficient qualities for such a purpose are
confessedly found oftener with men than with women –
physical power having a great deal to do with it beside. So
why shuffle the heaps together which, however arbitrarily
divided at first, happen luckily to lie pretty much as one
would desire, – here the great flint stones, here the pebbles
– and diamonds too. The men of genius knew all this, said
more than all this, in their way and proper place on the
outside, where Miss M. is still saying something of the kind
– to be taken up in its time by some other Mr. Cobden and
talked about, and beleaguered. But such people cannot or
will not see where their office begins and advantageously
ends ; and that there is such a thing as influencing the
influencers, playing the Bentham to the Cobden, the Barry
to a Commission for Public Works, the Lough to the three
or four industrious men with square paper caps who get
rules and plummets and dot the blocks of marble all over as
his drawings indicate. So you and I will go to Salerno or
L– – (not to the L– akes, Heaven forefend !) and if we
‘ let sail winged words, freighted with truth from the throne
of God ‘ – we may be sure –

Ah, presumption all of it ! Then, you shall fill the
words with their freight, and I will look on and love you, –
is that too much ? Yes – for any other – No – for one you
[know] is yours –

Your very own.

For the quick departing yesterday our day was not
spoken of . . it is Saturday, is it not ?

[Postmark: June 30, 1846]

Tuesday Morning.

The gods and men call you by your name, but I never
do – never dare. In case of invocation, tell me how you
should be called by such as I ? not to be always the ‘ inex-
pressive He ‘ which I make of you. In case of courage for
invocation ! –

Dearest . . (which is a name too) read on the paper in-
side what I have been studying about Salerno since we
parted yesterday. Forsyth is too severe in his deductions,
perhaps, from the apothecaries, but your Naples book will
not help me to contradict him, saying neither the one thing
nor the other. The word we could not read in the letter
yesterday, was La Cava – and La Cava is a town on the way
between Naples and Salerno, which Mrs. Stark describes as
‘ a large town with porticoes on each side of the High Street,
like those at Bologna.’ To which the letter adds, remember
‘ enchantingly beautiful, very good air and no English
Then there is Vietri, mentioned by Forsyth, between La Cava
and Salerno, and on the bay. It is as well to think of all
three. Were you ever at either ? Amalfi itself appears to
be very habitable. Oh – and your Naples book says of
Salerno, that it is illuminated by fireflies, and that the
chanting of frogs covers the noises of the city. You will like
the frogs, if you don’t the apothecaries, and I shall like the
fireflies if I don’t the frogs – but I do like frogs, you know,
and it was quite a mistake of yours when you once thought
otherwise.

Now I am going out in the carriage, to call on Mr.
Kenyon, and perhaps to see Mr. Boyd. Your flowers are
more beautiful than they were yesterday, if possible : and
the fresh coolness helps them to live, so, that I hope you
may see some of them on Saturday when you come. On
Saturday ! What a time to wait ! if not for them, yet for
me. Of the two, it is easier for them, certainly. They only
miss a little dew and air.

I shall write again to-night, – but I cannot be more then
than now, nor less ever than now

Your own

BA.

Here is a coincidence. Hardly had you left me, when,
passing near the table at the end of the room, I saw a parcel
there. Remember your question about the ‘Year of the
World’ Precisely that ! With a note, the counterpart of
yours – desiring an opinion !

May God bless you, dear, dear ! – Did I ever think I
should live to thank God that I did not die five years ago ?
– Not that I quite, quite dare to do it yet. I must be sure
first of something.

Which is not your love, my beloved – it is a something
still dearer and of more consequence.

SALERNO.

‘ Though placed between the beauties of sea and land, of
cultivated and rude nature, the city is so unhealthy that its
richer inhabitants remove to Vietri during the hot months.
In proof of its bad air, I remark here a number of apothe-
caries ! ‘ FORSYTH.

‘ Its white houses curving round the haven at the water’s
brink, the mountains crowding close behind the city, the
ruins of its Gothic castle on the olive-covered hill above,
together mirrored on the waveless water, itself alternate shine
and shadow – ’tis a noble sight.

‘ The view from Salerno is one of the loveliest pictures in
Italy. A clear-complexioned, open-eyed, and bright-faced
city is modern Salerno, – and its streets and piazza were all
astir.’ Letters from Naples.

‘ This town, the approach to which is enchanting, boasts
a tolerably good inn !!’ MRS. STARKE.

[Postmark: June 29, 1846]

Sunday.

My last letter will have answered this of yours, my
dearest, – I agree in all you say ; and sooner or later comes
to the same thing, if to any possible increase of difficulty is
brought a proportionate increase of strength to undergo it –
as let us hope will be the case ! So you see you have to
‘ understand ‘ and understand me, – I keep your faculty in
constant exercise, now with seeming to wish for postpone-
ment, and now, for anticipation ! And all the time do I
really ‘ grow greater ‘ in your eyes ? I might grow less woe-
fully, – ‘ for reasons for reasons ‘-

The sea will not be frozen, beside . . which makes me
think to tell you that Carlyle is wanting to visit only one
foreign country – Iceland. The true cradle of the Northmen
and their virtues . . all that is worth a Northman’s caring
to see is there, he thinks, and nowise in Italy. Perhaps !
Indeed, so I reason and say – Did I not once turn on myself
and speak against the Southern spirit, and even Dante, just
because of that conviction ? – (or imperfect conviction,
whence the uneasy exaggeration). Carlyle thinks modern
Italy’s abasement a direct judgment from God. ‘ Here is a
nation in whose breast arise men who could doubt, examine
the new problems of the reformation &c. – trim the balance at
intervals, and throw overboard the accumulation of falsehood
– all other nations around, less favoured, are doing it labori-
ously for themselves . . now is the time for the acumen of
the Bembos, the Bentivoglios and so forth . . and these and
their like, one and all, turn round, decline the trouble, say
‘ these things may be true, or they may not, meantime let us
go on verse-making, painting, music-scoring’ – to which all
the nation accedes as if relieved of a trouble – upon which
God bids the Germans go in and possess them ; pluck their
fruits and feel their sun after their own hard work.’ Carlyle
said the sense of this, between two huge pipe-whiffs, the other
afternoon.

‘ Pluck their fruits ‘ – some four years ago I planted . .
or held straight while my mother planted, a fig-tree, – for
love of Italy ! This year it bears its first fruit . . a single
one ! what does that bode ?

Since I wrote the last paragraph, the wind took my
thoughts away, as it always does, and I saw you again as I
used to see, before I knew you, so very substanceless, faint,
unreal – when I was struck by the reality again, – by this
paper, – by to-morrow’s visit I shall pay . . it was as if some-
one had said ‘ but that star is your own.’

I fancied you just what I find you – I knew you from the
beginning.

Let me kiss you dearest dearest –

[Postmark: June 27, 1846]

Saturday.

I said I would answer your letter to-day, my beloved,
but how shall I say more than I have said and you know ?
Do you not know, you who will not will ‘ over ‘ me, that I
cannot will against you, and that if you set yourself seriously
to take September for October, and August for September,
it is all at an end with me and the calendar ? Still, seriously
. . there is time for deciding, is there not ? . . . even if I
grant to you, which I do at once, that the road does not grow
smoother for us by prolonged delays. The single advantage
perhaps of delay is, that in the summer I get stronger every
week and fitter to travel – and then, it never was thought of
before (that I have heard) to precede September so. Last
year, was I not ordered to leave England in October, and
permitted to leave it in November ? Yet I agree, November
and perhaps October might be late – might be running a
risk through lingering . . in our case ; and you will believe
me when I say I should be loth to run the risk of being forced
to the further delay of a year – the position being scarcely
tenable. Now for September, it generally passes for a hot
month – it ripens the peaches – it is the figtime in Italy.
Well – nobody decides for September nevertheless. The
end of August is nearer – and at any rate we can consider,
and observe the signs of the heavens and earth in the mean-
while – there is so much to think of first ; and the end, re-
member, is only too frightfully easy. Also you shall not
have it on your conscience to have killed me, let ever so
much snow fall in September. If the sea should be frozen
over, almost we might go by the land – might we not ? and
apart from fabulous ports, there are the rivers – the Seine,
the Soane, the Rhone – which might be cheaper than the
sea and the steamers ; and would, I almost should fancy.
These are things among the multitude, to think of, and you
shall think of them, dearest, in your wisdom. Oh – there is
time – full time.

No – there is not, in a sense. I wanted to write so much
more, so much – and I went out to walk first, and, on re-
turning, met Mr. Kenyon, who came up-stairs with me.

Now it is too late to add a word.

May God bless you. I shall see you on Monday. I am
better for Highgate – I walked longer to-day than usual.
How strong you make me, you who make me happy !

I am your own.

[Postmark: June 27, 1846]

Saturday.

Your dear gentle laugh, as I seem to hear it, makes all
well again for the moment undoubtedly. I cannot help
trusting you implicitly . . so whenever I seem able to reason
a little, and set you reasoning for me, ought I not to try, – and
then give up, and sink my head over you . . dearest ! In
fact, I was a little frightened by what I heard and saw . .
for you, if you please, began by saying ‘ it was too cold to
go out ‘ – and you were paler, I thought. The news of High-
gate and the green leaves are re-assuring indeed – but my
brown leaves might be sent to you by myriads for all that,
for all the light laugh, – all roses fast going, lilies going . .
autumnal hollyhocks in full blow . . and now to count
three months over before summer is to end ! These rains
may do something, or hinder somewhat – and certainly our
fire was left alone early yesterday morning. Well, I have
not been presumptuous except … ah, the exception !

How could I presume, for one thing, to hope for last
evening’s letter . . a pure piece of kindness in you, Ba !
And all your kindness is pure, entire, pearl-like for round-
ness and completeness . . there is no one rough side as
when a crystal is broken off and given : do you think it no
good augury of our after life in what must be called, I sup-
pose, another relation, – that this has been so perfect . . to
me . . this last year, let me only say ? In this relation there
are as many ‘ écueils ‘ as in the other, – as many, though of a
different nature, lovers quarrel on as various grounds as the
wedded – and though with the hue and softness of love the
most energetic words and deeds may change their character;
yet one might write savage sentences in Chinese celestial-
blue ink, which after a powdering with gold-dust should
look prettier than the truest blessing in ordinary black.
But you have been PERFECT to me hitherto – perfect ! And
of course only to you is the praise . . for I have to be en-
tirely confided in by you, seeing that you cannot keep an
eye on me after I leave your room . . whereas, – not I, but a
gross, stupid fool who conceived of no liberty but that of the
body, nor that the soul may be far more unfaithful – such
an one might exult in the notion of the closed door and the
excluded world of rivals.

Bless you, darling – Monday is not very far off now !
And I am to hear again. I am much better, – my mother
much better too. I saw my French friend and talked and
heard him talk. Yesterday, the whole day, (after the fire
went out) was given to a cousin of mine, a girl, just married,
and here from Paris with her husband – these two had to be
amused somehow. Ever your very own – R.

[Postmark: June 27, 1846]

Friday Evening.

Ever dearest, I send you a bare line to-night, for it is late
and I am very tired ; having . . while you were sitting by
the fire . . been, for my part, driving to Highgate . . now
think of that ! Also it has done me good, I think, and
I shall sleep for it to-night perhaps, though I am tired
certainly.

Your letter shall be answered to-morrow – and here is a
green answer to your leaves ! – what leaves ? whence and
how ? My green little branch, I gathered myself out of the
hedge, snatching at it from the carriage- window. The roses
were gone, or nearly gone, and the few left, quite out of
reach ; and the leaves keep behind to assure you that they
do not look for snow-storms in September. No ! it was not
that, they said. I am belying what they said.

I gathered them in the hedge of the pretty close green
lane which you go through to Hampstead. Were you ever
there, I wonder ?

Dearest, I will write to-morrow. Never are you ‘ im-
patient,’ inconsiderate – and as for selfishness, I have been
uneasy sometimes, precisely because you are so little selfish.
I am not likely to mistake . . to wrench the wrong way . .
any word of yours. As for mine, it was not a mere word,
when I said that you should decide everything. Could I
hold out for November, or October, or for September even,
if you choose against ? Indeed I could not. We – you will
think – I am yours, and if you never repent that, I shall not
– I am too entirely yours.

And so good-night – dearest beloved ! Because you
have a fire in June, is the snow to fall in September, and
earth and ocean to become impassable ? Ah well ! we shall
see ! But you shall not see that I deceive you –

I am your very own

Ba.

Dear brown leaves ! where did they come from, besides
from you ?

Not a north wind. Only a north-west wind, as I could
have proved to you if you had been with me ! Yet it is a
detestable climate, this English climate, let us all confess.
Say how your head is.

[Postmark: June 26, 1846]

Friday Morning.

Arabel insists on my going out in the carriage, but I
will not, I say, before I have written my letter – and while
we talk, the rain comes down like a guardian angel, and I
cannot go out before I have written my letter, as is apparent
to all. Dearest, you did me such good yesterday with see-
ing you and hearing you, that I slept better and am better
altogether, and after a little change into the air, shall be
well – and how is your head ? Now do not forget to tell
me particularly. Say too whether you found your friend
and had the right quantity of talk and got home without
being the worse for him . . or me !

I have not had the heart to look at the newspapers, but
hear that Sir Robert Peel has provided liberally for the
present necessities of the poor Haydons. And do you
know, the more I think the more I am inclined to conclude
that the money-distress was merely an additional irritation,
and that the despair leading to the revolt against life, had its
root in disappointed ambition. The world did not recognize
his genius, and he punished the world by withdrawing the
light. If he had not that thought in him, I am wrong. The
cartoon business, and his being refused employment in the
Houses of Parliament . . that was bitter : and then came his
opposition with Tom Thumb and the dwarfs triumph . . he
talked bitterly of that in a letter to me of last week. He
was a man, you see, who carried his whole being and sensi-
bility on the outside of him ; nay, worse than so, since in
the thoughts and opinions of the world. All the audacity
and bravery and self-exultation which drew on him so much
ridicule were an agony in disguise – he could not live
without reputation, and he wrestled for it, struggled for it,
kicked for it, forgetting grace of attitude in the pang. When
all was vain, he went mad and died. Poor Haydon ! He
measures things differently now ! and let us now be right
and just in our admeasurement of what he was – for, with
all his weaknesses, he was not certainly far from being a
great man.

It is hope and help, to be able to look away from all
such thoughts, to you, dearest beloved, who do not partake
of the faults and feeblenesses of these lower geniuses – There
is hope and help for the world in you – and if for the world,
why for me indeed much more. You do not know . .
ah, you do not know – how I look up to you and trust
perfectly in you. You are above all these clouds – your
element is otherwise – men are not your taskmasters that
you should turn to them for recompense. ‘ Shall I always
think the same of you,’ you asked yesterday. But I never
think the same of you ; because day by day you look greater
and feel dearer. Only there is a deep gulph of another
question, close beside that, which suggests itself, and makes
me shudder to look down.

And now, the rain is over, and I shall dine briefly, and
go out n the carriage.

May God bless you . . très bon ! très cher, pour cause.

Toute à toi – pour toujours.