as Shirley sings—and every now and then the full sense of the sweetness collects itself and overcomes me entirely, as now, on the occasion of this note that I find; I am blessed by you in the hundred unspeakable ways—but were it only for this and similar pure kindness, I find it in my heart to give you my life could it profit you! Here ought I, by every law and right and propriety ... ask Miss Campbell! ... to be ministering to you, caring for you; and ... oh, Ba, do please, please, throw a coffee cup at me!—(giving some grounds for complaint!)—and after it the soucoupe (‘glaring with saucer eyes’)—and see what you shall see, and hear what you shall hear! You ‘strongest woman that has written yet’! Have they found that out? I know it, I think, by this! So I will go and think over it in the garden, and tell you more in the afternoon.

12 o’clock!—What strange weather!—but pleasant, I think—you have been out, or will go out, perhaps. Tell me all, dearest, and how you feel after it. To-morrow I will send you the Review and some of the other books you have spoken of from time to time—but, I almost dare to keep the Statesmen, spite of your positive request. Why, dear, want to see what I desire to forget altogether? So my other poems, ‘Sordello’ &c.—I most unaffectedly shudder at the notion of your reading them, as I said yesterday. My poetry is far from the ‘completest expression of my being’—I hate to refer to it, or I could tell you why, wherefore, ... prove how imperfect (for a mild word), how unsatisfactory it must of necessity be. Still, I should not so much object, if, such as it is, it were the best, the flower of my life ... but that is all to come, and through you, mainly, or more certainly. So will it not be better to let me write one last poem this summer,—quite easily, stringing every day’s thoughts instead of letting them fall,—and laying them at the dear feet at the summer’s end for a memorial? I have been almost determining to do this, or try to do it, as I walked in the garden just now. A poem to publish or not to publish; but a proper introduction to the afterwork. What do you think, my Ba, my dearest siren, and muse, and Mistress, and ... something beyond all, above all and better ... shall I do this? And what are you studying about Amalfi, my Ba? Will you please keep that Naples’ Note-book till I ask for it—at Amalfi. Till holy church incorporate two in one; and I take the degree of my aspiration. Rᵗ. Bᵍ. B.A.—in earnest of which, kiss me dear, ‘earnest, most earnest of poets,’ and let me kiss you as I do ... loving you as I love you. Bless you, best and dearest.

E.B.B. to R.B.

Sunday.
[Post-mark, May 25, 1846.]

When you came yesterday I had scarcely done my grumbling over the Athenæum, which really seems to me to select its subjects from the things least likely to interest and elevate. It goes on its own level perhaps—but to call itself a Journal of Art and Literature afterwards, is too much to bear patiently when one turns it over and considers. Lady Hester Stanhope’s physician, antiquities of the mayors of London, stories re-collected from the magazines by Signor Marcotti—and this is literature ... art! Without thinking of ‘Luria,’ it is natural and righteous to be angry even after the sun has gone down. These are your teachers, O Israel! Mr. Dilke may well fly to the Daily News for congenial occupation and leave literature behind him, and nobody hang on the wheels of his chariot, crying, ‘Come back, Mr. Dilke.’

Talking of chariots, George met you, he said, yesterday, wheeling down Oxford Street, ... (this he told me when he came in ...) going as fast as an express train, and far too fast, of course, either to recognize or be recognized.

Oh—I forgot to tell you one thing about the review in the Methodist Quarterly. You observe there some very absurd remarks about Tennyson—but, just there, is an extract from the ‘Spirit of the Age,’ about his ‘coming out of himself as the nightingale from under the leaves,’ ... you see that? Well ... it is curious that precisely what is quoted there, is some of my writing, when I contributed to Mr. Horne’s book. It amused me to recognize it, (as you did not George) ... but I was vexed too at the foolish deduction, because....

In the midst I had to hold my Sunday-levee, when for the only day in the week and for one half hour I have to see all my brothers and sisters at once: on the week days, one being in one place and one in another, and the visits to me only coming by twos and threes. Well, and Alfred, who never had said a word to me before, gave me the opportunity of saying ‘no, no, it is not true’—followed hard by a remark from somebody else, that ‘of course Ba must know, as she and Mr. Browning are such very intimate friends,’ and a good deal of laughter on all sides: on which, without any transition and with an exceeding impertinence, Alfred threw himself down on the sofa and declared that he felt inclined to be very ill, ... for that then perhaps (such things being heard of) some young lady might come to visit him, to talk sympathetically on the broad and narrow gauge! Altogether, I shall leave you for the future to ... contradict yourself! I did not mean to do it this time, only that Alfred forced me into it. But he said ... ‘How the Miss Cokers praised him!... “It was delightful,” they cried, “to see a man of such a great genius condescend to little people like them.”’ So they are better than the Athenæum, and I shall not have them spoken of ungently, mind, even if they do romance a little wildly, and marry me, next time, to the man in the moon.

In the meantime, dearest, it is no moonshine that I was out walking to-day again, and that I walked up all these stairs with my own feet on returning. I sate down on the stairs two or three times, but I could not rest in the drawing-room because somebody was there, and I was not carried, as usual—see how vain-glorious I am. And what a summer-sense in the air—and how lovely the strips of sky between the houses! And yet I may tell you truly, that, constantly, through these vivid impressions, I am thinking and feeling that mournful and bitter would be to me this return into life, apart from you, apart from the consideration of you. How could ever I have borne it, I keep feeling constantly. But you are there, in the place of memory. Ah—you said yesterday that you were not ungrateful! I cannot say so. I blame myself often. And yet again I think that the wrong may be pardoned to me, for that those affections had worked out on me their uttermost pang—nearly unto death I had felt them—and now if I am to live, it must be by other means—or I should die still, and not live. Also I owe you gratitude——do I not owe you gratitude? Then, I cannot help it ... right or wrong, I cannot help it ... you are all to me, and, beloved—whichever way I look, I only can see you. If wrong, it is not for you to be severe on me—

Your own