R.B.?
R.B. to E.B.B.
Monday.
[Post-mark, May 25, 1846.]
Dear, dear love, your letter comes at half past three by a new Postman,—(very bewildered). You will perhaps have received my parcel and note—if not, such things are on the road. All in your note delights me entirely. As for my walking fast, that is exactly my use and wont ... I am famous for it,—as my father is for driving old lady-friends into illnesses, and then saying innocently, ‘I took care to walk very slowly.’ When I have anything to occupy my mind, I all but run—but the pen can’t run, for this letter must go, and nothing said.
So, Ba, my Ba, Goodbye till to-morrow from
Your own, own.
E.B.B. to R.B.
Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, May 26, 1846.]
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.