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!
R.B. to E.B.B.
3½ P.M. Tuesday.
[Post-mark, May 26, 1846.]
Dearest, your dearest of notes only arrived at 2 o’clock—and Carlyle has just been with me,—come on horseback for the express purpose of strolling about—so that I was forced, forced ... you see! He is gone again—and there is only time to tell you why no more is told—but to-morrow will supply all deficiency. Bless you, my dearest best Ba. How I love you!
Your own—
Poor Capt. Jones is dead,—you may see in the papers.