Bless you, all beloved—­

R.B.

Oh, do not sleep another night on that horrible error I have led you into!  The ’Dulwich Gallery’!—!!!—­oh, no.  Only some pictures to be sold at the Greyhound Inn, Dulwich—­’the genuine property of a gentleman deceased.’

R.B. to E.B.B.

Sunday Evening.
[Post-mark, March 2, 1846.]

One or two words, if no more, I must write to dearest Ba, the night would go down in double blackness if I had neither written nor been written to!  So here is another piece of ‘kindness’ on my part, such as I have received praise for of late!  My own sweetest, there is just this good in such praise, that by it one comes to something pleasantly definite amid the hazy uncertainties of mere wishes and possibilities—­while my whole heart does, does so yearn, love, to do something to prove its devotion for you; and, now and then, amuses itself with foolish imaginings of real substantial services to which it should be found equal if fortune so granted; suddenly you interpose with thanks, in such terms as would all too much reward the highest of even those services which are never to be; and for what?—­for a note, a going to Town, a ——!  Well, there are definite beginnings certainly, if you will recognise them—­I mean, that since you do accept, far from ‘despising this day of small things,’ then I may take heart, and be sure that even though none of the great achievements should fall to my happy chance, still the barrenest, flattest life will—­must of needs produce in its season better fruits than these poor ones—­I keep it, value it, now, that it may produce such.

Also I determine never again to ‘analyse,’ nor let you analyse if the sweet mouth can be anyway stopped:  the love shall be one and indivisible—­and the Loves we used to know from

One another huddled lie ... 
Close beside Her tenderly—­

(which is surely the next line).  Now am I not anxious to know what your father said?  And if anybody else said or wondered ... how should I know?  Of all fighting—­the warfare with shadows—­what a work is there.  But tell me,—­and, with you for me—­

Bless me dearest ever, as the face above mine blesses me—­

Your own

Sir Moses set off this morning, I hear—­somebody yesterday called the telescope an ‘optical delusion,’ anticipating many more of the kind!  So much for this ‘wandering Jew.’

E.B.B. to R.B.

Monday Evening.
[Post-mark, March 3, 1846.]

Upon the whole, I think, I am glad when you are kept in town and prevented from writing what you call ‘much’ to me.  Because in the first place, the little from you, is always much to me—­and then, besides, the letter comes, and with it the promise of another!  Two letters have I had from you to-day, ever dearest!  How I thank you!—­yes, indeed!  It was like yourself to write yesterday ... to remember what a great gap there would have been otherwise, as it looked on this side—­here.  The worst of Saturday is (when you come on it) that Sunday follows—­Saturday night bringing no letter.  Well, it was very good of you, best of you!