And you fancy that I could propose Italy again? after saying too that I never would?  Oh no, no—­yet there is time to think of this, a superfluity of time, ... ‘time, times and half a time’ and to make one’s head swim with leaning over a precipice is not wise.  The roar of the world comes up too, as you hear and as I heard from the beginning.  There will be no lack of ‘lying,’ be sure—­’pure lying’ too—­and nothing you can do, dearest dearest, shall hinder my being torn to pieces by most of the particularly affectionate friends I have in the world.  Which I do not think of much, any more than of Italy.  You will be mad, and I shall be bad ... and that will be the effect of being poets!  ’Till when, where are you?’—­why in the very deepest of my soul—­wherever in it is the fountain head of loving! beloved, there you are!

Some day I shall ask you ’in form,’—­as I care so much for forms, it seems,—­what your ‘faults’ are, these immense multitudinous faults of yours, which I hear such talk of, and never, never, can get to see.  Will you give me a catalogue raisonnee of your faults?  I should like it, I think.  In the meantime they seem to be faults of obscurity, that is, invisible faults, like those in the poetry which do not keep it from selling as I am so, so glad to understand.  I am glad too that Mr. Milnes knows you a little.

Now I must end, there is no more time to-night.  God bless you, very dearest!  Keep better ... try to be well—­as I do for you since you ask me.  Did I ever think that you would think it worth while to ask me that?  What a dream! reaching out into the morning!  To-day however I did not go down-stairs, because it was colder and the wind blew its way into the passages:—­if I can to-morrow without risk, I will, ... be sure ... be sure.  Till Thursday then!—­till eternity!

‘Till when, where am I,’ but with you? and what, but yours

Your

BA.

I have been writing ‘autographs’ (save my mark) for the North and the South to-day ... the Fens, and Golden Square.  Somebody asked for a verse, ... from either ‘Catarina’ or ‘Flush’ ... ‘those poems’ &c. &c.!  Such a concatenation of criticisms.  So I preferred Flush of course—­i.e. gave him the preferment.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Wednesday Morning.
[Post-mark, March 4, 1846.]

Ah, sweetest, don’t mind people and their lies any more than I shall; if the toad does ’take it into his toad’s head to spit at you’—­you will not ‘drop dead,’ I warrant.  All the same, if one may make a circuit through a flower-bed and see the less of his toad-habits and general ugliness, so much the better—­no words can express my entire indifference (far below contempt) for what can be said or done.  But one thing, only one, I choose to hinder being said, if I can—­the others I would not if I could—­why prevent the toad’s puffing himself out thrice his black bigness if it amuses him among those wet stones?  We shall be in the sun.