Will you be pleased to understand in the meanwhile a little about the ‘risks’ I am supposed to run, and not hold to such a godlike simplicity (’gods and bulls,’ dearest!) as you made show of yesterday?  If we two went to the gaming-table, and you gave me a purse of gold to play with, should I have a right to talk proudly of ‘my stakes?’ and would any reasonable person say of both of us playing together as partners, that we ran ‘equal risks’?  I trow not—­and so do you ... when you have not predetermined to be stupid, and mix up the rouge and noir into ‘one red’ of glorious confusion.  What had I to lose on the point of happiness when you knew me first?—­and if now I lose (as I certainly may according to your calculation) the happiness you have given me, why still I am your debtor for the gift ... now see!  Yet to bring you down into my ashes ... that has been so intolerable a possibility to me from the first.  Well, perhaps I run more risk than you, under that one aspect.  Certainly I never should forgive myself again if you were unhappy.  ‘What had I to do,’ I should think, ’with touching your life?’ And if ever I am to think so, I would rather that I never had known you, seen your face, heard your voice—­which is the uttermost sacrifice and abnegation.  I could not say or sacrifice any more—­not even for you! You, for you ... is all I can!

Since you left me I have been making up my mind to your having the headache worse than ever, through the agreement with Moxon.  I do, do beseech you to spare yourself, and let ‘Luria’ go as he is, and above all things not to care for my infinite foolishnesses as you see them in those notes.  Remember that if you are ill, it is not so easy to say, ‘Now I will be well again.’  Ever dearest, care for me in yourself—­say how you are....  I am not unwell to-day, but feel flagged and weak rather with the cold ... and look at your flowers for courage and an assurance that the summer is within hearing.  May God bless you ... blessing us, beloved!

Your own

BA.

Mr. Poe has sent me his poems and tales—­so now I must write to thank him for his dedication.  Just now I have the book.  As to Mr. Buckingham, he will go, Constantinople and back, before we talk of him.

R.B. to E.B.B.

                                Saturday Morning.
                                [Post-mark, March 21, 1846.]

Dearest,—­it just strikes me that I might by some chance be kept in town this morning—­(having to go to Milnes’ breakfast there)—­so as not to find the note I venture to expect, in time for an answer by our last post to-night.  But I will try—­this only is a precaution against the possibility.  Dear, dear Ba!  I cannot thank you, know not how to thank you for the notes!  I adopt every one, of course, not as Ba’s notes but as Miss Barrett’s, not as Miss Barrett’s but as anybody’s, everybody’s—­such