sympathies ... and whether there is room for my loose sleeves, and the lace lappets, as well as for my elbows; and because I want to see you by the refracted lights as well as by the direct ones; and because I am willing for you to know me from the beginning, with all my weaknesses and foolishnesses, ... as they are accounted by people who say to me ’no one would ever think, without knowing you, that you were so and so.’  Now if I send all my idle questions to Colburn’s Magazine, with other Gothic literature, and take to standing up in a perpendicular personality like the angel on the schoolman’s needle, in my letters to come, without further leaning to the left or the right—­why the end would be that you would take to ’running after the butterflies,’ for change of air and exercise.  And then ... oh ... then, my ‘small neatly written manuscripts’ might fall back into my desk...! (Not a ’full stop’!.)

Indeed ...  I do assure you ...  I never for a moment thought of ’making conversation’ about the ‘Improvisatore’ or novels in general, when I wrote what I did to you.  I might, to other persons ... perhaps.  Certainly not to you.  I was not dealing round from one pack of cards to you and to others.  That’s what you meant to reproach me for you know,—­and of that, I am not guilty at all.  I never could think of ‘making conversation’ in a letter to you—­never.  Women are said to partake of the nature of children—­and my brothers call me ’absurdly childish’ sometimes:  and I am capable of being childishly ‘in earnest’ about novels, and straws, and such ‘puppydogs’ tails’ as my Flush’s!  Also I write more letters than you do, ...  I write in fact almost as you pay visits, ... and one has to ‘make conversation’ in turn, of course. But—­give me something to vow by—­whatever you meant in the ‘Vivian Grey’ argument, you were wrong in it! and you never can be much more wrong—­which is a comfortable reflection.

Yet you leap very high at Dante’s crown—­or you do not leap, ... you simply extend your hand to it, and make a rustling among the laurel leaves, which is somewhat prophane.  Dante’s poetry only materials for the northern rhymers!  I must think of that ... if you please ... before I agree with you.  Dante’s poetry seems to come down in hail, rather than in rain—­but count me the drops congealed in one hailstone!  Oh! the ’Flight of the Duchess’—­do let us hear more of her!  Are you (I wonder) ... not a ‘self-flatterer,’ ... but ... a flatterer.

Ever yours,

E.B.B.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Saturday Morning.
[Post-mark, May 3, 1845.]