_Monday, 6 p.m._--I send in _dis_obedience to your commands, Mrs.
Shelley's book--but when books accumulate and when besides, I want to
let you have the American edition of my poems ... famous for all
manner of blunders, you know; what is to be done but have recourse to
the parcel-medium? You were in jest about being at Pisa _before or as
soon as we were_?--oh no--that must not be indeed--we must wait a
little!--even if you determine to go at all, which is a question of
doubtful expediency. Do take more exercise, this week, and make war
against those dreadful sensations in the head--now, will you?
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Tuesday Evening.
[Post-mark, September 3, 1845.]
I rather hoped ... with no right at all ... to hear from you this
morning or afternoon--to know how you are--that, 'how are you,' there
is no use disguising, is,--vary it how one may--my own life's
question.--
I had better write no more, now. Will you not tell me something about
you--the head; and that too, _too_ warm hand ... or was it my fancy?
Surely the report of Dr. Chambers is most satisfactory,--all seems to
rest with yourself: you know, in justice to me, you _do_ know that _I_
know the all but mockery, the absurdity of anyone's counsel 'to be
composed,' &c. &c. But try, dearest friend!