But meantime, you will tell me about yourself, will you not? The
parcel came a few minutes after my note left--Well, I can thank you
for _that_; for the Poems,--though I cannot wear them round my
neck--and for the too great trouble. My heart's friend! Bless you--
_E.B.B. to R.B._
[Post-mark, September 4, 1845.]
Indeed my headaches are not worth enquiring about--I mean, they are
not of the slightest consequence, and seldom survive the remedy of a
cup of coffee. I only wish it were the same with everybody--I mean,
with every _head_! Also there is nothing the matter otherwise--and I
am going to prove my right to a 'clean bill of health' by going into
the park in ten minutes. Twice round the inner enclosure is what I can
compass now--which is equal to once round the world--is it not?
I had just time to be afraid that the parcel had not reached you. The
reason why I sent you the poems was that I had a few copies to give to
my personal friends, and so, wished you to have one; and it was quite
to please myself and not to please _you_ that I made you have it; and
if you put it into the 'plum-tree' to hide the errata, I shall be
pleased still, if not rather more. Only let me remember to tell you
this time in relation to those books and the question asked of
yourself by your noble Romans, that just as I was enclosing my
sixty-pounds debt to Mr. Moxon, I did actually and miraculously
receive a remittance of fourteen pounds from the selfsame bookseller
of New York who agreed last year to print my poems at his own risk and
give me 'ten per cent on the profit.' Not that I ever asked for such a
thing! They were the terms offered. And I always considered the 'per
centage' as quite visionary ... put in for the sake of effect, to make
the agreement look better! But no--you see! One's poetry has a real
'commercial value,' if you do but take it far away enough from the
'civilization of Europe.' When you get near the backwoods and the red
Indians, it turns out to be nearly as good for something as
'cabbages,' after all! Do you remember what you said to me of cabbages
_versus_ poems, in one of the first letters you ever wrote to me?--of
selling cabbages and buying _Punches_?
People complain of Dr. Chambers and call him rough and
unfeeling--neither of which _I_ ever found him for a moment--and I
like him for his truthfulness, which is the nature of the man, though
it is essential to medical morality never to let a patient think
himself mortal while it is possible to prevent it, and even Dr.
Chambers may incline to this on occasion. Still he need not have said
all the good he said to me on Saturday--he _used_ not to say any of
it; and he must have thought some of it: and, any way, the Pisa-case
is strengthened all round by his opinion and injunction, so that all
my horror and terror at the thoughts of his visit, (and it's really
true that I would rather _suffer_ to a certain extent than be _cured_
by means of those doctors!) had some compensation. How are you? do not
forget to say! I found among some papers to-day, a note of yours which
I asked Mr. Kenyon to give me for an autograph, two years ago.
May God bless you, dearest friend. And I have a dispensation from
'beef and porter' [Greek: eis tous aiônas]. 'On no account' was the
answer!
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Friday Afternoon.
[Post-mark, September 5, 1845.]
What you tell me of Dr. Chambers, 'all the good of you' he said, and
all I venture to infer; this makes me most happy and thankful. Do you
use to attach our old [Greek: tuphlas elpidas] (and the practice of
instilling them) to that medical science in which Prometheus boasted
himself proficient? I had thought the 'faculty' dealt in fears, on the
contrary, and scared you into obedience: but I know most about the
doctors in Molière. However the joyous truth is--must be, that you are
better, and if one could transport you quietly to Pisa, save you all
worry,--what might one not expect!
When I know your own intentions--measures, I should say, respecting
your journey--mine will of course be submitted to you--it will just be
'which day next--month'?--Not week, alas.
I can thank you now for this edition of your poems--I have not yet
taken to read it, though--for it does not, each volume of it, open
obediently to a thought, here, and here, and here, like my green books
... no, my Sister's they are; so these you give me are really mine.
And America, with its ten per cent., shall have my better word
henceforth and for ever ... for when you calculate, there must have
been a really extraordinary circulation; and in a few months: it is
what newspapers call 'a great fact.' Have they reprinted the
'Seraphim'? Quietly, perhaps!