_E.B.B. to R.B._
Wednesday.
[Post-mark, November 6, 1845.]
I had your note last night, and am waiting for the book to-day; a true
living breathing book, let the writer say of it what he will. Also
when it comes it won't certainly come 'sine te.' Which is my comfort.
And now--not to make any more fuss about a matter of simple
restitution--may I have my letter back?... I mean the letter which if
you did not destroy ... did not punish for its sins long and long ago
... belongs to me--which, if destroyed, I must lose for my sins, ...
but, if undestroyed, which I may have back; may I not? is it not my
own? must I not?--that letter I was made to return and now turn to ask
for again in further expiation. Now do I ask humbly enough? And send
it at once, if undestroyed--do not wait till Saturday.
I have considered about Mr. Kenyon and it seems best, in the event of
a question or of a remark equivalent to a question, to confess to the
visits 'generally once a week' ... because he may hear, one, two,
three different ways, ... not to say the other reasons and Chaucer's
charge against 'doubleness.' I fear ... I fear that he (not Chaucer)
will wonder a little--and he has looked at me with scanning spectacles
already and talked of its being a mystery to him how you made your way
here; and _I_, who though I can _bespeak_ self-command, have no sort
of presence of mind (not so much as one would use to play at Jack
straws) did not help the case at all. Well--it cannot be helped. Did I
ever tell you what he said of you once--'_that you deserved to be a
poet_--being one in your heart and life:' he said _that_ of you to me,
and I thought it a noble encomium and deserving its application.
For the rest ... yes: you know I do--God knows I do. Whatever I can
feel is for you--and perhaps it is not less, for not being simmered
away in too much sunshine as with women accounted happier. _I_ am
happy besides now--happy enough to die now.