_R.B. to E.B.B._
Thursday Morning.
Here is the copy of Landor's verses.
You know thoroughly, do you not, why I brought all those good-natured
letters, desperate praise and all? Not, _not_ out of the least vanity
in the world--nor to help myself in your sight with such testimony:
would it seem very extravagant, on the contrary, if I said that
perhaps I laid them before your eyes in a real fit of compunction at
not being, in my heart, thankful enough for the evident motive of the
writers,--and so was determined to give them the 'last honours' if
not the first, and not make them miss _you_ because, through my fault,
they had missed _me_? Does this sound too fantastical? Because it is
strictly true: the most laudatory of all, I _skimmed_ once over with
my flesh _creeping_--it seemed such a death-struggle, that of good
nature over--well, it is fresh ingratitude of me, so here it shall
end.
I am not ungrateful to _you_--but you must wait to know that:--I can
speak less than nothing with my living lips.