, times and half a time' and to make
one's head swim with leaning over a precipice is not wise. The roar
of the world comes up too, as you hear and as I heard from the
beginning. There will be no lack of 'lying,' be sure--'pure lying'
too--and nothing you can do, dearest dearest, shall hinder my being
torn to pieces by most of the particularly affectionate friends I have
in the world. Which I do not think of much, any more than of Italy.
You will be mad, and I shall be bad ... and _that_ will be the effect
of being poets! 'Till when, where are you?'--why in the very deepest
of my soul--wherever in it is the fountain head of loving! beloved,
_there_ you are!

Some day I shall ask you 'in form,'--as I care so much for forms, it
seems,--what your 'faults' are, these immense multitudinous faults of
yours, which I hear such talk of, and never, never, can get to see.
Will you give me a catalogue raisonnee of your faults? I should like
it, I think. In the meantime they seem to be faults of obscurity, that
is, invisible faults, like those in the poetry which do not keep it
from selling as I am _so, so_ glad to understand. I am glad too that
Mr. Milnes knows you a little.

Now I must end, there is no more time to-night. God bless you, very
dearest! Keep better ... try to be well--as _I_ do for you since you
ask me. Did I ever think that _you_ would think it worth while to ask
me _that_? What a dream! reaching out into the morning! To-day however
I did not go down-stairs, because it was colder and the wind blew its
way into the passages:--if I can to-morrow without risk, I will, ...
be sure ... be sure. Till Thursday then!--till eternity!

'Till when, where am I,' but with you? and what, but yours

Your

BA.

I have been writing 'autographs' (save my _mark_) for the North and
the South to-day ... the Fens, and Golden Square. Somebody asked for
a verse, ... from either 'Catarina' or 'Flush' ... 'those poems' &c.
&c.! Such a concatenation of criticisms. So I preferred Flush of
course--i.e. gave him the preferment.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Wednesday Morning.
[Post-mark, March 4, 1846.]

Ah, sweetest, don't mind people and their lies any more than I shall;
if the toad _does_ 'take it into his toad's head to spit at you'--you
will not 'drop dead,' I war