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!

God bless you—­

I am yours

R.B.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Tuesday Night.
[Post-mark, September 3, 1845.]

Before you leave London, I will answer your letter—­all my attempts end in nothing now—­

Dearest friend—­I am yours ever

R.B.

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?