To which Mr. Lowell might say, that—­No, I will say the true thing against myself—­and it is, that when I turn from what is in my mind, and determine to write about anybody’s book to avoid writing that I love and love and love again my own, dearest love—­because of the cuckoo-song of it,—­then, I shall be in no better humour with that book than with Mr. Lowell’s!

But I have a new thing to say or sing—­you never before heard me love and bless and send my heart after—­’Ba’—­did you?  Ba ... and that is you!  I TRIED ... (more than wanted) to call you that, on Wednesday!  I have a flower here—­rather, a tree, a mimosa, which must be turned and turned, the side to the light changing in a little time to the leafy side, where all the fans lean and spread ... so I turn your name to me, that side I have not last seen:  you cannot tell how I feel glad that you will not part with the name—­Barrett—­seeing you have two of the same—­and must always, moreover, remain my EBB!

Dearest ’E.B.C.’—­no, no! and so it will never be!

Have you seen Mr. Kenyon?  I did not write ... knowing that such a procedure would draw the kind sure letter in return, with the invitation &c., as if I had asked for it!  I had perhaps better call on him some morning very early.

Bless you, my own sweetest.  You will write to me, I know in my heart!

Ever may God bless you!

R.B.

E.B.B. to R.B.

Thursday Evening.
[Post-mark, December 20, 1845.]

Dearest, you know how to say what makes me happiest, you who never think, you say, of making me happy!  For my part I do not think of it either; I simply understand that you are my happiness, and that therefore you could not make another happiness for me, such as would be worth having—­not even you!  Why, how could you? That was in my mind to speak yesterday, but I could not speak it—­to write it, is easier.

Talking of happiness—­shall I tell you?  Promise not to be angry and I will tell you.  I have thought sometimes that, if I considered myself wholly, I should choose to die this winter—­now—­before I had disappointed you in anything.  But because you are better and dearer and more to be considered than I, I do not choose it.  I cannot choose to give you any pain, even on the chance of its being a less pain, a less evil, than what may follow perhaps (who can say?), if I should prove the burden of your life.

For if you make me happy with some words, you frighten me with others—­as with the extravagance yesterday—­and seriously—­too seriously, when the moment for smiling at them is past—­I am frightened, I tremble!  When you come to know me as well as I know myself, what can save me, do you think, from disappointing and displeasing you?  I ask the question, and find no answer.