My true initials are E.B.M.B.—­my long name, as opposed to my short one, being Elizabeth Barrett Moulton Barrett!—­there’s a full length to take away one’s breath!—­Christian name ...  Elizabeth Barrett:—­surname, Moulton Barrett.  So long it is, that to make it portable, I fell into the habit of doubling it up and packing it closely, ... and of forgetting that I was a Moulton, altogether.  One might as well write the alphabet as all four initials.  Yet our family-name is Moulton Barrett, and my brothers reproach me sometimes for sacrificing the governorship of an old town in Norfolk with a little honourable verdigris from the Heralds’ Office.  As if I cared for the Retrospective Review!  Nevertheless it is true that I would give ten towns in Norfolk (if I had them) to own some purer lineage than that of the blood of the slave!  Cursed we are from generation to generation!—­I seem to hear the ‘Commination Service.’

May God bless you always, always! beyond the always of this world!—­

Your

E.B.B.

Mr. Dickens’s ‘Cricket’ sings repetitions, and, with considerable beauty, is extravagant.  It does not appear to me by any means one of his most successful productions, though quite free from what was reproached as bitterness and one-sidedness, last year.

You do not say how you are—­not a word!  And you are wrong in saying that you ’ought to have written’—­as if ‘ought’ could be in place so!  You never ‘ought’ to write to me you know! or rather ... if you ever think you ought, you ought not!  Which is a speaking of mysteries on my part!

R.B. to E.B.B.

Sunday Night.
[Post-mark, December 22, 1845.]

Now, ‘ought’ you to be ‘sorry you sent that letter,’ which made, and makes me so happy—­so happy—­can you bring yourself to turn round and tell one you have so blessed with your bounty that there was a mistake, and you meant only half that largess?  If you are not sensible that you do make me most happy by such letters, and do not warm in the reflection of your own rays, then I do give up indeed the last chance of procuring you happiness.  My own ‘ought,’ which you object to, shall be withdrawn—­being only a pure bit of selfishness; I felt, in missing the letter of yours, next day, that I might have drawn it down by one of mine,—­if I had begged never so gently, the gold would have fallen—­there was my omitted duty to myself which you properly blame.  I should stand silently and wait and be sure of the ever-remembering goodness.

Let me count my gold now—­and rub off any speck that stays the full shining.  First—­that thought ...  I told you; I pray you, pray you, sweet—­never that again—­or what leads never so remotely or indirectly to it!  On your own fancied ground, the fulfilment would be of necessity fraught with every woe that can fall in this life.  I am yours for ever—­if