—­that, beloved, was written for me.  And you, if you would make me happy, always will look at yourself from my ground and by my light, as I see you, and consent to be selfish in all things.  Observe, that if I were vacillating, I should not be so weak as to tease you with the process of the vacillation:  I should wait till my pendulum ceased swinging.  It is precisely because I am your own, past any retraction or wish of retraction,—­because I belong to you by gift and ownership, and am ready and willing to prove it before the world at a word of yours,—­it is precisely for this, that I remind you too often of the necessity of using this right of yours, not to your injury, of being wise and strong for both of us, and of guarding your happiness which is mine.  I have said these things ninety and nine times over, and over and over have you replied to them,—­as yesterday!—­and now, do not speak any more.  It is only my preachment for general use, and not for particular application,—­only to be ready for application.  I love you from the deepest of my nature—­the whole world is nothing to me beside you—­and what is so precious, is not far from being terrible.  ‘How dreadful is this place.’

To hear you talk yesterday, is a gladness in the thought for to-day,—­it was with such a full assent that I listened to every word.  It is true, I think, that we see things (things apart from ourselves) under the same aspect and colour—­and it is certainly true that I have a sort of instinct by which I seem to know your views of such subjects as we have never looked at together.  I know you so well (yes, I boast to myself of that intimate knowledge), that I seem to know also the idola of all things as they are in your eyes—­so that never, scarcely, I am curious,—­never anxious, to learn what your opinions may be.  Now, have I been curious or anxious?  It was enough for me to know you.

More than enough!  You have ’left undone’—­do you say?  On the contrary, you have done too much,—­you are too much.  My cup,—­which used to hold at the bottom of it just the drop of Heaven dew mingling with the absinthus,—­has overflowed all this wine:  and that makes me look out for the vases, which would have held it better, had you stretched out your hand for them.

Say how you are—­and do take care and exercise—­and write to me, dearest!

Ever your own—­

BA.

How right you are about ’Ben Capstan,’—­and the illustration by the yellow clay.  That is precisely what I meant,—­said with more precision than I could say it.  Art without an ideal is neither nature nor art.  The question involves the whole difference between Madame Tussaud and Phidias.

I have just received Mr. Edgar Poe’s book—­and I see that the deteriorating preface which was to have saved me from the vanity-fever produceable by the dedication, is cut down and away—­perhaps in this particular copy only!