No address or postmark.
I do not write this till the last that no eye may catch it.1
My dearest Girl,
I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you; every thing else tastes like chaff in my Mouth. I feel it almost impossible to go to Italy--the fact is I cannot leave you, and shall never taste one minute's content until it pleases chance to let me live with you for good. But I will not go on at this rate. A person in health as you are can have no conception of the horrors that nerves and a temper like mine go through. What Island do your friends propose retiring to? I should be happy to go with you there alone, but in company I should object to it; the backbitings and jealousies of new colonists who have nothing else to amuse themselves, is unbearable. Mr Dilke came to see me yesterday, and gave me a very great deal more pain than pleasure. I shall never be able any more to endure the society of any of those who used to meet at Elm Cottage and Wentworth Place. The last two years taste like brass upon my Palate.2 If I cannot live with you I will live alone. I do not think my health will improve much while I am separated from you. For all this I am averse to seeing you--I cannot bear flashes of light and return into my glooms again. I am not so____________________
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took
Savour of poisonous brass and metal sick: . . .