And so I have been very wise—­witness how my eyes are swelled with annotations and reflections on all this!  The best of it is that now George himself admits I can do no more in the way of speaking, ...  I have no spell for charming the dragons, ... and allows me to be passive and enjoins me to be tranquil, and not ‘make up my mind’ to any dreadful exertion for the future.  Moreover he advises me to go on with the preparations for the voyage, and promises to state the case himself at the last hour to the ‘highest authority’; and judge finally whether it be possible for me to go with the necessary companionship.  And it seems best to go to Malta on the 3rd of October—­if at all ... from steam-packet reasons ... without excluding Pisa ... remember ... by any means.

Well!—­and what do you think?  Might it be desirable for me to give up the whole?  Tell me.  I feel aggrieved of course and wounded—­and whether I go or stay that feeling must last—­I cannot help it.  But my spirits sink altogether at the thought of leaving England so—­and then I doubt about Arabel and Stormie ... and it seems to me that I ought not to mix them up in a business of this kind where the advantage is merely personal to myself.  On the other side, George holds that if I give up and stay even, there will be displeasure just the same, ... and that, when once gone, the irritation will exhaust and smooth itself away—­which however does not touch my chief objection.  Would it be better ... more right ... to give it up?  Think for me.  Even if I hold on to the last, at the last I shall be thrown off—­that is my conviction.  But ... shall I give up at once?  Do think for me.

And I have thought that if you like to come on Friday instead of Saturday ... as there is the uncertainty about next week, ... it would divide the time more equally:  but let it be as you like and according to circumstances as you see them.  Perhaps you have decided to go at once with your friends—­who knows?  I wish I could know that you were better to-day.  May God bless you

Ever yours,

E.B.B.

R.B. to E.B.B.

[Post-mark, September 25, 1845.]

You have said to me more than once that you wished I might never know certain feelings you had been forced to endure.  I suppose all of us have the proper place where a blow should fall to be felt most—­and I truly wish you may never feel what I have to bear in looking on, quite powerless, and silent, while you are subjected to this treatment, which I refuse to characterize—­so blind is it for blindness.  I think I ought to understand what a father may exact, and a child should comply with; and I respect the most ambiguous of love’s caprices if they give never so slight a clue to their all-justifying source.  Did I, when you signified to me the probable objections—­you remember what—­to myself, my own happiness,—­did I once allude to, much less argue against, or refuse