Mr. Forster came yesterday and was very profuse of graciosities:  he may have, or must have meant well, so we will go on again with the friendship, as the snail repairs his battered shell.

My poems went duly to press on Monday night—­there is not much correctable in them,—­you make, or you spoil, one of these things; that is, I do.  I have adopted all your emendations, and thrown in lines and words, just a morning’s business; but one does not write plays so.  You may like some of my smaller things, which stop interstices, better than what you have seen; I shall wonder to know.  I am to receive a proof at the end of the week—­will you help me and over-look it. (’Yes’—­she says ... my thanks I do not say!—­)

While writing this, the Times catches my eye (it just came in) and something from the Lancet is extracted, a long article against quackery—­and, as I say, this is the first and only sentence I read—­’There is scarcely a peer of the realm who is not the patron of some quack pill or potion:  and the literati too, are deeply tainted.  We have heard of barbarians who threw quacks and their medicines into the sea:  but here in England we have Browning, a prince of poets, touching the pitch which defiles and making Paracelsus the hero of a poem.  Sir E.L.  Bulwer writes puffs for the water doctors in a style worthy of imitation by the scribe that does the poetical for Moses and Son.  Miss Martineau makes a finessing servant girl her physician-general:  and Richard Howitt and the Lady aforesaid stand God-father and mother to the contemptible mesmeric vagaries of Spencer Hall.’—­Even the sweet incense to me fails of its effect if Paracelsus is to figure on a level with Priessnitz, and ‘Jane’!

What weather, now at last!  Think for yourself and for me—­could you not go out on such days?

I am quite well now—­cold, over and gone.  Did I tell you my Uncle arrived from Paris on Monday, as they hoped he would—­so my travel would have been to great purpose!

Bless my dearest—­my own!

R.B.

E.B.B. to R.B.

                              Wednesday.
                              [Post-mark, October 16, 1845.]

Your letter which should have reached me in the morning of yesterday, I did not receive until nearly midnight—­partly through the eccentricity of our new postman whose good pleasure it is to make use of the letter-box without knocking; and partly from the confusion in the house, of illness in different ways ... the very servants being ill, ... one of them breaking a blood-vessel—­for there is no new case of fever; ... and for dear Occy, he grows better slowly day by day.  And just so late last night, five letters were found in the letter-box, and mine ... yours ... among them—­which accounts for my beginning to answer it only now.