And now we must agree to ‘let all this be,’, and set ourselves to get as much good and enjoyment from the coming winter (better spent at Pisa!) as we can—­and I begin my joy by being glad that you are not going since I am not going, and by being proud of these new green leaves in your bay which came out with the new number.  And then will come the tragedies—­and then, ... what beside?  We shall have a happy winter after all ... I shall at least; and if Pisa had been better, London might be worse:  and for me to grow pretentious and fastidious and critical about various sorts of purple ...  I, who have been used to the brun fonce of Mme. de Sevigne, (fonce and enfonce ...)—­would be too absurd.  But why does not the proof come all this time?  I have kept this letter to go back with it.

I had a proposition from the New York booksellers about six weeks ago (the booksellers who printed the poems) to let them re-print those prose papers of mine in the Athenaeum, with additional matter on American literature, in a volume by itself—­to be published at the same time both in America and England by Wiley and Putnam in Waterloo Place, and meaning to offer liberal terms, they said.  Now what shall I do?  Those papers are not fit for separate publication, and I am not inclined to the responsibility of them; and in any case, they must give as much trouble as if they were re-written (trouble and not poetry!), before I could consent to such a thing.  Well!—­and if I do not ... these people are just as likely to print them without leave ... and so without correction.  What do you advise?  What shall I do?  All this time they think me sublimely indifferent, they who pressed for an answer by return of packet—­and now it is past six ... eight weeks; and I must say something.

Am I not ‘femme qui parle’ to-day?  And let me talk on ever so, the proof won’t come.  May God bless you—­and me as I am

Yours,

E.B.B.

And the silent promise I would have you make is this—­that if ever you should leave me, it shall be (though you are not ‘selfish’) for your sake—­and not for mine:  for your good, and not for mine.  I ask it—­not because I am disinterested; but because one class of motives would be valid, and the other void—­simply for that reason.

Then the femme qui parle (looking back over the parlance) did not mean to say on the first page of this letter that she was ever for a moment vexed in her pride that she should owe anything to her adversities.  It was only because adversities are accidents and not essentials.  If it had been prosperities, it would have been the same thing—­no, not the same thing!—­but far worse.

Occy is up to-day and doing well.

R.B. to E.B.B.

[Post-mark, October 27, 1845.]