E.B.B. to R.B.

Tuesday Morning.
[Post-mark, June 10, 1845.]

I must thank you by one word for all your kindness and consideration—­which could not be greater; nor more felt by me.  In the first place, afterwards (if that should not be Irish dialect) do understand that my letter passed from my hands to go to yours on Friday, but was thrown aside carelessly down stairs and ‘covered up’ they say, so as not to be seen until late on Saturday; and I can only humbly hope to have been cross enough about it (having conscientiously tried) to secure a little more accuracy another time.—­And then, ... if ever I should want anything done or found, ... (a roc’s egg or the like) you may believe me that I shall not scruple to ask you to be the finder; but at this moment I want nothing, indeed, except your poems; and that is quite the truth.  Now do consider and think what I could possibly want in your ‘outside London world’; you, who are the ’Genius of the lamp’!—­Why if you light it and let me read your romances, &c., by it, is not that the best use for it, and am I likely to look for another?  Only I shall remember what you say, gratefully and seriously; and if ever I should have a good fair opportunity of giving you trouble (as if I had not done it already!), you may rely upon my evil intentions; even though dear Mr. Kenyon should not actually be at New York, ... which he is not, I am glad to say, as I saw him on Saturday.

Which reminds me that he knows of your having been here, of course! and will not mention it; as he understood from me that you would not.—­Thank you!  Also there was an especial reason which constrained me, on pain of appearing a great hypocrite, to tell Miss Mitford the bare fact of my having seen you—­and reluctantly I did it, though placing some hope in her promise of discretion.  And how necessary the discretion is, will appear in the awful statistical fact of our having at this moment, as my sisters were calculating yesterday, some forty relations in London—­to say nothing of the right wing of the enemy.  For Mr. Horne, I could have told you, and really I thought I had told you of his being in England.

Last paragraph of all is, that I don’t want to be amused, ... or rather that I am amused by everything and anything.  Why surely, surely, you have some singular ideas about me!  So, till to-morrow,

E.B.B.

Instead of writing this note to you yesterday, as should have been, I went down-stairs—­or rather was carried—­and am not the worse.

E.B.B. to R.B.

Friday.
[Post-mark, June 14, 1845.]