And if I have tired and teazed you with all these words it is a bad opportunity to take—­and yet I will persist in saying through good and bad opportunities that I never did ‘give cause’ as you say, to your being ‘suspicious of my suspiciousness’ as I believe I said before.  I deny my ‘suspiciousness’ altogether—­it is not one of my faults.  Nor is it quite my fault that you and I should always be quarrelling about over-appreciations and under-appreciations—­and after all I have no interest nor wish, I do assure you, to depreciate myself—­and you are not to think that I have the remotest claim to the Monthyon prize for good deeds in the way of modesty of self-estimation.  Only when I know you better, as you talk of ... and when you know me too well, ... the right and the wrong of these conclusions will appear in a fuller light than ever so much arguing can produce now.  Is it unkindly written of me? no—­I feel it is not!—­and that ’now and ever we are friends,’ (just as you think) I think besides and am happy in thinking so, and could not be distrustful of you if I tried.  So may God bless you, my ever dear friend—­and mind to forget the ‘Duchess’ and to remember every good counsel!—­Not that I do particularly confide in the medical oracles.  They never did much more for me than, when my pulse was above a hundred and forty with fever, to give me digitalis to make me weak—­and, when I could not move without fainting (with weakness), to give me quinine to make me feverish again.  Yes—­and they could tell from the stethoscope, how very little was really wrong in me ... if it were not on a vital organ—­and how I should certainly live ... if I didn’t die sooner.  But then, nothing has power over affections of the chest, except God and his winds—­and I do hope that an obvious quick remedy may be found for your head.  But do give up the writing and all that does harm!—­

Ever yours, my dear friend,

E.B.B.

Miss Mitford talked of spending Wednesday with me—­and I have put it off to Thursday:—­and if you should hear from Mr. Chorley that he is coming to see her and me together on any day, do understand that it was entirely her proposition and not mine, and that certainly it won’t be acceded to, as far as I am concerned; as I have explained to her finally.  I have been vexed about it—­but she can see him down-stairs as she has done before—­and if she calls me perverse and capricious (which she will do) I shall stop the reflection by thanking her again and again (as I can do sincerely) for her kindness and goodness in coming to see me herself, so far!—­

R.B. to E.B.B.

Tuesday Morning,
[Post-mark, June 24, 1845.]

(So my friend did not in the spirit see me write that first letter, on Friday, which was too good and true to send, and met, five minutes after, its natural fate accordingly.  Then on Saturday I thought to take health by storm, and walked myself half dead all the morning—­about town too:  last post-hour from this Thule of a suburb—­4 P.M. on Saturdays, next expedition of letters, 8 A.M. on Mondays;—­and then my real letter set out with the others—­and, it should seem, set at rest a ’wonder whether thy friend’s questions deserved answering’—­de-served—­answer-ing—!)