wonderful woman George Sand; who has something monstrous in combination with her genius, there is no denying at moments (for she has written one book, Leila, which I could not read, though I am not easily turned back,) but whom, in her good and evil together, I regard with infinitely more admiration than all other women of genius who are or have been.  Such a colossal nature in every way,—­with all that breadth and scope of faculty which women want—­magnanimous, and loving the truth and loving the people—­and with that ‘hate of hate’ too, which you extol—­so eloquent, and yet earnest as if she were dumb—­so full of a living sense of beauty, and of noble blind instincts towards an ideal purity—­and so proving a right even in her wrong.  By the way, what you say of the Vidocq museum reminds me of one of the chamber of masonic trial scenes in ‘Consuelo.’  Could you like to see those knives?

I began with the best intentions of writing six lines—­and see what is written!  And all because I kept my letter back ... from a doubt about Saturday—­but it has worn away, and the appointment stands good ... for me:  I have nothing to say against it.

But belief in mesmerism is not the same thing as general unbelief—­to do it justice—­now is it?  It may be super-belief as well.  Not that there is not something ghastly and repelling to me in the thought of Dr. Elliotson’s great bony fingers seeming to ‘touch the stops’ of a whole soul’s harmonies—­as in phreno-magnetism.  And I should have liked far better than hearing and seeing that, to have heard you pour the ‘cupful of Diderot’s rinsings,’ out,—­and indeed I can fancy a little that you and how you could do it—­and break the cup too afterwards!

Another sheet—­and for what?

What is written already, if you read, you do so meritoriously—­and it’s an example of bad writing, if you want one in the poems.  I am ashamed, you may see, of having written too much, (besides)—­which is much worse—­but one writes and writes:  I do at least—­for you are irreproachable.  Ever yours my dear friend, as if I had not written ... or had!

E.B.B.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Monday Afternoon.
[Post-mark July 7, 1845.]

While I write this,—­3 o’clock you may be going out, I will hope, for the day is very fine, perhaps all the better for the wind:  yet I got up this morning sure of bad weather.  I shall not try to tell you how anxious I am for the result and to know it.  You will of course feel fatigued at first—­but persevering, as you mean to do, do you not?—­persevering, the event must be happy.