Tuesday.—­Was it fair to tell me to write though, and be silent of the ‘Duchess,’ and when I was sure to be so delighted—­and you knew it? I think not indeed.  And, to make the obedience possible, I go on fast to say that I heard from Mr. Horne a few days since and that he said—­’your envelope reminds me of’—­you, he said ... and so, asked if you were in England still, and meant to write to you.  To which I have answered that I believe you to be in England—­thinking it strange about the envelope; which, as far as I remember, was one of those long ones, used, the more conveniently to enclose to him back again a MS. of his own I had offered with another of his, by his desire, to Colburn’s Magazine, as the productions of a friend of mine, when he was in Germany and afraid of his proper fatal onymousness, yet in difficulty how to approach the magazines as a nameless writer (you will not mention this of course).  And when he was in Germany, I remember, ... writing just as your first letter came ... that I mentioned it to him, and was a little frankly proud of it! but since, your name has not occurred once—­not once, certainly!—­and it is strange....  Only he can’t have heard of your having been here, and it must have been a chance-remark—­altogether! taking an imaginary emphasis from my evil conscience perhaps.  Talking of evils, how wrong of you to make that book for me! and how ill I thanked you after all!  Also, I couldn’t help feeling more grateful still for the Duchess ... who is under ban:  and for how long I wonder?

My dear friend, I am ever yours,

E.B.B.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Wednesday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 9, 1845.]

You are all that is good and kind:  I am happy and thankful the beginning (and worst of it) is over and so well.  The Park and Mr. Kenyon’s all in good time—­and your sister was most prudent—­and you mean to try again:  God bless you, all to be said or done—­but, as I say it, no vain word.  No doubt it was a mere chance-thought, and a propos de bottes of Horne—­neither he or any other can know or even fancy how it is.  Indeed, though on other grounds I should be all so proud of being known for your friend by everybody, yet there’s no denying the deep delight of playing the Eastern Jew’s part here in this London—­they go about, you know by travel-books, with the tokens of extreme destitution and misery, and steal by blind ways and by-paths to some blank dreary house, one obscure door in it—­which being well shut behind them, they grope on through a dark corridor or so, and then, a blaze follows the lifting a curtain or the like, for they are in a palace-hall with fountains and light, and marble and gold, of which the envious are never to dream!  And I, too, love to have few friends, and to live alone, and to see you from week to week.  Do you not suppose I am grateful?

And you do like the ‘Duchess,’ as much as you have got of it? that delights me, too—­for every reason.  But I fear I shall not be able to bring you the rest to-morrow—­Thursday, my day—­because I have been broken in upon more than one morning; nor, though much better in my head, can I do anything at night just now.  All will come right eventually, I hope, and I shall transcribe the other things you are to judge.