God bless you, my best, dearest friend—­think what I would speak—­

Ever yours

R.B.

E.B.B. to R.B.

                                Thursday.
                                [Post-mark, August 2, 1845.]

Let me write one word ... not to have it off my mind ... because it is by no means heavily on it; but lest I should forget to write it at all by not writing it at once.  What could you mean, ...  I have been thinking since you went away ... by applying such a grave expression as having a thing ‘off your mind’ to that foolish subject of the stupid book (mine), and by making it worth your while to account logically for your wish about my not mentioning it to Mr. Kenyon?  You could not fancy for one moment that I was vexed in the matter of the book? or in the other matter of your wish?  Now just hear me.  I explained to you that I had been silent to Mr. Kenyon, first because the fact was so; and next and a little, because I wanted to show how I anticipated your wish by a wish of my own ... though from a different motive. Your motive I really did take to be (never suspecting my dear kind cousin of treason) to be a natural reluctancy of being convicted (forgive me!) of such an arch-womanly curiosity.  For my own motive ... motives ... they are more than one ... you must trust me; and refrain as far as you can from accusing me of an over-love of Eleusinian mysteries when I ask you to say just as little about your visits here and of me as you find possible ... even to Mr. Kenyon ... as to every other person whatever.  As you know ... and yet more than you know ...  I am in a peculiar position—­and it does not follow that you should be ashamed of my friendship or that I should not be proud of yours, if we avoid making it a subject of conversation in high places, or low places.  There! that is my request to you—­or commentary on what you put ‘off your mind’ yesterday—­probably quite unnecessary as either request or commentary; yet said on the chance of its not being so, because you seemed to mistake my remark about Mr. Kenyon.

And your head, how is it?  And do consider if it would not be wise and right on that account of your health, to go with Mr. Chorley?  You can neither work nor enjoy while you are subject to attacks of the kind—­and besides, and without reference to your present suffering and inconvenience, you ought not to let them master you and gather strength from time and habit; I am sure you ought not.  Worse last week than ever, you see!—­and no prospect, perhaps, of bringing out your “Bells” this autumn, without paying a cost too heavy!—­Therefore ... the therefore is quite plain and obvious!—­

Friday.—­Just as it is how anxious Flush and I are, to be delivered from you; by these sixteen heads of the discourse of one of us, written before your letter came.  Ah, but I am serious—­and you will consider—­will you not? what is best to be done? and do it.  You could write to me, you know, from the end of the world; if you could take the thought of me so far.