_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.
And _for_ me, no, and yet yes,--I _will_ say this much; that I am not
inclined to do you injustice, but justice, when you come here--the
justice of wondering to myself how you can possibly, possibly, care to
come. Which is true enough to be _unanswerable_, if you please--or I
should not say it. '_As I began, so I shall end_--' Did you, as I hope
you did, thank your sister for Flush and for me? When you were gone,
he graciously signified his intention of eating the cakes--brought the
bag to me and emptied it without a drawback, from my hand, cake after
cake. And I forgot the basket once again.
And talking of Italy and the cardinals, and thinking of some cardinal
points you are ignorant of, did you ever hear that I was one of
'those schismatiques
of Amsterdam'
whom your Dr. Donne would have put into the dykes? unless he meant the
Baptists, instead of the Independents, the holders of the Independent
church principle. No--not '_schismatical_,' I hope, hating as I do
from the roots of my heart all that rending of the garment of Christ,
which Christians are so apt to make the daily week-day of this
Christianity so called--and caring very little for most dogmas and
doxies in themselves--too little, as people say to me sometimes, (when
they send me 'New Testaments' to learn from, with very kind
intentions)--and believing that there is only one church in heaven and
earth, with one divine High Priest to it; let exclusive religionists
build what walls they please and bring out what chrisms. But I used to
go with my father always, when I was able, to the nearest dissenting
chapel of the Congregationalists--from liking the simplicity of that
praying and speaking without books--and a little too from disliking
the theory of state churches. There is a narrowness among the
dissenters which is wonderful; an arid, grey Puritanism in the clefts
of their souls: but it seems to me clear that they know what the
'liberty of Christ' _means_, far better than those do who call
themselves 'churchmen'; and stand altogether, as a body, on higher
ground. And so, you see, when I talked of the sixteen points of my
discourse, it was the foreshadowing of a coming event, and you have
had it at last in the whole length and breadth of it. But it is not my
fault if the wind began to blow so that I could not go out--as I
intended--as I shall do to-morrow; and that you have received my
dulness in a full libation of it, in consequence. My sisters said of
the roses you blasphemed, yesterday, that they 'never saw such flowers
anywhere--anywhere here in London--' and therefore if I had thought so
myself before, it was not so wrong of me. I put your roses, you see,
against my letter, to make it seem less dull--and yet I do not forget
what you say about caring to hear from me--I mean, I do not _affect_
to forget it.
May God bless you, far longer than I can say so.