Ba, I kept your letter yesterday, about me—it lay by my head at night—that its good might not go from me,—such perfect good! How strange to hear what you say of my letters,—of such and such a letter—some seem kind, and kinder and kindest—and how should I guess why? My life and love flow steadily under all those bubbles, or many or less—it is through the under current that, whatever you see, does appear, no doubt—but also where nothing appears,—all is one depth!

Bless you, all dearest beloved.

To-morrow, Wednesday!

Ever your very own,

E.B.B. to R.B.

Thursday.
[Post-mark, April 16, 1846.]

This morning, you would never guess what I have been doing.—Buying a bonnet! That looks like a serious purpose of going out, walking out, driving out ... now doesn’t it? And having chosen one a little like a Quaker’s, as I thought to myself, I am immediately assured by the learned that ‘nothing can be more fashionable’ ... which is a most satisfactory proof of blind instinct, ... feeling towards the Bude lights of the world, and which Mrs. Procter would highly esteem me for, if she did but know it.

In the meanwhile assure yourself that I understand perfectly your feeling about the subject of yesterday. Flies are flies, and yet they are vexatious with their buzzing, as flies. Only Mrs. Jameson told me the other day that a remedy against the mosquitos ... polvere di morchia ... had been discovered lately in Italy, so that the world might sleep there in peace—as you may here ... let us talk no more of it. I think I should not have told you if I had not needed it for a talking-ladder to something else. For the rest, it is amusing to me, quite amusing, to observe how people cannot conceive of work except under certain familiar forms. Men who dig in ditches have an idea that the man who leads the plough rather rests than works: and all men of out-door labour distrust the industry of the manufacturers in-doors—while both manufacturers and out-door labourers consider the holders of offices and clerkships as idle men ... gentlemen at ease. Then between all these classes and the intellectual worker, the difference is wider, and the want of perception more complete. The work of creation, nobody will admit ... though everybody has by heart, without laying it to heart, that God rested on the seventh day. Looking up to the stars at nights, they might as well take all to be motionless—though if there were no motion there would be no morning ... and they look for a morning after all. Why who could mind such obtuse stupidity? It is the stupidity of mankind, par excellence of foolishness! The hedger and ditcher they see working, but God they do not see working. If one built a palace without noise and confusion and the stroke of hammers, one would scarcely get credit for it in this world ... so full of virtue and admiration it is, to make a noise! Even I, you see, who said just now ‘Talk no more of it,’ talk more and more, and make more noise than is necessary. Here is an end though—we leave Mrs. Procter here. And do not think that the least word of disrespect was said of you—indeed it was not! neither disrespect nor reproach. So you and I will forgive everybody henceforward, for wishing you to be rich. And if Miss Procter would ‘commit suicide’ rather than live as you like to live, I will not, as long as you are not tired of me—and that, just now and as things are, is of a little more consequence perhaps....

Scarcely had you gone, dearest, yesterday, when I had two letters with the very prose of life in them, dropping its black blotchy oil upon all the bright colours of our poetry! I groaned in the spirit to read, and to have to answer them. First was a Miss Georgiana Bennet—did you ever hear of her?—I never did before, but that was my base ignorance; for she is a most voluminous writer it appears ... and sent me five or six ‘works’ (observe), ... published under the ‘high sanction’ (and reiterated subscription) of ever so many Royal Highnesses and Right Reverends ... written in prose and verse, upon female education and the portrait of Harrison Ainsworth (‘I gaze upon that noble face, and bright expressive eyes!’), miscellaneous subjects of that sort!—also, there is a poem of some length, called ‘The Poetess,’ which sets forth in detail how Miss Georgiana Bennet has found the laurel on her brow a mere nightshade, and the glories of fame no comfort in the world. Well—all these books were sent to me, with a note hortative—giving indeed a very encouraging opinion of my poems generally, but desiring me to consider, that poets write both for the learned and the unlearned, and that in fact I am in the habit of using a great many hard words, much to the confusion of the latter large class of readers. She has heard (Georgiana has) that I am a classical scholar which of course (of course) accounts for this peculiarity ... but it is the duty of one’s friends to tell one of one’s faults, which is the principle she goes upon. In return for which benevolence, I am requested to send back a copy of my poems directly, and to ‘think of her, as she thinks of me.’ There an end. The next letter is from a Mrs. Milner, who used to edit the ‘Christian Mother’s Magazine’; the most idiotic tract-literature, that magazine was, but supported by the Queen dowager and a whole train of Duchesses proper—very proper indeed! She used to edit the ‘Christian Mother,’ but now she has ‘generalised’ it, she says, to the ‘Englishwoman’s Magazine’ and wants me to write for it and says....

Oh—I cannot have patience to go on to tell you. Besides you will take me to be too bitter, when I ought to be grateful perhaps! But if you knew how hard it is for me to have to read and write sometimes, as if you were not in the world with me ... as if.... Is it wrong to laugh a little, to put it off,—only to you, though? And do you know, I feel ill at ease in my conscience, on account of what I said (even to you) about Mrs. Paine, who came to see me, you remember; and because she has written me a letter which quite affected me, I shall send it for you to read, to undo any false impression. Then you will not dislike reading it on other grounds. She is very different from the Georgiana Bennets, and I am interested in her, and touched aright by what she says.