Monday.
July 8, 1845.
Well — I have really been out; and am really alive after it — which is more surprising still — alive enough I mean, to write even so, to-night. But perhaps I say so with more emphasis, to console myself for failing in my great ambition of getting into the Park and of reaching Mr. Kenyon’s door just to leave a card there vaingloriously, . . . all which I did fail in, and was forced to turn back from the gates of Devonshire Place. The next time it will be better perhaps — and this time there was no fainting nor anything very wrong . . . not even cowardice on the part of the victim (be it recorded!) for one of my sisters was as usual in authority and ordered the turning back just according to her own prudence and not my selfwill. Only you will not, any of you, ask me to admit that it was all delightful — pleasanter work than what you wanted to spare me in taking care of your roses on Saturday! don’t ask that, and I will try it again presently.
I ought to be ashamed of writing this I and me-ism — but since your kindness made it worth while asking about I must not be over-wise and silent on my side.
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.