not know how much, or you would not talk as you do
sometimes ... so wide of any possible application.

And do _not_ talk again of what you would 'sacrifice' for _me_. If you
affect me by it, which is true, you cast me from you farther than ever
in the next thought. _That_ is true.

The poems ... yours ... which you left with me,--are full of various
power and beauty and character, and you must let me have my own
gladness from them in my own way.

Now I must end this letter. Did you go to Chelsea and hear the divine
philosophy?

_Tell me the truth always_ ... will you? I mean such truths as may be
painful to me _though_ truths....

May God bless you, ever dear friend.

E.B.B.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Friday Afternoon.
[Post-mark, August 8, 1845.]

Then there is one more thing 'off my mind': I thought it might be with
you as with _me_--not remembering how different are the causes that
operate against us; different in kind as in degree:--_so_ much reading
hurts me, for instance,--whether the reading be light or heavy,
fiction or fact, and _so_ much writing, whether my own, such as you
have seen, or the merest compliment-returning to the weary tribe that
exact it of one. But your health--that before all!... as assuring all
eventually ... and on the other accounts you must know! Never, pray,
_pray_, never lose one sunny day or propitious hour to 'go out or walk
about.' But do not surprise _me_, one of these mornings, by 'walking'
up to me when I am introduced' ... or I shall infallibly, in spite of
all the after repentance and begging pardon--I shall [words effaced].
So here you learn the first 'painful truth' I have it in my power to
tell you!

I sent you the last of our poor roses this morning--considering that I
fairly owed that kindness to them.

Yes, I went to Chelsea and found dear Carlyle alone--his wife is in
the country where he will join her as soon as his book's last sheet
returns corrected and fit for press--which will be at the month's end
about. He was all kindness and talked like his own self while he made
me tea--and, afterward, brought chairs into the little yard, rather
than garden, and smoked his pipe with apparent relish; at night he
would walk as far as Vauxhall Bridge on my way home.

If I used the word 'sacrifice,' you do well to object--I can imagine
nothing ever to be do