R.B. to E.B.B.

Tuesday Evening.
[Post-mark, August 13, 1845.]

What can I say, or hope to say to you when I see what you do for me?

This—for myself, (nothing for you!)—this, that I think the great, great good I get by your kindness strikes me less than that kindness.

All is right, too—

Come, I will have my fault-finding at last! So you can decypher my utterest hieroglyphic? Now droop the eyes while I triumph: the plains cower, cower beneath the mountains their masters—and the Priests stomp over the clay ridges, (a palpable plagiarism from two lines of a legend that delighted my infancy, and now instruct my maturer years in pretty nearly all they boast of the semi-mythologic era referred to—'In London town, when reigned King Lud, His lords went stomping thro' the mud'—would all historic records were half as picturesque!)

But you know, yes, you know you are too indulgent by far—and treat these roughnesses as if they were advanced to many a stage! Meantime the pure gain is mine, and better, the kind generous spirit is mine, (mine to profit by)—and best—best—best, the dearest friend is mine,

So be happy

R.B.