possible to you to prevent the catastrophe, and no man and no friend could have done better.  My brother George told me of his conversation with you at Mr. Lough’s, but are you not mistaken in fancying that she blames you, that she is cold with you?  I really think you must be.  Why, if she is displeased with you she must be unjust, and is she ever unjust?  I ask you. I should imagine not, but then, with all my insolence of talking of her as my friend, I only admire and love her at a distance, in her books and in her letters, and do not know her face to face, and in living womanhood at all.  She wrote to me once, and since we have corresponded; and as in her kindness she has called me her friend, I leap hastily at an unripe fruit, perhaps, and echo back the word.  She is your friend in a completer, or, at least, a more ordinary sense; and indeed it is impossible for me to believe without strong evidence that she could cease to be your friend on such grounds as are apparent.  Perhaps she does not write because she cannot contain her wrath against Mr. Dilke (which, between ourselves, she cannot, very well), and respects your connection and regard for him.  Is not that a ‘peradventure’ worth considering?  I am sure that you have no right to be uneasy in any case.

And now I do not like to send you this letter without telling you my impression about mesmerism, lest I seem reserved and ’afraid of committing myself,’ as prudent people are.  I will confess, then, that my impression is in favour of the reality of mesmerism to some unknown extent.  I particularly dislike believing it, I would rather believe most other things in the world; but the evidence of the ’cloud of witnesses’ does thunder and lightning so in my ears and eyes, that I believe, while my blood runs cold.  I would not be practised upon—­no, not for one of Flushie’s ears, and I hate the whole theory.  It is hideous to my imagination, especially what is called phrenological mesmerism.  After all, however, truth is to be accepted; and testimony, when so various and decisive, is an ascertainer of truth.  Now do not tell Mr. Dilke, lest he excommunicate me.

But I will not pity you for the increase of occupation produced by an increase of such comfort as your mother’s and sister’s presence must give.  What it will be for you to have a branch to sun yourself on, after a long flight against the wind!

To Mr. Chorley 50 Wimpole Street:  January 3, 1845.

Dear Mr. Chorley,—­I hope it will not be transgressing very much against the etiquette of journalism, or against the individual delicacy which is of more consequence to both of us, if I venture to thank you by one word for the pages which relate to me in your excellent article in the ‘New Quarterly.’  It is not my habit to thank or to remonstrate with my reviewers, and indeed I believe I may tell you that I never wrote to thank anyone before on these grounds.  I could not thank anyone for praising