May God bless you, dear Mr. Boyd.  I don’t despair of looking in your face one day yet before my last.

Ever your affectionate and obliged
E.B.B.

Arabel’s love.

To H.S.  Boyd March 2, 1842.

My ever very dear Friend,—­Do receive the assurance that whether I leave out the right word or put in the wrong one, you never can be other to me than just that while I live, and why not after I have ceased to live?  And now—­what have I done in the meantime, to be called ‘Miss Barrett’?  ‘I pause for a reply.’

Of course it gives me very great pleasure to hear you speak so kindly of my first paper.  Some bona avis as good as a nightingale must have shaken its wings over me as I began it; and if it will but sit on the same spray while I go on towards the end, I shall rejoice exactly four-fold.  The third paper went to Mr. Dilke to-day, and I was so fidgety about getting it away (and it seemed to cling to my writing case with both its hands), that I would not do any writing, even as little as this note, until it was quite gone out of sight.  You know it is possible that he, the editor, may not please to have the fourth paper; but even in that case, it is better for the ‘Remarks’ to remain fragmentary, than be compressed till they are as dry as a hortus siccus of poets.

Certainly you do and must praise my number one too much.  Number one (that’s myself) thinks so.  I do really; and the supererogatory virtue of kindness may be acknowledged out of the pale of the Romish Church.

In regard to Gregory and Synesius, you will see presently that I have not wronged them altogether.

As you have ordered the ‘Athenaeums,’ I will not send one to-morrow so as to repeat my ill fortune of being too late.  But tell me if you would like to have any from me, and how many.

It was very kind in you to pat Flush’s[63] head in defiance of danger and from pure regard for me.  I kissed his head where you had patted it; which association of approximations I consider as an imitation of shaking hands with you and as the next best thing to it.  You understand—­don’t you?—­that Flush is my constant companion, my friend, my amusement, lying with his head on one page of my folios while I read the other. (Not your folios—­I respect your books, be sure.) Oh, I dare say, if the truth were known, Flush understands Greek excellently well.

I hope you are right in thinking that we shall meet again.  Once I wished not to live, but the faculty of life seems to have sprung up in me again, from under the crushing foot of heavy grief.

Be it all as God wills.

Believe me, your ever affectionate

E.B.B.

[Footnote 63:  Miss Barrett’s dog, the gift of Miss Mitford.  His praise is sung in her poem, ‘To Flush, my Dog’ (Poetical Works, iii. 19), and in many of the following letters.  He accompanied his mistress to Italy, lived to a good old age, and now lies buried in the vaults of Casa Guidi.]