there seems to be a good prospect.  Then I have had some very pleasant private letters—­one from Carlyle; an oath from Miss Martineau to give her whole mind to the work and tell me her free and full opinion, which I have not received yet; an assurance from an acquaintance of Mrs. Jameson that she was much pleased.  But the letter which pleased me most was addressed to me by a professional critic, personally unknown to me, who wrote to say that he had traced me up, step by step, ever since I began to print, and that my last volumes were so much better than any preceding them, and were such living books, that they restored to him the impulses of his youth and constrained him to thank me for the pleasant emotions they had excited.  I cannot say the name of the writer of this letter, because he asked me not to do so, but of course it was very pleasant to read.  Now you will not call me vain for speaking of this.  I would not speak of it; only I want (you see) to prove to you how faithfully and gratefully I have a trust in your kindness and sympathy.  It is certainly the best kindness to speak the truth to me.  I have written those poems as well as I could, and I hope to write others better.  I have not reached my own ideal; and I cannot expect to have satisfied other people’s expectation.  But it is (as I sometimes say) the least ignoble part of me, that I love poetry better than I love my own successes in it.

I am glad that you like ‘The Lost Bower.’  The scene of that poem is the wood above the garden at Hope End.

It is very true, my dearest Mrs. Martin, all that you say about the voyage to Alexandria.  And I do not feel the anxiety I thought I should.  In fact, I am surprised to feel so little anxiety.  Still, when they are at home again, I shall be happier than I am now, that I feel strongly besides.

What I missed most in your first letter was what I do not miss in the second, the good news of dear Mr. Martin.  Both he and you are very vainglorious, I suppose, about O’Connell; but although I was delighted on every account at his late victory,[112] or rather at the late victory of justice and constitutional law, he never was a hero of mine and is not likely to become one.  If he had been (by the way) a hero of mine, I should have been quite ashamed of him for being so unequal to his grand position as was demonstrated by the speech from the balcony.  Such poetry in the position, and such prose in the speech!  He has not the stuff in him of which heroes are made.  There is a thread of cotton everywhere crossing the silk....

With our united love to both of you,
Ever, dearest Mrs. Martin, most affectionately yours,
BA.

[Footnote 112:  The reversal by the House of Lords of his conviction in Ireland for conspiracy, which the English Court of Queen’s Bench had confirmed.]

To Mrs. Martin Wednesday [about September 1844].