could not be an occasion of vainglory to the consciousness of the most vainglorious of writers.  You made me smile by your suggestion about the aptitude of critics aforesaid for courting Lady Geraldines.  Certes—­however it may be—­the poem has had more attention than its due.  Oh, and I must tell you that I had a letter the other day from Mr. Westwood (one of my correspondents unknown) referring to ‘Blackwood,’ and observing on the mistake about Goethe.  ’Did you not mean “fell” the verb,’ he said, ‘or do I mistake?’ So, you see, some people in the world did actually understand what I meant.  I am eager to prove that possibility sometimes.

How full of life of mind Mr. Eagles’s letter is.  Such letters always bring me to think of Harriet Martineau’s pestilent plan of doing to destruction half of the intellectual life of the world, by suppressing every mental breath breathed through the post office.  She was not in a state of clairvoyance when she said such a thing.  I have not heard from her, but you observed what the ‘Critic’ said of William Howitt’s being empowered by her to declare the circumstances of her recovery?

Again and again have I sent for Dr. Arnold’s ‘Life,’ and I do hope to have it to-day.  I am certain, by the extracts, besides your opinion, that I shall be delighted with it.

Why shouldn’t Miss Martineau’s apocalyptic housemaid[117] tell us whether Flush has a soul, and what is its ‘future destination’?  As to the fact of his soul, I have long had a strong opinion on it.  The ‘grand peut-etre,’ to which ‘without revelation’ the human argument is reduced, covers dog-nature with the sweep of its fringes.

Did you ever read Bulwer’s ‘Eva, or the Unhappy Marriage’? That is a sort of poetical novel, with modern manners inclusive.  But Bulwer, although a poet in prose, writes all his rhythmetical compositions somewhat prosaically, providing an instance of that curious difference which exists between the poetical writer and the poet.  It is easier to give the instance than the reason, but I suppose the cause of the rhythmetical impotence must lie somewhere in the want of the power of concentration.  For is it not true that the most prolix poet is capable of briefer expression than the least prolix prose writer, or am I wrong?...

Your ever affectionate
E.B.B.

[Footnote 117:  Miss Martineau, besides having been cured by mesmerism herself, was blest with a housemaid who had visions under the same influence, concerning which Miss Martineau subsequently wrote at great length in the Athenaeum.]

To Cornelius Mathews 50 Wimpole Street:  November 14, 1844.