I could go on talking, but remind myself (I do hope in time) that I might show my gratitude better.  With sincere wishes for the success of the work (for just see how practically we come to trust to poetical justices after all our theories—­I, I mean, and mine!), and with respect and esteem for the writer,

I remain very truly yours,
ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT.

[Footnote 137:  A novel by Mr. Chorley, a copy of which he had presented to Miss Barrett.]

To Mrs. Jameson 50 Wimpole Street:  December 1, 1845.

My dear Mrs. Jameson,—­I receive your letter, as I must do every sign of your being near and inclined to think of me in kindness, gladly, and assure you at once that whenever you can spend a half-hour on me you will find me enough myself to have a true pleasure in welcoming you, say any day except next Saturday or the Monday immediately following.

As soon as I heard of your return to England I ventured to hope that some good might come of it to me in my room here, besides the general good, which I look for with the rest of the public, when the censer swings back into the midst of us again.  And how good of you, dear Mrs. Jameson, to think of me there where the perfumes were set burning; it makes me glad and grand that you should have been able to do so.  Also the kind wishes which came with the thoughts (you say) were not in vain, for I have been very idle and very well; the angel of the summer has done more for me even than usual, and till the last wave of his wing I took myself to be quite well and at liberty, and even now I am as well as anyone can be who has heard the prison door shut for a whole winter at least, and knows it to be the only English alternative of a grave.  Which is a gloomy way of saying that I am well but forced to shut myself up with disagreeable precautions all round, and I ought to be gratified instead of gloomy.  Believe me that I shall be so when you come to see me, remaining in the meanwhile

Most truly yours,
ELIZABETH BARRETT.

To Mrs. Martin Friday [about December 1845].

I am the guilty person, dearest Mrs. Martin!  You would have heard from Henrietta at least yesterday, only I persisted in promising to write instead of her; and so, if there are reproaches, let them fall.  Not that I am audacious and without shame!  But I have grown familiar with an evil conscience as to these matters of not writing when I ought; and long ago I grew familiar with your mercy and power of pardoning; and then—­and then—­if silence and sulkiness are proved crimes of mine to ever such an extreme, why it would not be unnatural.  Do you think I was born to live the life of an oyster, such as I do live here?  And so, the moaning and gnashing of teeth are best done alone and without taking anyone into confidence.  And so, this is all I have to say for myself, which perhaps you will be glad of; for you will be ready to agree with me that next to such faults of idleness, negligence, silence (call them by what names you please!) as I have been guilty of, is the repentance of them, if indeed the latter be not the most unpardonable of the two.