I should not omit to tell you in this quantity of egotism that my husband’s father and sister have received me most affectionately.  She is highly accomplished, with a heart to suit the head.

Now do write.  Let me hear all about you, and how dear Mr. Martin and yourself are.  Robert’s cordial regards with those of

Your ever affectionate and ever grateful
BA.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Martin

26 Devonshire Street:  Saturday, [about August 1851].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,—­Day by day, and hour by hour almost, I have wanted to thank you again and again for your remedy (which I did not use, by the bye, being much better), and to answer your inquiry about me, which really I could not deliver over to Arabel to answer; but the baby did not go to the country with Wilson, and I have been ‘devoted’ since she went away; une ame perdue, with not an instant out of the four-and-twenty hours to call my own.  It appeared, at the last, that Wilson would have a drawback to her enjoyments in having the child, and I did not choose that:  she had only a fortnight, you see, after five years, to be with her family.  So I took her place with him; it was necessary, for he was in a state of deplorable grief when he missed her, and has refused ever since to allow any human being except me to do a single thing for him.  I hold him in my arms at night, dress and wash him in the morning, walk out with him, and am not allowed either to read or write above three minutes at a time.  He has learnt to say in English ’No more,’ and I am bound to be obedient.  Perhaps I may make out five minutes just to write this, for he is playing in the passage with a child of the house, but even so much is doubtful.  He has made very good friends with a girl here, and Arabel has sent her maid ever so often to tempt him away for half an hour, so as to give me breathing time, but he won’t be tempted:  he has it in his head that the world is in a conspiracy against him to take ‘mama’ away after having taken ‘Lily,’ and he is bound to resist it.

After all, the place of nursery maid is more suitable to me than that of poetess (or even poet’s wife) in this obstreperous London.  I was nearly killed the first weeks, what with the climate, and what with the kindness (and what with the want of kindness), and looked wretchedly, whether Reynolds Peyton saw it or not, and coughed day and night, till Robert took fright, and actually fixed a day for taking me forthwith back to Paris.  I had to give up a breakfast at Rogers’, and shut myself up in two rooms for a week, and refuse, like Wiedeman, to be tempted out anywhere, but, after that, I grew better, and the wind changed, and now the cough, though not gone, is quieted, and I look a different person, and have ceased to grow thin.  But a racketing life will never do for me, nor an English atmosphere, I am much afraid.  The lungs seem to labour in this heavy air.  Oh, it is so unlike the air of the Continent; I say nothing of Florence, but even of Paris, where I do wish to be able to live, on account of the nearness to this dear detestable England.