I feel here near enough to England, that’s the truth.  I recoil from the bitterness of being nearer.  Still, it must be thought of.

Dearest cousin, dearest friend, in all this pleasant journey we have borne you in mind, and gratefully!  You must feel that without being told.  I won’t quite do like my Wiedeman, who every time he fires his gun (if it’s twenty times in five minutes) says, ‘Papa, papa,’ because Robert gave him the gun, and the gratitude is as re-iterantly and loudly explosive.  But one’s thoughts may say what they please and as often as they please.

Arabel tells me that you are kind to the manner of my poem, though to the matter obdurate.  Miss Mitford, too, says that it won’t receive the sympathy proper to a home subject, because the English people don’t care anything for the Italians now; despising them for their want of originality in Art!  That’s very good of the English people, really!  I fear much that dear Miss Mitford has suffered seriously from the effects of the damp house last winter.  What she says of herself makes me anxious about her.

Give my true love to dear Miss Bayley, and say how I repent in ashes for not having written to her.  But she is large-hearted and will forgive me, and I shall make amends and send her sheet upon sheet.  Barry Cornwall’s letter to Robert, of course, delighted as well as honoured me.  Does it appear in the new edition of his ‘songs’ &c.?

Mind, if ever I go to England I shall have no heart to go out of a very dark corner.  I shall just see you and that’s all.  It’s only Robert who is a patriot now, of us two.  England, what with the past and the present, is a place of bitterness to me, bitter enough to turn all her seas round to wormwood!  Airs and hearts, all are against me in England; yet don’t let me be ungrateful.  No love is forgotten or less prized, certainly not yours.  Only I’m a citizeness of the world now, you see, and float loose.

God bless you, dearest Mr. Kenyon, prays

Your ever affectionate
BA.

Robert’s best love as always.  He writes by this post to Mr. Procter.  How beautifully Sarianna has corrected for the press my new poem!  Wonderfully well, really.  There is only one error of consequence, which I will ask you to correct in any copy you can—­of ‘rail’ in the last line, to ‘vail;’ the allusion being of course to the Jewish temple—­but as it is printed nobody can catch any meaning, I fear.  They tell me that the Puseyite organ, the ‘Guardian,’ has been strong in attack.  So best.

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After a few weeks in Paris the travellers crossed over to England, which they had not seen for nearly five years.  Their visit to London lasted about two months, from the end of July to the end of September, during which time they stayed in lodgings at 26 Devonshire Street.

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