and the glory of it. I have been vexed into a high state of
morality, I assure you. Now that you are gone away I hear from you
again; and it does seem to me that almost always it happens so, and
that you come to London to be ill and leave it before you can be well
again. It is a comfort in every case to know of your being better, and
Hastings is warm and quiet, and the pretty country all round (mind you
go and see the 'Rocks' _par excellence_)! will entice you into very
gentle exercise. At the same time, don't wish me into the house you
speak of. I can lose nothing here, shut up in my prison, and the
nightingales come to my windows and sing through the sooty panes. If
I were at Hastings I should risk the chance of recovering liberty, and
the consolations of slavery would not reach me as they do here. Also,
if I were to set my heart upon Hastings, I might break it at leisure;
there would be exactly as much difficulty in turning my face that way
as towards Italy--ah, you do not understand! And _I do, at last_, I am
sorry to say; and it has been very long, tedious and reluctant work,
the learning of the lesson....

Did Henrietta tell you that I heard at last from Miss Martineau, who
thought me in Italy, she said, and therefore was silent? She has sent
me her new work (have you read it?) and speaks of her strength and of
being able to walk fifteen miles a day, which seems to me like a fairy
tale, or the 'Three-leagued Boots' at least.

What am I doing, to tell you of? Nothing! The winter is kind, and
this divine 'muggy' weather (is _that_ the technical word and spelling
thereof?), which gives all reasonable people colds in their heads,
leaves _me_ the hope of getting back to the summer without much
injury. A friend of mine--one of the greatest poets in England
too--brought me primroses and polyanthuses the other day, as they are
grown in Surrey![140] Surely it must be nearer spring than we think.

Dearest Mrs. Martin, write and say how you are. And say, God bless
you, both the yous, and mention Mr. Martin particularly, and what your
plans are.

Ever your affectionate
BA.

[Footnote 140:

Beloved, them hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through,
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.

_Sonnets from the Portuguese_, xliv.]

_To Mrs. Martin_
Tuesday [end of June 1846].

So, my dearest Mrs. Martin, you are quite angry