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

My ever dearest Mrs. Martin,--I am not ungrateful after all, but I
wanted to write a long letter to you (having much to say), and even now
it is hard in this confusion to write a short one. We have been
overwhelmed with kindnesses, crushed with gifts, like the Roman lady;
and literally to drink through a cup of tea from beginning to end
without an interruption from the door-bell, we have scarcely attained to
since we came. For my part I refuse all dinner invitations except when
our dear friend Mr. Kenyon 'imposes himself as an exception,' in his
own words. But even in keeping the resolution there are necessary
fatigues; and, do you know, I have not been well since our arrival in
England. My first step ashore was into a puddle and a fog, and I began
to cough before we reached London. The quality of the air does _not_
agree with me, that's evident. For nearly five years I have had no such
cough nor difficulty of breathing, and my friends, who at first sight
thought me looking well, must forbear all compliments for the future, I
think, I get so much paler every day. Next week we send Wilson to see
her mother near Sheffield and _the baby with her_, which is a great
stroke of fortitude in me; only what I can't bear is to see him crying
because she is gone away. So we resolve on letting them both go
together. When she returns, ten days or a fortnight after, we shall have
to think of going to Paris again; indeed Robert begins to be nervous
about me--which is nonsense, but natural enough perhaps.

In regard to Colwall, you are both, my very dear friends, the kindest
that you can be. Ah, but dearest, dearest Mrs. Martin, you can
_understand_, with the same kindness that you use to me in other things.
There is only one event in my life which never loses its bitterness;
which comes back on me like a retreating wave, going and coming again,
which was and _is my grief--I never had but one brother who loved and
comprehended me_. And so there is just one thought which would be
unbearable if I went into your neighbourhood; and you won't set it down,
I am sure, as unpardonable weakness, much less as affectation, if I
confess to you that I _never could bear it_. The past would be too
strong for me. As to Hope End, it is nothing. I have been happier in my
own home since, than I was there and then. But Torquay has made the
neighbourhood of Hope End impossible to me. I could not eat or sleep in
that air. You will forgive me for the weakness, I am certain. You know a
little, if not entirely, how we loved one another; how I was first with
_him_, and _he_ with me; while God knows that death and separation have
no power over such love.

After all, we shall see you in Paris if not in England. We pass this
winter in Paris, in the hope of my being able to bear the climate, for
indeed Italy is too far. And if the winter does not disagree with me too
much we mean to take a house and settle in Paris, so as to be close to
you all, and that will be a great joy to me. You will pass through Paris
this autumn (won't you?) on your way to Pau, and I shall see you. I do
long to see you and make you know my husband....

So far from regretting my marriage, it has made the happiness and honour
of my life; and every unkindness received from my own house makes me
press nearer to the tenderest and noblest of human hearts _proved_ by
the uninterrupted devotion of nearly five years. Husband, lover,
nurse--not one of these, has Robert been to me, but all three together.
I neither regret my marriage, therefore, nor the manner of it, because
the manner of it was a necessity of the act. I thought so at the time, I
think so now; and I believe that the world in general will decide (if
the world is to be really appealed to) that my opinion upon this subject
(after five years) is worth more.

Dearest Mrs. Martin, do write to me. I keep my thoughts as far as I can
from bitter things, and the affectionateness of my dearest sisters is
indeed much on the other side. Also, we are both giddy with the kind
attentions pressed on us from every side, from some of the best in
England. It's hard to think at all in such a confusion. We met Tennyson
(the Laureate) by a chance in Paris, who insisted that we should take
possession of his house and servants at Twickenham and use them as long
as we liked to stay in England. Nothing could be more warmly kind, and
we accepted the note in which he gave us the right of possession for the
sake of the generous autograph, though we never intended in our own
minds to act out the proposition. Since then, Mr. Arnould, the Chancery
barrister, has begged us to go and live in his town house (we don't want
houses, you see); Mrs. Fanny Kemble called on and left us tickets for
her Shakespeare reading (by the way, I was charmed with her 'Hamlet');
Mr. Forster, of the 'Examiner,' gave us a magnificent dinner at Thames
Ditton in sight of the swans; and we breakfast on Saturday with Mr.
Rogers. Then we have seen the Literary Guild actors at the Hanover
Square rooms, and we have passed an evening with Carlyle (one of the
great sights in England, to my mind). He is a very warm friend of
Robert's, so that on every account I was delighted to see him face to
face. I can't tell you what else we have done or not done. It's a great
dazzling heap of things new and strange. Barry Cornwall (Mr. Procter)
came to see us every day till business swept him out of town, and dear
Mrs. Jameson left her Madonna for us in despite of the printers. Such
kindness, on all sides. Ah, there's kindness in England after all. Yet I
grew cold to the heart as I set foot on the ground of it, and wished
myself away. Also, the sort of life is not perhaps the best for me and
the sort of climate is really the worst.

You heard of Mr. Kenyon's goodness to us; I told Arabel to tell you.

But I must end here. Another time I will talk of Paris, which I do hope
will suit us as a residence. I was quite well there, the three weeks we
stayed, and am far from well just now. You see, the weight of the
atmosphere, which seems to me like lead, combined with the excitement,
is too much at once. Oh, it won't be very bad, I dare say. I mean to try
to be quiet, and abjure for the future the night air.

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.