and warm her feet at our fire; and
a kinder, more cordial little creature, full of talent and
accomplishment, never had the world's polish on it. Very amusing, too,
she is, and original, and a good deal of laughing she and Robert make
between them. Did I tell you of her before, and how she is the niece
of Lord Cork, and poetess by grace of certain Irish Muses? Neither
of us know her writings in any way, but we like her, and for the best
reasons. And this is nearly all, I think, we see of the 'face divine,'
masculine and feminine, and I can't make Robert go out a single
evening, not even to a concert, nor to hear a play of Alfieri's, yet
we fill up our days with books and music (and a little writing has
its share), and wonder at the clock for galloping. It's twenty-four
o'clock with us almost as soon as we begin to count. Do tell me of
Tennyson's book, and of Miss Martineau's. I was grieved to hear a
distant murmur of a rumour of an apprehension of a return of her
complaint: somebody said that she could not bear the _pressure of
dress_, and that the exhaustion resulting from the fits of absorption
in work and enthusiasm on the new subject of Egypt was painfully
great, and that her friends feared for her. I should think that the
bodily excitement and fatigue of her late travels must have been
highly hazardous, and that indeed, throughout her convalescence, she
should have more spared herself in climbing hills and walking and
riding distances. A strain obviously might undo everything. Still, I
do hope that the bitter cup may not be filled for her again. What a
wonderful discovery this substitute for ether inhalations[169] seems
to be. Do you hear anything of its operation in your neighbourhood? We
have had a letter from Mr. Horne, who appears happy, and speaks of his
success in lecturing on Ireland, and of a new novel which he is about
to publish in a separate form after having printed it in a magazine.
We have not set up the types even of our _plans_ about a book, very
distinctly, but we shall do something some day, and you shall hear
of it the evening before. Being too happy doesn't agree with literary
activity quite as well as I should have thought; and then, dear Mr.
Kenyon can't persuade us that we are not rich enough, so as to bring
into force a lower order of motives. He talks of Rome still. Now
write, dear, dearest Miss Mitford, and tell me of yourself and your
health, and do, _do_ love me as you used to do. As to