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.

Now let me tell you of Wimpole Street. Henry has been very kind in
coming not infrequently; he has a kind, good heart. Occy, too, I have
seen three or four times, Alfred and Sette once. My dearest Arabel is,
of course, here once if not twice a day, and for hours at a time,
bringing me great joy always, and Henrietta's dear kindness in coming to
London on purpose to see me, for a week, has left a perfume in my life.
Both those beloved sisters have been, as ever, perfect to me. Arabel is
vexed just now, and so am I, my brothers having fixed with papa to go
out of town directly, and she caring more to stay where I am....

I have not written to papa since our arrival through my fear of
involving Arabel; but as soon as they go to the country I shall
_hopelessly_ write. He is very well and in good spirits, thank God.

We have spent two days at New Cross with my husband's father and sister,