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 French books, one may swear, but you can’t get a new publication, except by accident, at this excellent celebrated library of Vieusseux, and I am reduced to read some of my favorites over again, I and Robert together.  You ought to hear how we go to single combat, ever and anon, with shield and lance.  The greatest quarrel we have had since our marriage, by the way (always excepting my crying conjugal wrong of not eating enough!), was brought up by Masson’s pamphlet on the Iron Mask and Fouquet.  I wouldn’t be persuaded that Fouquet was ‘in it,’ and so ‘the anger of my lord waxed hot.’  To this day he says sometimes:  ‘Don’t be cross, Ba! Fouquet wasn’t the Iron Mask after all.’

God bless you, dearest Miss Mitford. 
Your ever affectionate
E.B.B.