then she asked us to repeat our visit next Sunday,
and excused herself from coming to see us on the ground of a great press
of engagements. She kissed me again when we went away, and Robert kissed
her hand.

Lady Elgin has offered to take him one day this week to visit Lamartine
(who, we hear, will be glad to see us, having a cordial feeling towards
England and English poets), but I shall wait for some very warm day for
that visit, not meaning to run mortal risks, except for George Sand.
_Nota bene._ We didn't see her smoke.

Robert has ventured to send to your house, my dearest friend, two copies
of 'Shelley' besides yours--one for Mr. Procter, and one for Mrs.
Jameson, with kindest love, both. There is no hurry about either, you
know. We wanted another for dear Miss Bayley, but we have only six
copies, and don't keep one for ourselves, and she won't care, I dare
say.

Your ever most affectionate and grateful
BA.

Will you let your servant put this letter into the post for Miss
Mitford? She upset me by her book, but had the most affectionate
intentions, and I am obliged to her for what she meant. Then I am
morbid, I know.

Tell dearest Miss Bayley, with my love, I shall write to her soon.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

[Paris], 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysees:
February 26, [1852].

Never believe of me so bad a thing as that I could have received from
you, my ever dear and very dear friend, such a letter as you describe,
and rung hollow in return. I did not get your letter, so how could I
send an answer? Your letter's lost, like some other happy things. But I
thank you for it fervently, guessing from what you say the sympathy and
affection of it. I thank you for it most gratefully.

As for poor dear Miss Mitford's book, I was entirely upset by the
biography she thought it necessary or expedient to give of me. Oh, if
our friends would but put off anatomising one till after one was safely
dead, and call to mind that, previously, we have nerves to be agonised
and morbid brains to be driven mad! I am morbid, I know. I can't bear
some words even from Robert. Like the lady who lay in the grave, and was
ever after of the colour of a shroud, so I am white-souled, the past has
left its mark with me for ever. And now (this is the worst) every
newspaper critic who talks of my poems may refer to other things. I
shall not feel myself safe a moment from references which stab like a
knife.