rue. But I see
too distinctly what I _ought_ to have written. Still, it is nearer the
mark than my former efforts--fuller, stronger, more sustained--and one
may be encouraged to push on to something worthier, for I don't feel as
if I had done yet--no indeed. I have had from Leigh Hunt a very pleasant
letter of twenty pages, and I think I told you of the two from John
Ruskin. In America, also, there's great success, and the publisher is
said to have shed tears over the proofs (perhaps in reference to the
hundred pounds he had to pay for them), and the critics congratulate me
on having worked myself clear of all my affectations, mannerisms, and
other morbidities.

Even 'Blackwood' is not to be complained of, seeing that the writer
evidently belongs to an elder school, and judges from his own point of
view. He is wrong, though, even in classical matters, as it seems to
_me_.

I heard one of Thackeray's lectures, the one on George the Third, and
thought it better than good--fine and touching. To what is it that
people are objecting? At any rate, they crowd and pay.

Ah yes. You appreciate Robert; you know what is in his poetry. Certainly
there is no pretension in _me_ towards that profound suggestiveness, and
I thank you for knowing it and saying it.

There is a real _poem_ being lived between Mr. Kirkup and the 'spirits,'
so called.[53] If I were to _write_ it in a poem, I should beat 'Aurora'
over and over. And such a tragic face the old man has, with his bleak
white beard. Even Robert is touched.

Best love from him and your

Ever attached
BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

Florence: February [1857].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I needn't say how much, how very much, pleasure
your letter gave me. That the poem should really have touched you,
reached you, with whatever drawbacks, is a joy. And then that Mr. Martin
should have read it with any sort of interest! It was more than I
counted on, as you know. Thank you, dearest Mrs. Martin--thank both of
you for so much sympathy.

In respect to certain objections, I am quite sure you do me the justice
to believe that I do not willingly give cause for offence. Without going
as far as Robert, who holds that I 'couldn't be coarse if I tried,'
(only that!) you will grant that I don't habitually dabble in the dirt;
it's not the way of my mind or life. If, therefore, I move certain
subjects in this work, it is because my conscience was f