d' her own country (following the
Holy Father), I should have left the '_mistake_' to right itself,
without troubling the 'Athenaeum' office with the letter they would not
insert. In fact, Robert was a little vexed with me for not being vexed
enough. I was only vexed enough when the 'Athenaeum' corrected its
misstatement in its own way. _That did_ extremely vex me, for it made me
look ungenerous, cowardly, mean--as if, in haste to escape from the dogs
in England, I threw them the good name of America. 'Mrs. Browning _now
states_.'

Well, dear Mr. Chorley, it was not your doing. So the thing that 'vexed
me enough' in you was a mistake of mine. Let us forgive one another our
mistakes; and there, an end. _I_ was wrong in taking for granted that
the letter which referred to your review was entrusted to you to dispose
of; and you were not right in being in too much haste to condemn a book
you disliked to give the due measure of attention to every page of it.
The insurgents being plainly insurgents, you shot one at least of them
without trial, as was done in Spain the other day. True, that even
favorable critics have fallen here and there into your very mistake; but
is not that mainly attributable to the suggestive power of the
'Athenaeum,' do you not believe so yourself? 'Thais led the way!'

And now that we clasp hands again, my dear friend, let me say one word
as to the 'argument' of my last poems. Once, in a kind and generous
review of 'Aurora Leigh,' you complained a little of 'new lights.' Now I
appeal to you. Is it not rather _you_ than I, who deal in 'new lights,'
if the liberation of a people and the struggle of a nation for existence
have ceased in your mind to be the right arguments for poetry? Observe,
I may be wrong or right about Napoleon. He may be snake, scoundrel,
devil, in his motives. But the thing he did was done before the eyes of
all. His coming here was real, the stroke of his sword was indubitable,
the rising and struggle of the people was beyond controversy, and the
state of things at present is a fact. What if the father of poetry Homer
(to go back to the oldest lights) made a mistake about the cause of
Achilles' wrath. What if Achilles really wanted to get rid of Briseis
and the war together, and sulked in his tent in a great sham? Should we
conclude against the artistic propriety of the poet's argument
therefore?

You greatly surprise me by such objections. It is objected to 'new
lights,' as far