other side—­only I can’t blame the ‘Athenaeum’ writer for it; nor can anyone, I think.  The effect, however, to ourselves is most uncomfortable, as we are overwhelmed with ‘congratulations’ on all sides, just as if we had not lost a dear, tender, faithful friend and relative—­just as if, in fact, some stranger had made us a bequest as a tribute to our poetry.  People are so obtuse in this world—­as Robert says, so ‘dense’; as Lord Brougham says, so ‘crass.’

Whatever may be your liking or disliking of ‘Aurora Leigh,’ you will like to hear that it’s a great success, and in a way which I the least expected, for a fortnight after the day of publication it had to go to press for the second edition.  The extravagances written to me about that book would make you laugh, if you were in a laughing mood; and the strange thing is that the press, the daily and weekly press, upon which I calculated for furious abuse, has been, for the most part, furious the other way.  The ‘Press’ newspaper, the ‘Post,’ and the ‘Tablet’ are exceptions; but for the rest, the ‘Athenaeum’ is the coldest in praising.  It’s a puzzle to me, altogether.  I don’t know upon what principle the public likes and dislikes poems.  Any way, it is very satisfactory at the end of a laborious work (for much hard working and hard thinking have gone to it) to hear it thus recognised, however I must think, with some bitterness, that the beloved and sympathetic friend to whom it was dedicated scarcely lived to know what would have given him so much pleasure as this.

Dearest Mrs. Martin, mind you tell me the truth exactly.  I should like much to have pleased you and Mr. Martin, but I like the truth best of all from you....

Dearest friends, keep kind thoughts of

Your affectionate
BA.

* * * * *

To Miss Browning

[Florence:  January 1857.]

My dearest Sarianna,—­A great many happy years to you, and also to the dear Nonno.  I am glad, for my part, to be out of the last, which has been gloomy and almost embittering to me personally; but we must throw our burdens behind our backs as far as possible, and be cheerful for the rest of the road.  If Robert alone wrote about ‘Aurora,’ I won’t leave it to him to be alone grateful to dear M. Milsand for his extraordinary kindness.  Do tell him, with my love, that I could not have expected it, even from himself—­which is saying much.  Most thankfully I leave everything to his discretion and judgment.  On this subject I have been, from the beginning, divided between my strong desire of being translated and my strong fear of being ill-translated.  Harrison Ainsworth’s novels are quite one thing, and a poem of mine quite another.  Oh yes! and yet, so great is my faith in Milsand, that the touch of his hand and the overseership of his eyes must tranquillise me.  I am simply grateful.