[Paris], 138 Avenue des Ch.-Elysees:
February 15, 1852.

My dearest Mr. Kenyon,--Robert sends you his Shelley,[12] having a very
few copies allowed to him to dispose of. I think you have Shelley's
other letters, of which this volume is the supplement, and you will not
be sorry to have Robert's preface thrown in, though he makes very light
of it himself.

You never write a word to us, and so I don't mean to send you a letter
to-day--only as few lines as I can drop in a sulky fit, repenting as I
go on. As to politics, you know you have all put me in the corner
because I stand up for universal suffrage, and am weak enough to fancy
that seven millions and a half of Frenchmen have some right to an
opinion on their own affairs. It's really fatal in this world to be
consequent--it leads one into damnable errors. So I shall not say much
more at present. You must bear with me--dear Miss Bayley and all of
you--and believe of me, if I am ever so wrong, that I do at least pray
from my soul, 'May the right prevail!'--loving right, truth, justice,
and the people through whatever mistakes. As it was in the beginning,
from 'Casa Guidi Windows,' so it is now from the Avenue des
Champs-Elysees. I am most humanly liable, of course, to make mistakes,
and am by temperament perhaps over hopeful and sanguine. But I do see
with my own eyes and feel with my own spirit, and not with other
people's eyes and spirits, though they should happen to be the
dearest--and that's the very best of me, be certain, so don't quarrel
with it too much.

As to the worst of the President, let him have vulture's beak, hyena's
teeth, and the rattle of the great serpent, it's nothing to the
question. Let him be Caligula's horse raised to the consulship--what
then? I am not a Buonapartist; I am simply a 'democrat,' as you say. I
simply hold to the fact that, such as he is, the people chose him, and
to the opinion that they have a right to choose whom they please. When
your English Press denies the _fact of the choice_ (a fact which the
most passionate of party-men does not think of denying here), _I_ seem
to have a right to another opinion which might strike you as unpatriotic
if I uttered it in this place. _Hic tacet_, then, rather _jacet_.

For the rest, for heaven's sake and the truth's, do let us try to take
breath a little and be patient. Let us wait till the dust of the
struggle clears away before we take measures of the circus. We can't
have the liberty of a regular government under a dictatorship. And if
the 'constitution' which is coming is not model, it may wear itself into
shape by being worked calmly. These new boots will be easier to the feet
after half an hour's walking. Not that I like the pinching meanwhile.
Not that stringencies upon the Press please _me_--no, nor arrests and
imprisonments. I like these things, God knows, as little as the loudest
curser of you all, but I don't think it necessary and lawful to
exaggerate and over-colour, nor to paint the cheeks of sorrows into
horrors, nor to talk, like the 'Quarterly Review' (betwixt excuses for
the King of Naples), of two thousand four hundred persons being cut to
mincemeat in the streets of Paris, nor to call boldness hypocrisy
(because hypocrisy is the worse word), and the appeal to the sovereignty
of the people usurpation, and universal suffrage the pricking of
bayonets. Above all, I would avoid insulting the whole French nation,
who have judged their own position and acted accordingly. If Louis
Napoleon disappoints their expectation, he won't sit long where he is.
Of that I feel satisfactory assurance; and, considering the national
habits of insurrection, I really think that others may.

Meanwhile it is just to tell you that the two deepest-minded persons
whom we have known in Paris--one an ultra-Republican of European
reputation (I don't like mentioning names), and the other a
Constitutionalist of the purest and noblest moral nature--are both
inclined to take favorable views of the President's personal character
and intentions. For my part, I don't pretend to an opinion. He may be,
as they say, '_bon enfant_,' '_homme de conscience_,' and 'so much in
earnest as to be fanatical,' or he may be a wretch and a reptile, as you
say in England. That's nothing to the question as I see it. I don't take
it up by that handle at all. Caligula's horse or the people's
'Messiah,' as I heard him called the other day--what then? You are
wonderfully intolerant, you in England, of equine consulships, you who
bear with quite sufficient equanimity a great rampancy of beasts all
over the world--Mr. Forster not blowing the trumpet of war, and Mrs.
Alfred Tennyson not loading the rifles.

There now--I've done with politics to-day. Only just let me tell you
that Cormenin is said to be the adviser in the matter of the Orleans
decrees. So much the worse for him.

Whom do you think I saw yesterday? George Sand. Oh, I have been in such
fear about it! It's the most difficult thing to get access to her, and,
notwithstanding our letter from Mazzini, we were assured on all sides
that she would not see us. She has been persecuted by bookmakers--run to
ground by the race, and, after having quite lost her on her former visit
to Paris, it was in half despair that we seized on an opportunity of
committing our letter of introduction to a friend of a friend of hers,
who promised to put it into her own hands. With the letter I wrote a
little note--I writing, as I was the woman, and both of us signing it.
To my delight, we had an answer by the next day's post, gracious and
graceful, desiring us to call on her last Sunday.

So we went. Robert let me at last, though I had a struggle for even
that, the air being rather over-sharp for me. But I represented to him
that one might as well lose one's life as one's peace of mind for ever,
and if I lost seeing her I should with difficulty get over it. So I put
on my respirator, smothered myself with furs, and, in a close carriage,
did not run much risk after all.

She received us very kindly, with hand stretched out, which I, with a
natural emotion (I assure you my heart beat), stooped and kissed, when
she said quickly, 'Mais non, je ne veux pas,' and kissed my lips. She is
somewhat large for her height--not tall--and was dressed with great
nicety in a sort of grey serge gown and jacket, made after the ruling
fashion just now, and fastened up to the throat, plain linen collarette
and sleeves. Her hair was uncovered, divided on the forehead in black,
glossy bandeaux, and twisted up behind. The eyes and brow are noble, and
the nose is of a somewhat Jewish character; the chin a little recedes,
and the mouth is not good, though mobile, flashing out a sudden smile
with its white projecting teeth. There is no sweetness in the face, but
great moral as well as intellectual capacities--only it never _could_
have been a beautiful face, which a good deal surprised me. The chief
difference in it since it was younger is probably that the cheeks are
considerably fuller than they used to be, but this of course does not
alter the type. Her complexion is of a deep olive. I observed that her
hands were small and well-shaped. We sate with her perhaps
three-quarters of an hour or more--in which time she gave advice and
various directions to two or three young men who were there, showing her
confidence in us by the freest use of names and allusion to facts. She
seemed to be, in fact, _the man_ in that company, and the profound
respect with which she was listened to a good deal impressed me. You are
aware from the newspapers that she came to Paris for the purpose of
seeing the President in behalf of certain of her friends, and that it
was a successful mediation. What is peculiar in her manners and
conversation is the absolute simplicity of both. Her voice is low and
rapid, without emphasis or variety of modulation. Except one brilliant
smile, she was grave--indeed, she was speaking of grave matters, and
many of her friends are in adversity. But you could not help seeing
(both Robert and I saw it) that in all she said, even in her kindness
and pity, there was an under-current of scorn. A scorn of pleasing she
evidently had; there never could have been a colour of coquetry in that
woman. Her very freedom from affectation and consciousness had a touch
of disdain. But I liked her. I did not love her, but I felt the burning
soul through all that quietness, and was not disappointed in George
Sand. When we rose to go I could not help saying, 'C'est pour la
derniere fois,' and 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.