Florence: April 12, [1853].

The comfort is, my ever loved friend, that here is spring--summer, as
translated into Italy--if fine weather is to set you up again. I shall
be very thankful to have better news of you; to hear of your being out
of that room and loosened into some happy condition of liberty. It seems
unnatural to think of you in one room. _That_ seems fitter for _me_,
doesn't it? And the rooms in England are so low and small, that they
put double bars on one's captivity. May God bring you out with the
chestnut trees and elms! It's very sad meanwhile.

Comfort yourself, dear friend! Admire Louis Napoleon. He's an
extraordinary man beyond all doubt; and that he has achieved great good
for France, _I_ do not in the least doubt. I was only telling you that I
had not finished my pedestal for him--wait a little. Because, you see,
for my part, I don't go over to the system of 'mild despotisms,' no,
indeed. I am a democrat to the bone of me. It is simply as a
democratical ruler, and by grace of the people, that I accept him, and
he must justify himself by more deeds to his position before he
glorifies himself before _me_. That's what I mean to say. A mild despot
in France, let him be the Archangel Gabriel, unless he hold the kingdom
in perpetuity, what is the consequence? A successor like the Archangel
Lucifer, perhaps. Then, for the press, where there is thought, there
must be discussion or conspiracy. Are you aware of the amount of readers
in France? Take away the 'Times' newspaper, and the blow falls on a
handful of readers, on a section of what may be called the aristocracy.
But everybody reads in France. Every fiacre driver who waits for you at
a shop door, beguiles the time with a newspaper. It is on that account
that the influence of the press is dangerous, you will say. Precisely
so; but also, on that account too, it is necessary. No; I hold, myself,
that he will give more breathing room to France, as circumstances admit
of it. Else, there will be convulsion. You will see. We shall see. And
Louis Napoleon, who is wise, _foresees_, I cannot doubt.

Not read Mrs. Stowe's book! But you _must_. Her book is quite a sign of
the times and has otherwise and intrinsically considerable power. For
myself, I rejoice in the success, both as a woman and a human being. Oh,
and is it possible that you think a woman has no business with questions
like the question of slavery? Then she had better use a pen no more.
She had better subside into slavery and concubinage herself, I think, as
in the times of old, shut herself up with the Penelopes in the 'women's
apartment,' and take no rank among thinkers and speakers. Certainly you
are not in earnest in these things. A difficult question--yes! All
virtue is difficult. England found it difficult. France found it
difficult. But we did not make ourselves an arm-chair of our sins. As
for America, I honor America in much; but I would not be an American for
the world while she wears that shameful scar upon her brow. The address
of the new President[20] exasperates me. Observe, I am an abolitionist,
not to the fanatical degree, because I hold that compensation should be
given by the North to the South, as in England. The States should unite
in buying off this national disgrace.

The Americans are very kind and earnest, and I like them all the better
for their warm feeling towards you. Is Longfellow agreeable in his
personal relations? We knew his brother, I think I told you, in Paris. I
suppose Mr. Field has been liberal to Thackeray, and yet Thackeray does
not except him in certain observations on American publishers. We shall
have an arrangement made of some sort, it appears. Mr. Forster wants me
to add some new poems to my new edition, in order to secure the
copyright under the new law. But as the law does not act backwards, I
don't see how new poems would save me. They would just sweep out the new
poems--that's all. One or two lyrics could not be made an object, and in
those two thick volumes, nearly bursting with their present contents,
there would not be room for many additions. No, I shall add nothing. I
have revised the edition very carefully, and made everything better. It
vexed me to see how much there was to do. Positively, even rhymes left
unrhymed in 'Lady Geraldine's Courtship.' You don't write so carelessly,
not you, and the reward is that you haven't so much trouble in your new
editions. I see your book advertised in a stray number of the 'Athenaeum'
lent to me by Mr. Tennyson--Frederick. He lent it to me because I wanted
to see the article on the new poet, Alexander Smith, who appears so
applauded everywhere. He has the poet's _stuff_ in him, one may see from
the extracts. Do you know him? And Coventry Patmore--have you heard
anything of _his_ book,[21] of which appears an advertisement?

Ah, yes; how unfortunate that you should have parted with your
copyrights! It's a bad plan always, except in the case of novels which
have their day, and no day after.

The poem I am about will fill a volume when done. It is the novel or
romance I have been hankering after so long, written in blank verse, in
the autobiographical form; the heroine, an artist woman--not a painter,
mind. It is intensely modern, crammed from the times (not the 'Times'
newspaper) as far as my strength will allow. Perhaps you won't like it,
perhaps you will. Who knows? who dares hope?

I am beginning to be anxious about 'Colombe's Birthday.' I care much
more about it than Robert does. He says that nobody will mistake it for
_his_ speculation, it's Mr. Buckstone's affair altogether. True; but I
should like it to succeed, being Robert's play notwithstanding. But the
play is subtle and refined for pits and galleries. I am nervous about
it. On the other hand, those theatrical people ought to know; and what
in the world made them select it if it is not likely to answer their
purpose? By the way, a dreadful rumour reaches us of its having been
'_prepared for the stage by the author_.' Don't believe a word of it.
Robert just said 'yes' when they wrote to ask him, and not a line of
communication has passed since. He has prepared nothing at all,
suggested nothing, modified nothing. He referred them to his new
edition; and that was the whole.

We see a great deal of Mr. Tennyson. Robert is very fond of him, and so
am I. He too writes poems, and prints them, though not for the public.
They are better and stronger than Charles Tennyson's, and he has the
poetical temperament in everything. Did I tell you that he had married
an Italian, and had children from twelve years old downwards? He is
intensely English nevertheless, as expatriated Englishmen generally are.
I always tell Robert that his patriotism grows and deepens in exact
proportion as he goes away from England. As for me, it is not so with
me. I am very cosmopolitan, and am considerably tired of the
self-deification of the English nation at the expense of all others. We
have some noble advantages over the rest of the world, but it is not all
advantage. The shameful details of bribery, for instance, prove what I
have continually maintained, the non-representativeness of our
'representative system;' and, socially speaking, we are much behindhand
with most foreign peoples. Let us be proud in the right place, I say,
and not in the wrong. 'We see too a good deal of young Lytton, Sir
Edward's only son, an interesting young man, with various sorts of good,
and aspiration to good, in him. You see we are not at Rome yet. Do write
to me. Speak of yourself particularly. God bless you, dearest friend.
Believe that I think of you and love you most faithfully.

BA.