have kept my ground happily for the two months—­even though the only book I saw there was the chronicle of their San Gualberto.  Is he not among your saints?  Being routed fairly, and having breakfasted fully at our old apartment, Robert went out to find cool rooms, if possible, and make the best of our position, and now we are settled magnificently in this Palazzo Guidi on a first floor in an apartment which looks quite beyond our means, and would be except in the dead part of the season—­a suite of spacious rooms opening on a little terrace and furnished elegantly—­rather to suit our predecessor the Russian prince than ourselves—­but cool and in a delightful situation, six paces from the Piazza Pitti, and with right of daily admission to the Boboli gardens.  We pay what we paid in the Via Belle Donne.  Isn’t this prosperous?  You would be surprised to see me, I think, I am so very well (and look so)—­dispensed from being carried upstairs, and inclined to take a run, for a walk, every now and then.  I scarcely recognise myself or my ways, or my own spirits, all is so different....

We have made the acquaintance of Mr. Powers,[161] who is delightful—­of a most charming simplicity, with those great burning eyes of his.  Tell me what you think of his boy listening to the shell.  Oh, your Raphaels! how divine!  And M. Angelo’s sculptures!  His pictures I leap up to in vain, and fall back regularly.  Write of your book and yourself, and write soon; and let me be, as always, your affectionate BA.

We are here for two months certain, and perhaps longer.  Do write.

Dear Aunt Nina,—­Ba has said something for me, I hope.  In any case, my love goes with hers, I trust you are well and happy, as we are, and as we would make you if we could.  Love to Geddie.  Ever yours, [R.B.]

[Footnote 161:  The American sculptor.]

To Mrs. Martin Florence:  August 7, 1847.

My dearest Mrs. Martin,—­How I have been longing to get this letter, which comes at last, and justifies the longing by the pleasure it gives!...  How kind, how affectionate you are to me, and how strong your claim is that I should thrust on you, in defiance of good taste and conventions, every evidence and assurance of my happiness, so as to justify your faith to yourselves and others.  Indeed, indeed, dearest Mrs. Martin, you may ‘exult’ for me—­and this though it should all end here and now.  The uncertainties of life and death seem nothing to me.  A year (nearly) is saved from the darkness, and if that one year has compensated for those that preceded it—­which it has, abundantly—­why, let it for those that shall follow, if it so please God.  Come what may, I feel as if I never could have a right to murmur.  I have been happy enough.  Brought about too it was, indeed, by a sort of miracle which to this moment, when I look back, bewilders me to think of; and if you knew the details, counted the little steps, and could; compare my moral position