evening, the evening after the gift, he went privately to the opera, was recognised, and in a burst of triumph and a glory of waxen torches was brought back to the Pitti by the people.  I was undressing to go to bed, had my hair down over my shoulders under Wilson’s ministry, when Robert called me to look out of the window and see.  Through the dark night a great flock of stars seemed sweeping up the piazza, but not in silence, nor with very heavenly noises.  The ‘Evvivas’ were deafening.  So glad I was. I, too, stood at the window and clapped my hands.  If ever Grand Duke deserved benediction this Duke does.  We hear that he was quite moved, overpowered, and wept like a child.  Nevertheless the most of Italy is under the cloud, and God knows how all may end as the thunder ripens.  Now I mustn’t, I suppose, write politics.  Our plans about England are afloat.  Impossible to know what we shall do, but if not this summer, the summer after must help us to the sight of some beloved faces.  It will be a midsummer dream, and we shall return to winter in Italy.  My Flush is as well as ever, and perhaps gayer than ever I knew him.  He runs out in the piazza whenever he pleases, and plays with the dogs when they are pretty enough, and wags his tail at the sentinels and civic guard, and takes the Grand Duke as a sort of neighbour of his, whom it is proper enough to patronise, but who has considerably less inherent merit and dignity than the spotted spaniel in the alley to the left.  We have been reading over again ‘Andre’ and ’Leone Leoni,’[171] and Robert is in an enthusiasm about the first.  Happy person, you are, to get so at new books.  Blessed is the man who reads Balzac, or even Dumas.  I have got to admire Dumas doubly since that fight and scramble for his brains in Paris.  Now do think of me and love me, and let me be as ever your affectionate

BA.

Robert’s regards always.  Say particularly how you are, and may God bless you, dearest Miss Mitford, and make you happy.

[Footnote 171:  Novels by George Sand.]

To Miss Mitford Florence:  April 15, [1848].

...  My Flush has recovered his beauty, and is in more vivacious spirits than I remember to have seen him.  Still, the days come when he will have no pleasure and plenty of fleas, poor dog, for Savonarola’s martyrdom here in Florence is scarcely worse than Flush’s in the summer.  Which doesn’t prevent his enjoying the spring, though, and just now, when, by medical command, I drive out two hours every day, his delight is to occupy the seat in the carriage opposite to Robert and me, and look disdainfully on all the little dogs who walk afoot.  We drive day by day through the lovely Cascine (where the trees have finished and spread their webs of full greenery, undimmed by the sun yet), first sweeping through the city, past such a window where Bianca Capello looked out to see the Duke go by,[172] and past such a door where Lapo