fountain she has lately done for the Emperor of Russia.  She has workmen under her, and is as ‘professional’ in every respect as if neither woman nor noble.  At the first throb of this revolution of course she dreamt the impossible about that dear ‘Henri Cinq,’ who is as much out of the question as Henri Quatre himself; and now it ends with the ‘French Legation’ coming to settle in the house precisely opposite to hers, with a hideous sign-painting appended O the Gallic cock on one leg and at full crow inscribed, ‘Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite.’  This, and the death of her favorite dog, whom, after seventeen years’ affection, she was forced to have destroyed on account of a combination of diseases, has quite saddened the sculptress.  When she came to see us I observed that after so long a residence at Florence she must regard it as a second country.  ‘Ah non!’ (the answer was) ’il n’y a pas de seconde patrie.’  What you tell me of ‘Jane Eyre’ makes me long to see the book.  I may long, I fancy.  It is dismal to have to disappoint my dearest sisters, who hoped for me in England this summer, but our English visit must be for next summer instead; there seems too much against it just now.  The drawback of Italy is the distance from England.  If it were but as near as Paris, for instance, why in that case we should settle here at once, I do think, the conveniences and luxuries of life are of such incredible cheapness, the climate so divine, and the way of things altogether so serene and suited to our tastes and instincts.  But to give up England and the English, the dear, dearest treasure of English love, is impossible, so we just linger and linger.  The Boyles go to England from the press of panic, Lady Boyle being old and infirm.  Ah, but your talking friend would interest you, and you might accept the talk in infinitesimal doses, you know.  Lamartine has surely acted down the fallacy of the impractical tendencies of imaginative men.  I am full of France just now.  Are you all prepared for an outbreak in Ireland?  I hope so.  My husband has the second edition of his collected poems[174] in the press by this time, by grace of Chapman and Hall, who accept all risks.  You speak of Tennyson’s vexation about the reception of the ‘Princess.’  Why did Mr. Harness and others, who ’never could understand’ his former divine works, praise this in manuscript till the poet’s hope grew to the height of his ambition?  Strangely unfortunate.  We have not read it yet.  I hear that Tennyson had the other day everything packed for Italy, then turned his face toward Ireland, and went there.  Oh, for a talk with you.  But this is a sort of talk, isn’t it?  Accept my husband’s regards.  As to my love, I throw it to you over the [sea] with both hands.  God bless you.

Your ever affectionate
BA.

[Footnote 172:  See Browning’s The Statue and the Bust.]

[Footnote 173:  ’the stone Called Dante’s—­a plain flat stone scarce discerned From others in the pavement—­whereupon He used to bring his quiet chair out, turned To Brunelleschi’s church, and pour alone The lava of his spirit when it burned.’ Casa Guidi Windows, part i.]