a review in the Cascine besides, and a gallant show of some ‘ten thousand men’ they are said to have made of it—­only don’t think that I and Robert went out to see that sight.  We should have sickened at it too much.  An amiable, refined people, too, these Tuscans are, conciliating and affectionate.  When you look out into the streets on feast days, you would take it for one great ‘rout,’ everybody appears dressed for a drawing room, and you can scarcely discern the least difference between class and class, from the Grand Duchess to the Donna di facenda; also there is no belying of the costume in the manners, the most gracious and graceful courtesy and gentleness being apparent in the thickest crowds.  This is all attractive and delightful; but the people wants stamina, wants conscience, wants self-reverence.  Dante’s soul has died out of the land.  Enough of this.  As for France, I have ’despaired of the republic’ for very long, but the nation is a great nation, and will right itself under some flag, white or red.  Don’t you think so?  Thank you for the news of our authors, it is as ’the sound of a trumpet afar off,’ and I am like the war-horse.  Neglectful that I am, I forgot to tell you before that you heard quite rightly about Mr. Thackeray’s wife, who is ill so.  Since your question, I had in gossip from England that the book ‘Jane Eyre’ was written by a governess in his house, and that the preface to the foreign edition refers to him in some marked way.  We have not seen the book at all.  But the first letter in which you mentioned your Oxford student caught us in the midst of his work upon art.[181] Very vivid, very graphic, full of sensibility, but inconsequent in some of the reasoning, it seemed to me, and rather flashy than full in the metaphysics.  Robert, who knows a good deal about art, to which knowledge I of course have no pretence, could agree with him only by snatches, and we, both of us, standing before a very expressive picture of Domenichino’s (the ’David’—­at Fano) wondered how he could blaspheme so against a great artist.  Still, he is no ordinary man, and for a critic to be so much a poet is a great thing.  Also, we have by no means, I should imagine, seen the utmost of his stature.  How kindly you speak to me of my dearest sisters.  Yes, go to see them whenever you are in London, they are worthy of the gladness of receiving you.  And will you write soon to me, and tell me everything of yourself, how you are, how home agrees with you, and the little details which are such gold dust to absent friends....

May God bless you, my beloved friend.  Let me ever be (my husband joining in all warm regards) your most affectionate

BA.

[Footnote 180:’Guercino drew this angel I saw teach
  (Alfred, dear friend!) that little child to pray
  Holding his little hands up, each to each
  Pressed gently, with his own head turned away,
  Over the earth where so much lay before him
  Of work to do, though heaven was opening o’er him,
  And he was left at Fano by the beach.