and possessing the art of talk and quotation to an amusing degree.  In another week or two he will be at Rome....  How graphically you give us your Oxford student!  Well! the picture is more distinct than Turner’s, and if you had called it, in the manner of the Master, ‘A Rock Limpet,’ we should have recognised in it the corresponding type of the gifted and eccentric writer in question.  Very eloquent he is, I agree at once, and true views he takes of Art in the abstract, true and elevating.  It is in the application of connective logic that he breaks away from one so violently....  We are expecting our books by an early vessel, and are about to be very busy, building up a rococo bookcase of carved angels and demons.  Also we shall get up curtains, and get down bedroom carpets, and finish the remainder of our furnishing business, now that the hot weather is at an end.  I say ‘at an end,’ though the glass stands at seventy.  As to the ‘war,’ that is rather different, it is painful to feel ourselves growing gradually cooler and cooler on the subject of Italian patriotism, valour, and good sense; but the process is inevitable.  The child’s play between the Livornese and our Grand Duke provokes a thousand pleasantries.  Every now and then a day is fixed for a revolution in Tuscany, but up to the present time a shower has come and put it off.  Two Sundays ago Florence was to have been ‘sacked’ by Leghorn, when a drizzle came and saved us.  You think this a bad joke of mine or an impotent sarcasm, perhaps; whereas I merely speak historically.  Brave men, good men, even sensible men there are of course in the land, but they are not strong enough for the times or for masterdom.  For France, it is a great nation; but even in France they want a man, and Cavaignacso[182] only a soldier.  If Louis Napoleon had the muscle of his uncle’s little finger in his soul, he would be president, and king; but he is flaccid altogether, you see, and Joinville stands nearer to the royal probability after all.  ‘Henri Cinq’ is said to be too closely espoused to the Church, and his connections at Naples and Parma don’t help his cause.  Robert has more hope of the republic than I have:  but call ye this a republic?  Do you know that Miss Martineau takes up the ‘History of England’ under Charles Knight, in the continuation of a popular book?  I regret her fine imagination being so wasted.  So you saw Mr. Chorley?  What a pleasant flashing in the eyes!  We hear of him in Holland and Norway.  Dear Mr. Kenyon won’t stir from England, we see plainly.  Ah!  Frederic Soulie! he is too dead, I fear.  Perhaps he goes on, though, writing romances, after the fashion of poor Miss Pickering, that prove nothing.  I long for my French fountains of living literature, which, pure or impure, plashed in one’s face so pleasantly.  Some old French ‘Memoires’ we have got at lately, ‘Brienne’ for instance.  It is curious how the leaders of the last revolution (under Louis XVIII.) seem to have despised one another.  Brienne is very dull and flat.  For Puseyism, it runs counter to the spirit of our times, after all, and will never achieve a church.  May God bless you!  Robert’s regards go with the love of your ever affectionate