BA.

[Footnote 182:  At this time President of the Council, after suppressing the Communist rising of June 1848.]

To Mrs. Martin Florence:  December 3, 1848.

My dearest Mrs. Martin,—­It seemed long to me that you had not written, and it seems long to me now that I have not answered the kind letter which came at last.  Then Henrietta told me of your being unwell at the moment of her mad excursion into Herefordshire.  Altogether I want to speak to you and hear from you, and shall be easier and gladder when both are done.  Do forgive my sins and write directly, and tell me everything about both of you, and how you are in spirits and health, and whether you really make up your minds to see more danger in the stormy influences of the Continent in the moral point of view than in those of England in the physical.  For my part I hold to my original class of fear, and would rather face two or three revolutions than an east wind of an English winter.  If I were you I would go to Pau as usual and take poor Abd-el-Kader’s place (my husband is furious about the treatment of Abd-el-Kader, so I hear a good deal about him[183]), or I would go to Italy and try Florence, where really democratic ministries roar as gently as sucking doves, particularly when they are safe in place.  We have listened to dreadful rumours—­Florence was to have been sacked several times by the Livornese; the Grand Duke went so far as to send away his family to Siena, and we had ‘Morte a Fiorentini!’ chalked up on the walls.  Still, somehow or other, the peace has been kept in Florentine fashion; it has rained once or twice, which is always enough here to moderate the most revolutionary when they wear their best surtouts, and I look forward to an unbroken tranquillity just as I used to do, even though the windows of the Ridolfi Palace (the ambassador in London) were smashed the other evening a few yards from ours.  Perhaps a gentle and affectionate approach to contempt for our Florentines mixes a little with this feeling of security, but what then?  They are an amiable, refined, graceful people, with much of the artistic temperament as distinguished from that of men of genius—­effeminate, no, rather feminine in a better sense—­of a fancy easily turned into impulse, but with no strenuous and determinate strength in them.  What they comprehend best in the ‘Italian League’ is probably a league to wear silk velvet and each a feather in his hat, to carry flags and cry vivas, and keep a grand festa day in the piazzas.  Better and happier in this than in stabbing prime ministers, or hanging up their dead bodies to shoot at; and not much more childish than these French patriots and republicans, who crown their great deeds by electing to the presidency such a man as Prince Louis Napoleon, simply because ’C’est le neveu de son oncle!’[184] A curious precedent for a president, certainly; but, oh heavens and earth, what curious things abroad everywhere just now, inclusive of the