(We go on Monday.  Write to Florence for the next month.)

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To Miss Browning

[Florence:  autumn, 1853.]

My dearest Sarianna,—­I shall not be able to write very much to-day, for Robert is in haste, and we are both overwhelmed with different engagements, the worst of which have been forced on me maritally rather than artistically by the portrait-sittings he of course has told you of.  His own portrait, by Mr. Reade, I must be glad about, seeing that though it by no means gives his best expression, the face is there, and it will be the best work extant on the same subject.  I only wish that the artist had been satisfied with it, or taken my Penini in the second place instead of me, who am not wanted in canvas for art’s sake, or for any other sake in the world.  When gone from hence, may nobody think of me again, except when one or two may think perhaps how I loved them....

Do you think much of the war?  I hope all will be done on the part of the two western Powers honestly and directly; and then, may the best that can, come out of the worst that must be.  The poor Italians catch like men in an agony at all these floating straws.  We hear that the new Austrian Commandant has received instructions to hold no intercourse with members of the English and French Legations till further orders are received.

We have lived a disturbed life lately; too much coming and going even with agreeable people.  There has been no time for work.  In Rome it must be different, or we shall get on poorly with our books, I think.  Robert seems, however, by his account, to be in an advanced state already....

[Incomplete.]

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To Miss I. Blagden

Casa Guidi:  Saturday [about October, 1853].

My dearest Isa,—­ ...  I was very sorry on returning from Lucca to find only Mr. Thompson’s note and yours; but though we missed him at Florence we shall see him at Rome, I hope.  There was also a card from Miss Lynch,[28] an American poetess (one of the ninety-and-nine muses), with a note of introduction from England.  Do you hear of her at Rome?  The ‘Ninth Street’ printed on her card leaves me in the infinite as far as conjectures of where she is go.

So pleased I am to get back to Florence, and so little inclined to tumble out of my nest again; yet we shall go to Rome if some new obstacle does not arise.  We have had no glimpse of the Tassinaris; they seem to have vanished from the scene.  Florence is full of great people, so called, from England, and the real sommites are coming, such as Alfred Tennyson, and, with an interval, Dickens and Thackeray.  The two latter go to Rome for the winter, I understand.