d
accuracy of it have been attested to me by Americans oftener than once.
By the way, he speaks in it of your interesting 'Recollections,' and
quotes you upon the possibility of making a ghost story better by the
telling--in reference to Washington.

Mr. Tennyson is going to England for a few months, so that our Florence
party is breaking up, you see. He has printed a few copies of his poems,
and is likely to publish them if he meets with encouragement in England,
I suppose. They are full of imagery, encompassed with poetical
atmosphere, and very melodious. On the other hand, there is vagueness
and too much personification. It's the smell of a rose rather than a
rose--very sweet, notwithstanding. His poems are far superior to Charles
Tennyson's, bear in mind. As for the poet, we quite love him, Robert and
I do. What Swedenborg calls 'selfhood,' the _proprium_, is not in him.

Oh yes! I confess to loving Florence and to having associated with it
the idea of _home_. My child was born here, and here I have been very
happy and _well_. Yet we shall not live in Florence--we are steady to
our Paris plan. We must visit Rome next winter, and in the spring we
shall go to Paris _via_ London; you may rely on us for next summer. I
think it too probable that I may not be able to bear two successive
winters in the North; but in that case it will be easy to take a flight
for a few winter months into Italy, and we shall regard Paris, where
Robert's father and sister are waiting for us, as our fixed place of
residence. As to the distance between Paris and London, it's a mere step
now. We are to have war, I suppose. I would not believe it for a long
while, but the Czar seems to be struck with madness--mad in good
earnest. Under these circumstances I hope our Ministry will act with
decision and honesty--but I distrust Lord Aberdeen. There is evidently,
or has been, a division in the Cabinet, and perhaps Lord Palmerston is
not the strongest. Louis Napoleon has acted excellently in this
conjuncture--with integrity and boldness--don't you think so? Dear Mr.
Kenyon has his brother and sister with him, to his great joy. Robert
pretended he would not give me your last letter. Little Wiedeman threw
his arms round my neck (taking the play-cruelty for earnest) and
exclaimed, 'Never mind, mine darling Ba! You'll have it.' He always
calls me Ba at coaxing times. Such a darling that child is, indeed!

God bless you! Do write soon and tell me in deta