glad he spoke kindly of _us_, because
really I like him and admire him. Few people have struck me as much as
he did last year in England. 'Manly,' do you say? But I am not very fond
of praising men by calling them _manly_. I hate and detest a masculine
man. _Humanly_ bold, brave, true, direct, Mr. Kingsley is--a moral
cordiality and an original intellect uniting in him. I did not see
_her_ and the children, but I hope we shall be in better fortune next
time.

Since I began this letter the Storys and ourselves have had a grand
donkey-excursion to a village called Benabbia, and the cross above it on
the mountain-peak. We returned in the dark, and were in some danger of
tumbling down various precipices; but the scenery was exquisite--past
speaking of for beauty. Oh those jagged mountains, rolled together like
pre-Adamite beasts, and setting their teeth against the sky! It was
wonderful. You may as well guess at a lion by a lady's lapdog as at
Nature by what you see in England. All honour to England, lanes and
meadowland, notwithstanding; to the great trees above all. Will you
write to me sooner? Will you give me the details of yourself? Will you
love me?

Your most affectionate
BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

Casa Tolomei, Alia Villa, Bagni di Lucca:
August 30, [1853].

Dearest Fanny,--On your principle that 'there's too much to say,' I
ought not to think of writing to you these three months; you have
pleased me and made me grateful to such an extremity by your most pretty
and graceful illustrative outlines. The death-bed I admire particularly;
the attitudes are very expressive, and the open window helps the
sentiment. What am I to say for your kindness in holding a torch of this
kind (perfumed for the 'nobilities') between the wind and my poems?
Thank you, thank you. And when that's said, I ought to stop short and
beg you, dear Fanny, not to waste yourself in more labour of this kind,
seeing that I am accursed and that nothing is to be done with my books
and me, as far as my public is concerned. Why not get up a book of your
own, a collection of 'outlines' illustrative of everybody's poems, which
would stand well on its own feet and make a circle for itself? Think of
_that_ rather. For my part, there's nothing to be done with me, as I
said; that is, there's nothing to be done with my publishers, who just
do as they like with my books, and don't like to do much good for _m