. On
one occasion he went up to a boy of twelve who took liberties, and
exclaimed, 'Don't be impertinent, sir' (doubling his small fist), 'or I
will show you that _I'm a boy_.' Of course 'mine untles' are charmed
with this 'proper spirit,' and applaud highly. Robert and I begged to
suggest to the hero that the 'boy of twelve' might have killed him if he
had pleased. 'Never mind,' cried little Pen, 'there would have been
somebody to think of _me_, who would have him hanged' (great applause
from the uncles). 'But _you_ would still be dead,' said Robert
remorselessly. 'Well, I don't tare for _that_. It was a beautiful place
to die in--close to the sea.'

So you will please to observe that, in spite of being Italians and
wearing curls, we can fight to the death on occasion....

Write to me, and say how you both are. Robert's love. We both love you.

Very lovingly yours,
BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss Browning_

[West Cowes]: September 13, 1856 [postmark].

My dearest Sarianna,--Robert comes suddenly down on me with news that he
is going to write to you, so, though I have been writing letters all the
morning, I must throw in a few words. As to keeping Penini at the sea
longer, he will have been three weeks at the sea to-morrow, and you must
remember how late into the year it is getting--and we with so much work
before us! And if Peni recovered his roses at Ventnor, I recovered my
cough (from the piercing east winds); but I am better since, and last
night slept well. It's far too early for cough, however, in any shape.
We have heaps of business to do in London--heaps--and the book is only
half-done. Still, we are asked to stay here till three days after Madame
Braun's arrival, and it isn't fixed yet when she will arrive; so that I
daresay Peni will have a full month of the sea, after all. Then I have a
design upon Robert's good-nature, of persuading him to _go round by
Taunton_ to London (something like going round the earth to Paris), that
I may see my poor forsaken sister Henrietta, who wants us to give her a
week in her cottage, pathetically bewailing herself that she has no
means for the expense of going to London this time--that she has done it
twice for me, and can't this time (the purse being low); and unless we
go to her, she must do without seeing me, in spite of a separation of
four years. So I am anxious to go, of course.

Robert will have told you of our dear friend here. We be