him in English as well as Italian, so that he won't be utterly
denationalised.

God bless you. Say how you are and write soon.

Your ever affectionate
E.B.B.

* * * * *

_To Miss Mitford_

[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysees:
November 12, 1851.

I see your house, my beloved friend, and clap my hands for pleasure. It
will suit you admirably, I see, plainly from Paris, and how right you
are about the pretty garden, not to make it fine and modern; you have
the right instincts about such things, and are too strong for Mrs.
Loudon and the landscape gardeners. The only defect apparent to me at
this distance is the size of the sitting room.... If you were to see
what we call 'an apartment' in Paris! We have just a slip of a kitchen,
and no passage, no staircase to take up the space, which is altogether
_spent_ upon sitting and sleeping rooms. Talk of English comforts! It's
a national delusion. The comfort of the Continental way of life has only
to be tested to be recognised (with the exception of the locks of doors
and windows, which are _barbaric_ here, there's no other word for it).
The economy of a habitation is understood in Paris. You have the
advantages of a large house without the disadvantages, without the
coldness, without the dearness. And the beds, chairs, and sofas are
perfect things.

But the climate is not perfect, it seems, for we have had very cold
weather the last ten days, and I am a prisoner as usual. Our friends
swear to us that it is exceptional weather and that it will be warmer
presently, and I listen with a sort of 'doubtful doubt' worthy of a
metaphysician. It is some comfort to hear that it's below zero in London
meanwhile, and that Scotland stands eight feet deep in snow.

We have a letter for George Sand (directed _a Madame George Sand_) from
Mazzini, and we hear that she is to be in Paris within twelve days. Then
we must make a rush and present it, for her stay here is not likely to
be long, and I would not miss seeing her for a great deal, though I have
not read one of her late dramas, and only by faith understand that her
wonderful genius has conquered new kingdoms. Her last romance, 'Le
Chateau des Deserts,' is treated disdainfully in the 'Athenaeum.' I have
not read _that_ even, but Mr. Chorley is apt to be cold towards French
writers and I don't expect his judgment as final therefore. Have you
seen M. de la Mare's correspondence with Mirabeau? An