use not far from us, waiting till we return to Florence. I have seen
him only once, and then he looked better than he did in Florence, where
he seemed dropping into the grave, scarcely able to walk a hundred
yards. He longs for England, but his friends do not encourage his
return, and so the best that can be done for him must be. Now he is in
improved spirits and has taken to writing Latin alcaics on Garibaldi,
which is refreshing, I suppose.

Ask at the post-office for my letter, but don't fancy that it may be a
line more lively than this. No alcaics from me! One soul has gone from
me, at least, the soul that writes letters.

May God bless you, dearest, kindest Fanny. Love me a little. Don't leave
off feeling 'on private affairs' too much for _that_.

Robert's best love with that of your loving
BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

Villa Alberti, Siena: August 26 [1859].

Dearest friend, what have you thought of me?

I was no more likely to write to you about the 'peace' than about any
stroke of personal calamity. The peace fell like a bomb on us all, and
for my part, you may still find somewhere on the ground splinters of my
heart, if you look hard. But by the time your letter reached me we had
recovered the blow _spiritually_, had understood that it was necessary,
and that the Emperor Napoleon, though forced to abandon one arena, was
prepared to carry on the struggle for Italy on another.

Therefore I should have answered your letter at once if I had not been
seized with illness. Indeed, my dear, dear friend, you will hear from me
no excuses. I have not been unkind, simply incapable.

I believe it was the violent mental agitation, the reaction from a state
of exultation and joy in which I had been walking among the stars so
many months; and the grief, anxiety, the struggle, the talking, all
coming on me at a moment when the ferocious heat had made the body
peculiarly susceptible; but one afternoon I went down to the Trollopes,
had sight of the famous Ducal orders about bombarding Florence, and came
home to be ill. Violent palpitations and cough; in fact, the worst
attack on the chest I ever had in Italy. For two days and two nights it
was more like _angina pectoris_, as I have heard it described; but this
went off, and the complaint ran into its ancient pattern, thank God, and
kept me _only_ very ill, with violent cough all night long; my poor
Robert, who nursed me like an an