in with regenerated actors. All internal
jealousies at an end, all suspicions quenched, all selfish policies
dissolved. Florence forgets herself for Italy. This is grand. Would that
England, that pattern of moral nations, would forget herself for the
sake of something or someone beyond. _That_ would be grand.

I wish you were here, my dear Mr. Chorley, since I am wishing in vain,
though we are almost at the close of our stay in this pretty country. We
have a villa with beautiful sights from all the windows; and there, on
the hill opposite, live Mr. and Mrs. Story, and within a stone's throw,
in a villino, lives the poor old lion Landor, who, being sorely buffeted
by his family at Fiesole, far beyond 'kissing with tears' (though Robert
did what he could), took refuge with us at Casa Guidi one day,
broken-hearted and in wrath. He stays here while we stay, and then goes
with us to Florence, where Robert has received the authorisation of his
English friends to settle him in comfort in an apartment of his own,
with my late maid, Wilson (who married our Italian man-servant), to take
care of him; and meanwhile the quiet of this place has so restored his
health and peace of mind that he is able to write awful Latin alcaics,
to say nothing of hexameters and pentameters, on the wickedness of
Louis Napoleon. Yes, dear Mr. Chorley, poems which might appear in the
'Athenaeum' without disclaimer, and without injury to the reputation of
that journal.

Am I not spiteful? I assure you I couldn't be spiteful a short time ago,
so very ill I have been. Now it is different, and every day the strength
returns. What remains, however, is a certain necessity of not facing the
Florence wind this winter, and of going again to Rome, in spite of
probable revolutions there. We talk of going in the early part of
November. Why won't you come to Rome and give us meeting? Foolish
speech, when I know you won't. We shall be in Florence probably at the
end of the present week, to stay there until the journey further south
begins. I shall regret this silence. And little Penini too will have his
regrets, for he has been very happy here, made friends with the
contadini, has helped to keep the sheep, to run after straggling cows,
to play at '_nocini_' (did you ever hear of that game?) and to pick the
grapes at the vintage--driving in the grape-carts (exactly of the shape
of the Greek chariots), with the grapes heaped up round him; and then
riding on his own p