e pony travelled like a
glorified Houyhnhnm and we have brought a second male servant to take
care of him. It was an economy; for the wages of Rome are inordinate.
Pen's tender love to his nonno and you with that of

Your ever affectionate sister,
BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

[Rome]: 28 Via Tritone: Friday [winter 1859].

My dearest Fanny,--Set me down as a wretch, but hear me. I have been ill
again, in the first place; then as weak as a rag in consequence, and
then with business accumulated on impotent hands; proofs to see to, and
the like. You may have heard in the buzz of newspapers of certain
presentation _swords_, subscribed for by twenty thousand Romans, at a
franc each, and presented in homage and gratitude to Napoleon III. and
Victor Emmanuel. Castellani[72] of course was the artist, and the whole
business had to be huddled up at the end, because of his Holiness
denouncing all such givers of gifts as traitors to the See. So just as
the swords had to be packed up and disappear, some one came with a shut
carriage to take me for a sight of these most exquisite works of art. It
was five o'clock in the evening and raining, but not cold, so that the
whole world here agreed it couldn't hurt me. I went with Robert
therefore; we were received at Castellani's most flatteringly as poets
and lovers of Italy; were asked for autographs; and returned in a blaze
of glory and satisfaction, to collapse (as far as I'm concerned) in a
near approach to mortality. You see I can't catch a simple cold. All my
bad symptoms came back. Suffocations, singular heart-action, cough
tearing one to atoms. A gigantic blister, however, let me crawl out of
bed at the end of a week, and the advantage of a Roman climate _told_, I
dare say, for the attack was less violent and much less long than the
one in the summer. Only I feel myself brittle, and become aware, of
increased susceptibility. Dr. Gresonowsky warns me against Florence in
the winter. I must be warm, they say. Well, never mind! Now I am well
again, and I don't know why I should have whined so to you. I am well,
and living on asses' milk by way of sustaining the mental calibre; yes,
and able to have _tete-a-tetes_ with Theodore Parker, who believes
nothing, you know, and has been writing a little Christmas book for the
young just now, to prove how they should keep Christmas without a
Christ, and a Mr. Hazard, a spiritualist, who believes e