s? It would be a too slight punishment. She caused the
Villafranca halt (according to her official confession by the mouth of
Baron Schleinitz, last spring), and now this second time, would she
interrupt the liberation of Italy? The aspect of affairs looks very
grave. As to England, England wishes well to this country at this
present time, but _she will make no sacrifices_ (not even of her
hatreds, least of all, perhaps, of her blind hatreds), for the sake of
ten Italys. Tell dear Mr. Martin that after the speech for the Defences,
I gave up Lord Palmerston for ever. He plays double. He is too shrewd to
believe in the probability of invasions, &c., &c., but he wants a shield
to guard his sword-arm. The statesmanship of England pines for new
blood, for ideas of the epoch, and the Russell old-fogyism will not do
any more at all. These old bottles won't hold the new wine. People are
positively calling on the Muse and William Pitt. It's religion to hate
France, and to set up a 'Boney' as a 'raw head and bloody bones' sort of
scarecrow. But it won't do. As the Revolutionists say, 'E troppo tardi.'

I am not, however, in furies all day, dearest Mrs. Martin. (I answer
satisfactorily your question whether I am 'ever calm.') The newspapers
from various parts of Italy thunder down on us here, not to speak of
'Galignanis' and 'Saturday Reviews.' See how calm-blooded I must be to
bear the 'Saturday Review.' (I consider it a curiosity in vice,
certainly.) Then we have books from the subscription library in
Florence, and sights of the 'Cornhill,' and political pamphlets by the
book-post; nay, even the 'Spiritual Magazine,' sent by Chapman and Hall,
in the last number of which that clever and brave William Howitt (who,
like a man, is foolish sometimes) suggests gravely in an article that I
have lately been 'biologised by infernal spirits,' in order to the
production of certain bad works in the service of 'Moloch,' meaning, of
course, L.N. Oh! and did anyone tell you how Harriet Martineau, in her
political letters to America, set me down with her air of serene
superiority? But such things never chafe me--never. They don't even
quicken my pulsation. And the place we are passing the summer in is very
calm--a great lonely villa, in the midst of purple hills and vineyards,
olive-trees and fig-trees like forest-trees; a deep soothing silence. A
mile off we have friends, and my dear friend Miss Blagden is in a villa
half a mile off. This for t