is sweeping opinions. Biologised and be-Harrised
_he_ is certainly. What an extraordinary admiration! I wonder at _that_
more than at any of the external spiritual phenomena. Dearest Fanny, you
were very, very good and generous to take my part with the editor--but
_laissez faire_. These things do one no harm--and, for me, they don't
even vex me. I had an anonymous letter from England the other day, from
somebody who recognised me, he said, in some prodigious way as a great
Age-teacher, all but divine, I believe, and now gave me up on account of
certain atrocities--first, for the poem 'Pan'[92] in the 'Cornhill'
(considered _immoral_!) and then for having had my 'brain so turned by
the private attentions and flatteries of the Emperor Napoleon when I was
in Paris, that I have devoted myself since to help him in the
gratification of his selfish ambitions.' Conceive of this, written with
an air of conviction, and on the best information. Now, of the two
imputations, I much prefer 'the inspiration from hell.' There's
something grandiose about that, to say nothing of the superior honesty
of the position.

What a 'mountainous me' I am 'piling up' in this letter, I who want
rather to write of _you_....

Italy ought not to draw you just now, Fanny. We are all looking for war,
and wondering where the safety is. A Piccolomini said yesterday that it
was as safe at Rome as in Florence, which only proved Florence unsafe.
Austria may come down on Central Italy any day; and sooner or later
there must be war. The Storys are alarmed enough to avoid going back to
Rome until the end of November, when things may be a little arranged.
The indignation here is great against 'questa canaglia di Germania.'
Toeplitz means mischief both against France and Italy--that is plain.
The Prince of Prussia gave his 'parole de gentilhomme' meaning the word
of a rascal. My poor Venice! But you will see presently, only the fear
is that our fire here may flash very far. In any case, it would not be
desirable for Englishmen to come southwards this year. Our plans for the
winter depend entirely on circumstances. If we can go to Rome in any
reasonable security, I suppose we shall go. But I have no heart for
plans just now.

Dear Isa Blagden is spending the summer in a rough _cabin_, a quarter of
an hour's walk from here, and Mr. Landor is hard by in the lane. This
(with the Storys a mile off) makes a sort of colonisation of the country
here. Otherwise it's a