ade the acquaintance of Mr. Powers,[161] who is
delightful--of a most charming simplicity, with those great burning
eyes of his. Tell me what you think of his boy listening to the
shell. Oh, your Raphaels! how divine! And M. Angelo's sculptures! His
pictures I leap up to in vain, and fall back regularly. Write of your
book and yourself, and write soon; and let me be, as always, your
affectionate BA.

We are here for two months certain, and perhaps longer. Do write.

Dear Aunt Nina,--Ba has said something for me, I hope. In any case, my
love goes with hers, I trust you are well and happy, as we are, and as
we would make you if we could. Love to Geddie. Ever yours, [R.B.]

[Footnote 161: The American sculptor.]

_To Mrs. Martin_
Florence: August 7, 1847.

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--How I have been longing to get this letter,
which comes at last, and justifies the longing by the pleasure it
gives!... How kind, how affectionate you are to me, and how strong
your claim is that I should thrust on you, in defiance of good taste
and conventions, every evidence and assurance of my happiness, so
as to justify your _faith_ to yourselves and others. Indeed, indeed,
dearest Mrs. Martin, you may 'exult' for me--and this though it should
all end here and now. The uncertainties of life and death seem nothing
to me. A year (nearly) is saved from the darkness, and if that
one year has compensated for those that preceded it--which it has,
abundantly--why, let it for those that shall follow, if it so please
God. Come what may, I feel as if I never could have a right to murmur.
I have been happy enough. Brought about too it was, indeed, by a sort
of miracle which to this moment, when I look back, bewilders me to
think of; and if you knew the details, counted the little steps,
and could; compare my moral position three years and a half ago with
_this_, you would come to despise San Gualberto's miraculous tree at
Vallombrosa, which, being dead, gave out green leaves in recognition
of his approach, as testified by the inscription--do you remember? But
you can't stop to-day to read mine, so rather I shall tell you of our
exploit in the mountains. Only one thing I must say first, one thing
which you must forgive me for the vanity of resolving to say at last,
having had it in my head very often. There's a detestable engraving,
which, if you have the ill luck to see (and you _may_, because,
horrible to relate, it is in the shop windows), wil