f finding them delightful. But, my dearest friend, I shall not see
any of the Trollope party--it is not likely. You can scarcely image to
yourself the retired life we live, or how we have retreated from
the kind advances of the English society here. Now people seem to
understand that we are to be left alone; that nothing is to be made of
us. The fact is, we are not like our child, who kisses everybody who
smiles at him! Neither my health nor our pecuniary circumstances, nor
our inclinations perhaps, would admit of our entering into English
society here, which is kept up much after the old English models, with
a proper disdain for Continental simplicities of expense. We have just
heard from Father Prout, who often, he says, sees Mr. Horne, 'who is
as dreamy as ever.' So glad I am, for I was beginning to be uneasy
about him. He has not answered my letter from Lucca. The verses in the
'Athenaeum'[198] are on Sophia Cottrell's child.

May God bless you, dearest friend. Speak of _yourself_ more
particularly to your ever affectionate

E.B.B.

Robert's kindest regards. Tell us of Mr. Chorley's play, do.

[Footnote 196: Apparently the _Echo-song_ which now precedes canto
iv. of the _Princess_, though one is surprised at the opinion here
expressed of it. It will be remembered that this and the other lyrical
interludes did not appear in the original edition of the _Princess_.]

[Footnote 197: Notably the _Sonnets from the Portuguese_.]

[Footnote 198: 'A Child's Death at Florence,' which appeared in the
_Athenaeum_ of December 22, 1849.]

_To Mrs. Martin_
Florence: February 22, 1850.

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--Have you wondered that I did not write
before? It was not that I did not thank you in my heart for your kind,
considerate letter, but I was unconquerably uncomfortable about papa;
and, what with the weather, which always has me in its power somehow,
and other things, I fell into a dislike of writing, which I hope you
didn't mistake for ingratitude, because it was not in the least like
the same fault. Now the severe weather (such weather for Italy!) has
broken up, and I am relieved in all ways, having received the most
happy satisfactory news from Wimpole Street, and the assurance from my
sisters that if I were to see papa I should think him looking as well
as ever. He grew impatient with Dr. Elliotson's medicines which, it
appears, were of a very lowering character--suddenly gave them up,
and as suddenly recovere