sh as the 'Peches' I really can't make out; only
Alexandre Dumas keeping his head up gallantly, and he seems to me to
write better than ever. Here is a new book, just published, by
Jules Sandeau, called 'Sacs et Parchemins'! Have you seen it? It
miraculously comes to us from the little Siena library.

We stay in this villa till our month is out, and then we go for a week
into Siena that I may be nearer the churches and pictures, and see
something of the cathedral and Sodomas. We calculated that it was
cheaper to move our quarters than to have a carriage to and fro, and
then Dr. Harding recommended repeated change of air for me, and he has
proved his ability so much (so kindly too!) that we are bound to
act on his opinions as closely as we can. Perhaps we may even go to
Volterra afterwards, if the _finances_ will allow of it. If we do, it
may be for another week at farthest, and then we return to Florence.
You had better direct there as usual. And do write and tell me much of
yourself, and set _me_ down in your thoughts as quite well, and ever
yours in warm and grateful affection.

E.B.B.

[Footnote 204: Drowned with her husband on their way to America.]

[Footnote 205: _The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point_.]

_To Miss Mitford_
Florence: November 13, 1850 [postmark].

I _meant_ to cross your second letter, and so, my very dear friend,
you are a second time a prophetess as to my intentions, while I
am still more grateful than I could have been with the literal
fulfilment. Delightful it is to hear from you--do always write when
you can. And though this second letter speaks of your having been
unwell, still I shall continue to flatter myself that upon the whole
'the better part prevails,' and that if the rains don't wash you away
this winter, I may have leave to think of you as strengthening and to
strengthen still. Meanwhile you certainly, as you say, have roots to
your feet. Never was anyone so pure as you from the drop of gypsey
blood which tingles in my veins and my husband's, and gives us every
now and then a fever for roaming, strong enough to carry us to Mount
Caucasus if it were not for the healthy state of depletion observable
in the purse. I get fond of places, so does he. We both of us grew
rather pathetical on leaving our Sienese villa, and shrank from
parting with the pig. But setting out on one's travels has a great
charm; oh, I should like to be able to pay our way down the Nile, and
into Greece,