the lungs only; it draws you, raises you, excites you.  Mountain air without its keenness, sheathed in Italian sunshine, think what that must be!  And the beauty and the solitude—­for with a few paces we get free of the habitations of men—­all is delightful to me.  What is peculiarly beautiful and wonderful is the variety of the shapes of the mountains.  They are a multitude, and yet there is no likeness.  None, except where the golden mist comes and transfigures them into one glory.  For the rest, the mountain there wrapt in the chestnut forest is not like that bare peak which tilts against the sky, nor like that serpent twine of another which seems to move and coil in the moving coiling shadow.  Oh, I wish you were here.  You would enjoy the shade of the chestnut trees, and the sound of the waterfalls, and at nights seem to be living among the stars; the fireflies are so thick, you would like that too.  We have subscribed to a French library where there are scarcely any new books.  I have read Bernard’s ‘Gentilhomme Campagnard’ (see how arrieres we are in French literature!), and thought it the dullest and worst of his books.  I wish I could see the ‘Memoirs of Louis Napoleon,’ but there is no chance of such good fortune.  All this egotism has been written with a heart full of thoughts of you and anxieties for you.  Do write to me directly and say first how your precious health is, and then that you have ceased to suffer pain for your friends....  But your dear self chiefly—­how are you, my dearest Miss Mitford?  I do long so for good news of you.  On our arrival here Mr. Lever called on us.  A most cordial vivacious manner, a glowing countenance, with the animal spirits somewhat predominant over the intellect, yet the intellect by no means in default; you can’t help being surprised into being pleased with him, whatever your previous inclination may be.  Natural too, and a gentleman past mistake.  His eldest daughter is nearly grown up, and his youngest six months old.  He has children of every sort of intermediate age almost, but he himself is young enough still.  Not the slightest Irish accent.  He seems to have spent nearly his whole life on the Continent and by no means to be tired of it.  Ah, dearest Miss Mitford, hearts feel differently, adjust themselves differently before the prick of sorrow, and I confess I agree with Robert.  There are places stained with the blood of my heart for ever, and where I could not bear to stand again.  If duty called him to New Cross it would be otherwise, but his sister is rather inclined to come to us, I think, for a few weeks in the autumn perhaps.  Only these are scarcely times for plans concerning foreign travel.  It is something to talk of.  It has been a great disappointment to me the not going to England this year, but I could not run the risk of the bitter pain to him.  May God bless you from all pain!  Love me and write to me, who am ever and ever your affectionate E.B.B.