Robert can’t catch sight of even the ‘Athenaeum.’  We have a two-day old ‘Galignani,’ and think ourselves royally off; and then this little shop with French books in it, just a few, and the ‘Gentilhomme Campagnard’ the latest published.  Yes, but somebody lent us the first volume of ‘Chateaubriand’s Memoires.’  Have you seen it?  Curiously uninteresting, considering ‘the man and the hour.’  He writes of his youth with a grey goose quill; the paper is all wrinkled.  And then he is not frank; he must have more to tell than he tells.  I looked for a more intense and sincere book outre tombe certainly.  I am busy about my new edition, that is all at present, but some things are written.  Good of Mr. Chorley (he is good) to place you face to face with Robert’s books, and I am glad you like ‘Colombe’ and ‘Luria.’  Dear Mr. Kenyon’s poems we have just received and are about to read, and I am delighted at a glance to see that he has inserted the ‘Gipsy Carol,’ which in MS. was such a favorite of mine.  Really, is he so rich?  I am glad of it, if he is.  Money could not be in more generous and intelligent hands.  Dearest Miss Mitford, you are only just in being trustful of my affection for you.  Never do I forget nor cease to love you.  Write and tell me of your dear self; how you are exactly, and whether you have been at Three Mile Cross all the summer.  May God bless you.  Robert’s regards.  Can you read?  Love a little your

  Ever affectionate
  E.B.B.

To Mrs. Jameson Bagni di Lucca:  October 1, [1849].

There seems to be a fatality about our letters, dearest friend, only the worst fate comes to me!  I lose, and you are near losing!  And I should not have liked you to lose any least proof of my thinking of you, lest a worst loss should happen to me as a consequence, even worse than the loss of your letters; for then, perhaps, and by degrees, you might leave off thinking of Robert and me, which, rich as we are in this mortal world, I do assure you we could neither of us afford....  We have had much quiet enjoyment here in spite of everything, read some amusing books (Dumas and Sue—­shake your head!), and seen our child grow fuller of roses and understanding day by day.  Before he was six months old he would stretch out his hands and his feet too, when bidden to do so, and his little mouth to kiss you.  This is said to be a miracle of forwardness among the learned.  He knows Robert and me quite well as ‘Papa’ and ‘Mama,’ and laughs for joy when he meets us out of doors.  Robert is very fond of him, and threw me into a fit of hilarity the other day by springing away from his newspaper in an indignation against me because he hit his head against the floor rolling over and over.  ‘Oh, Ba, I really can’t trust you!’ Down Robert was on the carpet in a moment, to protect the precious head.  He takes it to be made of Venetian glass, I am certain.  We may leave this place much sooner than the end of