the small, when I complain of the lamentable weakness of much in my ‘Seraphim’ volume, I don’t complain of the ‘Seagull’ and ‘Doves’ and the simple verses, but exactly of the more ambitious ones.  I have had to rewrite pages upon pages of that volume.  Oh, such feeble rhymes, and turns of thought—­such a dingy mistiness!  Even Robert couldn’t say a word for much of it.  I took great pains with the whole, and made considerable portions new, only your favourites were not touched—­not a word touched, I think, in the ‘Seagull,’ and scarcely a word in the ‘Doves.’  You won’t complain of me a great deal, I do hope and trust.  Also I put back your ‘little words’ into the ‘House of Clouds.’  The two volumes are to come out, it appears, at the end of October; not before, because Mr. Chapman wished to inaugurate them for his new house in Piccadilly.  There are some new poems, and one rather long ballad written at request of anti-slavery friends in America.[205] I arranged that it should come next to the ‘Cry of the Children,’ to appear impartial as to national grievances....

Oh—­Balzac—­what a loss!  One of the greatest and (most) original writers of the age gone from us!  To hear this news made Robert and me very melancholy.  Indeed, there seems to be fatality just now with the writers of France.  Soulie, Bernard, gone too; George Sand translating Mazzini; Sue in a socialistical state of decadence—­what he means by writing such trash 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].