We find our dear friend Mr. Kenyon better in some respects than we expected, but I fear in a very precarious state.  Our stay is uncertain.  We may go at a moment’s notice, or remain if he wishes it; and, my proofs being sent post by post, we are able to see to them together, without too much delay.  Still, only one-half of the book is done, and the days come when I shall find no pleasure in them—­nothing but coughing.

George and my brothers were very kind to Robert at Ventnor, and he is quite touched by it.  Also, little Pen made his way into the heart of ‘mine untles,’ and was carried on their backs up and down hills, and taught the ways of ‘English boys,’ with so much success that he makes pretensions to ‘pluck,’ and has left a good reputation behind him.  On one occasion he went up to a boy of twelve who took liberties, and exclaimed, ‘Don’t be impertinent, sir’ (doubling his small fist), ’or I will show you that I’m a boy.’  Of course ‘mine untles’ are charmed with this ‘proper spirit,’ and applaud highly.  Robert and I begged to suggest to the hero that the ‘boy of twelve’ might have killed him if he had pleased.  ‘Never mind,’ cried little Pen, ’there would have been somebody to think of me, who would have him hanged’ (great applause from the uncles).  ‘But you would still be dead,’ said Robert remorselessly.  ’Well, I don’t tare for that.  It was a beautiful place to die in—­close to the sea.’

So you will please to observe that, in spite of being Italians and wearing curls, we can fight to the death on occasion....

Write to me, and say how you both are.  Robert’s love.  We both love you.

Very lovingly yours,
BA.

* * * * *

To Miss Browning

[West Cowes]:  September 13, 1856 [postmark].

My dearest Sarianna,—­Robert comes suddenly down on me with news that he is going to write to you, so, though I have been writing letters all the morning, I must throw in a few words.  As to keeping Penini at the sea longer, he will have been three weeks at the sea to-morrow, and you must remember how late into the year it is getting—­and we with so much work before us!  And if Peni recovered his roses at Ventnor, I recovered my cough (from the piercing east winds); but I am better since, and last night slept well.  It’s far too early for cough, however, in any shape.  We have heaps of business to do in London—­heaps—­and the book is only half-done.  Still, we are asked to stay here till three days after Madame Braun’s arrival, and it isn’t fixed yet when she will arrive; so that I daresay Peni will have a full month of the sea, after all.  Then I have a design upon Robert’s good-nature, of persuading him to go round by Taunton to London (something like going round the earth to Paris), that I may see my poor forsaken sister Henrietta, who wants us to give her a week in her cottage, pathetically bewailing herself that she has no means for the expense of going to London this time—­that she has done it twice for me, and can’t this time (the purse being low); and unless we go to her, she must do without seeing me, in spite of a separation of four years.  So I am anxious to go, of course.