Robert had a letter from Chapman yesterday.  Not much news.  He speaks of two penny papers, sold lately, after making the fortune of their proprietors, for twenty-five and thirty-five thousand pounds.  If Robert ‘could but write bad enough,’ says the learned publisher, he should recommend one of them.  But even Charles Reade was found too good, and the sale fell ten thousand in a few weeks on account of a serial tale of his, so he had to make place to his worses.  Chapman hears of a ‘comprehensive review’ being about to appear in the ‘Westminster’ on ‘Aurora,’ whether for or against he cannot tell.  The third edition sells well.

So happy I am to hear that Mr. Procter’s son is safe.  We saw his name in the ‘Galignani,’ and were alarmed.  Lytton has heard from Forster, but I had no English news from the letter.  I get letters from my sisters which make me feel ‘froissee’ all over, except that they seem pretty well.  My eldest brother has returned from Jamaica, and has taken a place with a Welsh name on the Welsh borders for three years—­what I knew he would do.  He wrote me some tender words, dear fellow....

May God bless you!

Yours in much love, BA.

* * * * *

To Miss E.F.  Haworth

La Villa, Bagni di Lucca: 
September 14, 1857 [postmark].

My dearest Fanny,—­A letter from me will have crossed yours and told you of all our misadventures.  It has been a summer to me full of blots, vexations, anxieties; and if, in spite of everything, I am physically stronger for the fresh air and smell of green leaves, that’s a proof that soul and body are two.

Our friends of the hotel went away last Saturday, and I have a letter from Isa Blagden with a good account of Lytton.  He goes back to Villa Bricchieri, where they are to house together, unless Sir Edward comes down (which he may do) to catch up his son and change the plan.  Isa has not quite killed herself with nursing him, a little of her being still left to express what has been.

Now, dear Fanny, I am going to try to tell you of our plans.  No, ‘plans’ is not the word; our thoughts are in the purely elemental state so far.  But we think of going to Rome (or Naples) at the far end of November, and of staying here as many days deep into October meanwhile as the cold mountain air will let us.  On leaving this place we go to Florence and wait.  Unless, indeed (which is possible too), we go to Egypt and the Holy Land, in which case we shall not remain where we are beyond the end of September....

I never could consent to receive my theology or any other species of guidance, in fact—­from the ‘spirits,’ so called.  I have no more confidence, apart from my own conscience and discretionary selection, in spirits out of the body than in those embodied.  The submission of the whole mind and judgment carries you in either case to the pope—­or to the devil.  So I think.  Don’t let them bind you hand and foot.  Resist.  Be yourself.  Also where (as in the medium-writing) you have the human mixture to evolve the spiritual sentiment from, the insecurity becomes doubly insecure....