I must admit, however, that he is extremely well just now, to speak generally, and that this habit of regular exercise (with occasional homoeopathy) has thrown him into a striking course of prosperity, as to looks, spirits and appetite.  He eats ‘vulpinely’ he says—­which means that a lark or two is no longer enough for dinner.  At breakfast the loaf perishes by Gargantuan slices.  He is plunged into gaieties of all sorts, caught from one hand to another like a ball, has gone out every night for a fortnight together, and sometimes two or three times deep in a one night’s engagements.  So plenty of distraction, and no Men and Women.  Men and women from without instead!  I am shut up in the house of course, and go to bed when he goes out—­and the worst is, that there’s a difficulty in getting books.  Still, I get what I can, and stop up the chinks with Swedenborg; and in health am very well, for me, and in tranquillity excellently well.  Not that there are not people more than enough who come to see me, but that there is nothing vexatious just now; life goes smoothly, I thank God, and I like Rome better than I did last time.  The season is healthy too (for Rome).  I have only heard of one English artist since we came, who arrived, sickened, died, and was buried, before anyone knew who he was.  Besides ordinary cases of slight Roman fever among the English, Miss Sherwood (who with her father was at Florence) has had it slightly, and Mrs. Marshall who came to us from Tennyson. (A Miss Spring-Rice she was.) But the poor Hawthornes suffer seriously.  Una is dissolved to a shadow of herself by reiterated attacks, and now Miss Shepherd is seized with gastric fever.  Mr. Hawthorne is longing to get away—­where, he knows not.

My Peni has conquered his cold, and when the weather gets milder I shall let him out.  Meanwhile he has taken to—­what do you suppose?  I go into his room at night and find him with a candle regularly settled on the table by him, and he reading, deeply rapt, an Italian translation of ‘Monte Cristo.’  Pretty well for a lion-cub, isn’t it?  He is enchanted with this book, lent to him by our padrona; and exclaims every now and then, ‘Oh, magnificent, magnificent!’ And this morning, at breakfast, he gravely delivered himself to the following effect:  ’Dear mama, for the future I mean to read novels.  I shall read all Dumas’s, to begin.  And then I shall like to read papa’s favourite book, “Madame Bovary."’ Heavens, what a lion-cub!  Robert and I could only answer by a burst of laughter.  It was so funny.  That little dot of nine and a half full of such hereditary tendencies.

And ‘Madame Bovary’ in a course of education!...

May God bless you, my much-loved Isa, for this and other years beyond also!  I shall love you all that way—­says the genius of the ring.

Your ever loving
BA.

FOOTNOTES: 

[46] Ferdinando Romagnoli.  He died at Venice, in the Palazzo Rezzonico, January 1893.  His widow (who, as the following letters show, continued to be called Wilson in the family) is still living with Mr. R.B.  Browning.