late maid, Wilson (who married our Italian man-servant), to take care of him; and meanwhile the quiet of this place has so restored his health and peace of mind that he is able to write awful Latin alcaics, to say nothing of hexameters and pentameters, on the wickedness of Louis Napoleon.  Yes, dear Mr. Chorley, poems which might appear in the ‘Athenaeum’ without disclaimer, and without injury to the reputation of that journal.

Am I not spiteful?  I assure you I couldn’t be spiteful a short time ago, so very ill I have been.  Now it is different, and every day the strength returns.  What remains, however, is a certain necessity of not facing the Florence wind this winter, and of going again to Rome, in spite of probable revolutions there.  We talk of going in the early part of November.  Why won’t you come to Rome and give us meeting?  Foolish speech, when I know you won’t.  We shall be in Florence probably at the end of the present week, to stay there until the journey further south begins.  I shall regret this silence.  And little Penini too will have his regrets, for he has been very happy here, made friends with the contadini, has helped to keep the sheep, to run after straggling cows, to play at ‘nocini’ (did you ever hear of that game?) and to pick the grapes at the vintage—­driving in the grape-carts (exactly of the shape of the Greek chariots), with the grapes heaped up round him; and then riding on his own pony, which Robert is going to buy for him (though Robert never spoils him; no, not he, it is only I who do that!), galloping through the lanes on this pony the colour of his curls.  I was looking over his journal (Pen keeps a journal), and fell on the following memorial which I copy for you—­I must.

’This is the happiest day of my hole (sic) life, for now dearest Vittorio Emanuele is really nostro re.’

Pen’s weak point does not lie in his politics, Mr. Chorley, but in his spelling.  When his contadini have done their day’s work he takes it on him to read aloud to them the poems of the revolutionary Venetian poet Dall’ Ongaro, to their great applause.  Then I must tell you of his music.  He is strong in music for ten years old—­and plays a sonata of Beethoven already (in E flat—­opera 7) and the first four books of Stephen Heller; to say nothing of various pieces by modern German composers in which there is need of considerable execution.  Robert is the maestro, and sits by him two hours every day, with an amount of patience and persistence really extraordinary.  Also for two months back, since I have been thrown out of work, Robert has heard the child all his other lessons.  Isn’t it very, very good of him?

Do write to us and tell me how your sister is, and also how you are in spirits and towards the things of the world?  Give her my love—­will you?