I had a letter some time ago from poor Jessie Mario, from Bologna.  Respect her.  She hindered her husband from fighting with Garibaldi for his country, because Garibaldi fought under L.N., which was so highly improper.  Her letter was not unkind to me, but altogether and insanely wrong as I considered. (Not more wrong though, and much less wicked, than the ‘Times.’) I was too ill at the time to answer it, and afterwards Robert would not let me, but I should have liked to do it; it’s such a comfort to a woman (and a man?) to sfogarsi, as we say here.  Also, I was really uneasy at what might be doing at Bologna; so, in spite of friendship, it was a relief to me to hear of the police taking charge of all overt possibilities in that direction.

Is it really true that ‘Adam Bede’ is the work of Miss Evans?  The woman (as I have heard of her) and the author (as I read her) do not hold together.  May God bless you, my dear friend!  Robert shall say so for himself.

Ever affectionately yours,
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

My dear Mr. Chorley,—­Reading over what I have written I find that I have been so basely ungrateful as not to say the thing I would when I would thank you.  Your Dedication will be accepted with a true sense of kindness and honor together; I shall be proud and thankful.  But perhaps you have changed your mind in the course of this long silence.

And now where’s room for Robert?

* * * * *

To Miss I. Blagden

Villa Alberti, [Siena]: 
Tuesday [September-October, 1859].

Ever dearest Isa,—­Yes, I am delighted.

Evviva il nostro re!  It isn’t a very distinct acceptance, however, but as distinct as could be expected reasonably.[68] Under conditions, of course.

On Friday morning before noon up to our door came Mr. Russell’s carriage.  He had closed with Robert’s proposition at once, and we made room for him without much difficulty, and were very glad to see him.  I didn’t go in to dinner, and he and Robert went to the Storys in the evening—­so that it wasn’t too much for me—­and then I really like him—­he is refined and amiable, and acute and liberal (as an Englishman can be), full of ‘traditions’ or prejudices, to use the right word.  To my surprise he knew scarcely anything; and, as I modestly observed to Robert, ’didn’t understand the Italian question half as well as I understand it.’  Of course there was a quantity of gossip in the anti-Napoleon sense; how the Emperor told the King of the peace over the soup, twirling his moustache; and how the King swore like a trooper at the Emperor in consequence; and how the Emperor took it all very well—­didn’t mind at all and how, and how—­things which are manifestly impossible and which Robert tells me I ought not to repeat, in order not to multiply such vain tales.  There is Metternich the younger (ambassador in Paris), a personal friend of Odo Russell’s, in whose bosom Louis Napoleon seems to pour the confidences of his heart about that ’coquin de Cavour who led him into the Italian war,’ &c., &c., but it simply proves to you and me how an Austrian can lie, which we could guess before.