Robert will have told you, I am sure, what a lovely picture Mr. Wilde, the American artist (staying with the Storys), has made of Penini on horseback, and presented to me.  It is to be exhibited in the spring in London, but before then, either at Rome or Florence, we will have a photograph made from it to send you.  By the way, Mr. Monroe failed us about the photograph from the bust.  He said he had tried in vain once, but would try again.  The child is no less pretty and graceful than he was, and he rides, as he does everything, with a grace which is striking.  He gallops like the wind, and with an absolute fearlessness—­he who is timid about sleeping in a room by himself, poor darling.  He has had a very happy time here (besides the pony) having made friends with all the contadini, who adore him, and helped them to keep the sheep, catch the stray cows, drive the oxen in the grape-carts, and to bring in the vintage generally, besides reading and expounding revolutionary poems to them at evening.  The worst of it was, while it lasted, that he ate so many grapes he could eat nothing else whatever.  Still, he looks rosy and well, and there’s nothing to regret....

Robert has let his moustache and beard grow together, and looks very picturesque.  I thought I should not like the moustache, but I do.  He is in very good looks altogether, though, in spite of remonstrances, he has given up walking before breakfast, and doesn’t walk at any time half enough. I was in fault chiefly, because he both sate up at night with me and kept by me when I was generally ill in the mornings.  So I oughtn’t to grumble—­but I do....  Love to dear M. Milsand.  We are in increasing spirits on Italian affairs.

Your very affectionate
BA.

* * * * *

In October they returned to Florence, though only for about six weeks, before moving on to Rome for the winter.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Jameson

[Florence]:  Casa Guidi:  Friday [October 1859].

Ever dearest Mona Nina,—­Here we are at our Florence, very thankful for the advantages of our Siena residence.  God has been kind.  When I think how I went away and how I came back, it seems to me wonderful.  For the latter fortnight the tide of life seemed fairly to set in again, and now I am quite well, if not as strong—­which, of course, could not be in the time.  My doctor opened his eyes to see me yesterday so right in looks and ways.  But we spend the winter in Rome, because the great guns of the revolution (and even the small daggers) will be safer to encounter than any sort of tramontana.  To tell you the truth, dearest friend, there have been moments when I have ’despaired of the republic’—­that is, doubted much whether I should ever be quite well again; I mean as tolerably well as it is my normal state to be.  So severe the attack was altogether.