on him.  If Cobden had not rushed beyond civilisation, I should like to offer him my little book.  I should like it.  Self-love is the great malady of England, and immortal would the statesman be who could and would tear a wider horizon for the popular mind.  As to the rifle cry, I never doubted (for one) that it had its beginning with ‘interested persons.’  Never was any cry more ignoble.  A rescues B from being murdered by C, and E cries out, ‘What if A should murder me!’ That’s the logic of the subject.  And the sentiment is worthy of the logic.

I expect to be torn to pieces by English critics for what I have ventured to write....

Write me one of your amusing letters, and take our love, especially

Your ever affectionate BA’S.

There is no Roman news, people are so scarce.  The Storys have given a ball, Italians chiefly.  We think of little but politics.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Martin

28 Via del Tritone, Rome:  December 29 [1859].

It was pleasant to have news of you, dearest friends, and to know of your being comfortably established at Pau this cold winter, as it seems to be in the north.  We came here, flying from the Florence tramontana, at the very close of November, on the Perugia road, after having been weather-bound at Casa Guidi till we almost gave up our Roman plan.  Most happily the cold spared us during our six days’ journey, which was very pleasant.  I like travelling by vetturino.  The fatigue is small, and if you take a supply of books with you the time does not hang fire.  We had some old Balzacs, which came new (he is one of our gods—­heathen, you will say) and we had, besides, Charles Reade’s ’Love me Little, Love me Long,’ which is full of ability.  Then Peni had his pony as a source of interest.  The pony was fastened to the vettura horses, and came into Rome, not merely fresh, but fat.  And we have fallen into pleasant places by way of lodgings here, our friends having prepared a list to choose from, so that I had only to drop out of the hotel into bright sunny rooms, which do not cost too much on account of the comparative desertion of this holy city this year.  We arrived on December 3, and here it is nearly January 1—­almost a month.  The older one grows the faster time passes.  Do you observe that?  You catch the wind of the wheels in your face, it seems, as you get nearer the end.  I observe it strongly.

Let me say of myself first that I am particularly well, and feel much more sure and steady than since my illness.  How are you both?  I do hope and trust you can give me good news of yourselves.  Do you read aloud to one another or each alone?  Robert and I do the last always.  May God bless you both in health of body and soul, and every source of happiness for the coming and other years!  I wish and pray it out of my heart....

And you are studying music?  I honour you for it.  Do tell me, dearest Mrs. Martin, did you know nothing of music before, and have you taken up the piano?  I hold a peculiar heresy as to the use hereafter of what we learn here.  When there is no longer any growth in me, I desire to die—­for one.  And at present I by no means desire to die.