readings’ here in Boston; ‘Browning evenings’ there.  For the rest, the English hunt lions too, Sarianna, but their favourite lions are chosen among ‘lords’ chiefly, or ‘railroad kings.’  ‘It’s worth eating much dirt,’ said an Englishman of high family and character here, ‘to get to Lady ——­’s soiree.’  Americans will eat dirt to get to us.  There’s the difference.  English people will come and stare at me sometimes, but physicians, dentists, who serve me and refuse their fees, artists who give me pictures, friends who give up their carriages and make other practical sacrifices, are not English—­no—­though English Woolner was generous about a bust.  Let me be just at least.

There is a beautiful photograph of Wilde’s picture of Pen on horseback, which shall go to you, the likeness better than in the picture.

I can scarcely allude to the loss of my loved friend Mrs. Jameson.  It’s a blot more on the world to me.  Best love to you and the dear Nonno from Pen and myself.  The editor of the ‘Atlas’ writes to thank me for the justice and courage of my international politics.  English clergyman stops at the door to say to the servant, ’he does not know me, but applauds my sentiments.’  So there may be ten just persons who spare

Your affectionate sister.

* * * * *

To Miss I. Blagden

[Rome]:  Saturday [April 1860].

My dearest dear Isa, not well!  That must be the first word ’by return of post.’  Dear, let me have a better letter, to say that you are well and bright again, and brilliant Isa as customary.

And now, join me in admiration of the ‘husband Browning!’ Isn’t he a miracle, whoever else may be?  The wife Browning, not to name most other human beings, would have certainly put the ‘Monitore’ receipt into the fire, or, at best, lost it.  In fact, whisper it not in the streets of Askelon, but she had forgotten even the fact of its having been sent, and was quietly concluding that Wilson had lost it in a fog and that we should have patiently to pay twice.  Not at all.  Up rises the husband Browning, superior to his mate, and with eyes all fire, holds up the receipt like an heroic rifleman looking to a French invasion at the end of a hundred years.  Blessed be they who keep receipts.  It is a beatitude beyond my reach.

Only I do hope my Tuscan friends of the ‘Monitore’ are only careless and forgetful in their business habits, and that they didn’t think of ’annexing’—­eh, Isa!  No, I don’t believe it was dishonesty, it might have so very well been oblivion.

May the paper come to-day, that’s all.  We get the ‘Galignani,’ but can’t afford to miss our Italian news.  Then, not only we ourselves, but half a dozen Tuscan exiles here in Rome who are not allowed to read a freely breathed word, come to us for that paper, friends of Ferdinando’s living in Rome.  First he lent them the paper, then they got frightened for fear of being convicted through some spy of reading such a thing[81], and prayed to come to this house to read it.  There have been six of them sometimes in the evening.  We keep a sort of cafe in Rome, observe, and your ‘Monitore’ is necessary to us.