Meanwhile you will care for Roman news, and I have not much to tell you.  I am very much in my corner, and very quiet.  Robert, who has been most dear and tender and considerate to me through my trial, kept all the people off, and even now, when the door is open a little, gloomy lionesses with wounded paws don’t draw the public, I thank God, and I am not much teased, if at all.  Sir John Bowring came with a letter of introduction, and intimate relations with Napoleon to talk of, and he has confirmed certain views of mine which I was glad to hear confirmed by a disciple of Bentham and true liberal of distinguished intelligence.  He said that nothing could be more ludicrous and fanatical than the volunteer movement in England rising out of the most incredible panic which ever arose without a reason.  I only hope that if the volunteers ever have to act indeed, they may behave better than at Naples, where they left the worst impression of English morals and discipline.  They embarked to return home dead drunk all of them, and the drunkenness was not the worst.  Sir John Bowring has been ill since he came, so perhaps he may go before I see him again.  Then Madame Swab [Schwabe], whom I slightly knew in Paris, has been with me to-day, talking on Italian affairs.  There is room for anxiety about the Neapolitans; but don’t believe in exaggerations:  we shall do better than our enemies desire.  There will be war probably....

Robert has taken to modelling under Mr. Story (at his studio) and is making extraordinary progress, turning to account his studies on anatomy.  He has copied already two busts, the Young Augustus and the Psyche, and is engaged on another, enchanted with his new trade, working six hours a day.  In the evening he generally goes out as a bachelor—­free from responsibility of crinoline—­while I go early to bed, too happy to have him a little amused.  In Florence he never goes anywhere, you know; even here this winter he has had too much gloom about him by far.  But he looks entirely well—­as does Penini.  I am weak and languid.  I struggle hard to live on.  I wish to live just as long as and no longer than to grow in the soul.

May God bless you, dearest Fanny.  Write.

America is making me very anxious just know.  If they compromise in the north it is a moral death, but a merely physical dissolution of the States would be followed by a resurrection ‘in honor,’ and I should not fear.  What are you painting?

Your affectionate as ever
BA.

Did you see Lacordaire received?  Those are things I care to see in Paris, wishing, however, to Guizot, the king of Prussia, and all prigs, the contempt they deserve.

* * * * *

To Miss I. Blagden

126 Via Felice, [Rome]:  Monday, [November December 1860].

Ever dearest Isa,—­How you grieve me by this news of your being unwell.  Dear, I wondered at having no letter, and now with the letter and all the proofs of your remembering me (newspaper and pens) comes the bad word of your being ill....