What I do venture however to say is that it’s not all over in Paris because of Faraday’s letter. Ask Lamartine. What I hear and what the ‘Literary Gazette’ hears from Paris is by no means the same thing.  I hear Hebrew while the ‘Gazette’ hears Dutch—­a miracle befitting the subject, or what was once considered to be the subject (I beg Professor Faraday’s pardon), before it was annihilated.

How pert women can be, can’t they, Mr. Chorley? particularly when they are safe among the mountains, shut in with a row of seven plane-trees joined at top.  I won’t go on to offer myself as ’spiritual correspondent to the “Athenaeum,"’ though I have a modest conviction that it might increase your sale considerably.  Ah, tread us down! put us out!  You will have some trouble with us yet.  The opposition Czar of St. Petersburg supports us, be it known, and Louis Napoleon comes to us for oracles.  The King of Holland is going mad gently in our favour—­quite absorbed, says an informant.  But I won’t quote kings.  It is giving oneself too great a disadvantage.

We stayed in Florence till it was oven-heat, and then we came here, where it was fire-heat for a short time, though with cool nights comparatively, by means of which we lived, comparatively too.  Now it is cool by day and night.  You know these beautiful hills, the green rushing river which keeps them apart, the chestnut woods, the sheep-walks and goat-walks, the villages on the peaks of the mountains like wild eagles; the fresh, unworn, uncivilised, world-before-the-flood look of everything?  If you don’t know it, you ought to know it.  Come and know it—­do!  We have a spare bedroom which opens its door of itself at the thought of you, and if you can trust yourself so far from home, try for our sakes.  Come and look in our faces and learn us more by heart, and see whether we are not two friends.  I am so very sorry for your increased anxiety about your sister.  I scarcely know how to cheer you, or, rather, to attempt such a thing, but it did strike me that she was full of life when I saw her.  It may be better with her than your fears, after all.  If you would come to us, you would be here in two hours from Leghorn; and there’s a telegraph at Leghorn—­at Florence.  Think of it, do.  The Storys are at the top of the hill; you know Mr. and Mrs. Story.  She and I go backward and forward on donkeyback to tea-drinking and gossiping at one another’s houses, and our husbands hold the reins.  Also Robert and I make excursions, he walking as slowly as he can to keep up with my donkey.  When the donkey trots we are more equal.  The other day we were walking, and I, attracted by a picturesque sort of ladder-bridge of loose planks thrown across the river, ventured on it, without thinking of venturing.  Robert held my hand.  When we were in the middle the bridge swayed, rocked backwards and forwards, and it was difficult for either of us to keep footing.  A gallant colonel who was following us went down upon his hands and knees and crept.  In the meantime a peasant was assuring our admiring friends that the river was deep at that spot, and that four persons had been lost from the bridge.  I was so sick with fright that I could scarcely stand when all was over, never having contemplated an heroic act.  ‘Why, what a courageous creature you are!’ said our friends.  So reputations are made, Mr. Chorley.