dward Lytton now--he is
Robert. The two Edwards clashed inconveniently, and now he doesn't sign
an Edward even by an initial; he has renounced the name, and is a Robert
for evermore. I am glad to tell you that although he is delicate and
excitable there seems to me no tendency to disease of any kind. Indeed,
he is looking particularly well just now. He is full of sensibility,
both intellectually and morally, which is scarcely favorable to health
and long life; but in the long run, if people can run, they get over
such a disadvantage. At this time he is about to publish a collection of
poems. I think highly of his capabilities; and he is a great favorite
with both of us for various excellent reasons. Did I tell you of his
passing a fortnight with us at Lucca, and how sorry we were to lose him
at last? Sir Edward either has just brought out, or is bringing out, a
volume of poems of his own, called 'Cornflowers' (referring to the
harvest time of maturity in which he produces them), and chiefly of a
metaphysical character. His son, who has seen the manuscript, thinks
them the best of his poems. 'My Novel' is certainly excellent. Did I
tell you that I had seized and read it?

I shall get at Swedenborg in Rome, and get on with my readings. There
are deep truths in him, I cannot doubt, though I can't receive
_everything_, which may be my fault. I would fain speak with a wise
humility. We will talk on these things and the spirits. How that last
subject attracts me! It strikes me that we are on the verge of great
developments of the spiritual nature, and that in a philosophical point
of view (apart from ulterior ends) the facts are worthy of all
admiration and meditation. If a spiritual influx, it is _mixed_--good
and evil together. The fact of there being a mixture of evil justifies
Swedenborg's philosophy (does it not?) without concluding against the
movement generally. We were at the Pergola the other night, and heard
the 'Trovatore,' Verdi's new work. Very passionate and dramatic, surely.
The Storys are here on their way back to Rome. Oh, I mean to convert
you, Isa! Is it true that the fever at Rome is still raging? Give my
love to your dear invalid, who must be comforting you so much with her
improvement. Penini is in a chronic state of packing up his desk to go
to '_Bome_.' Robert's love with mine as ever. I can't write either
legibly or otherwise than stupidly on this detestable paper, having
never learnt to skate. Are we