bereavements is great; that the frequency of
deep mourning strikes the eye; that even the shops are filled chiefly
with black; and that it has become a sort of _mode_ to wear black or
grey, without family losses, and from the mere force of sympathy.

My poor father is still unable to stir from the house, and he has been
unwell through a bilious attack, the consequence of want of exercise.
Nothing can induce him to go out in a carriage, because he 'never did in
his life drive out for mere amusement,' he says. There's what Mr. Kenyon
calls 'the Barrett obstinacy,' and it makes me uneasy as to the effect
of it in this instance upon the general health of the patient. Poor
darling Arabel seems to me much out of spirits--'out of humour,' _she_
calls it, dear thing--oppressed by the gloom of the house, and looking
back yearningly to the time when she had sisters to talk to. Oh
Sarianna, I wish we were all together to have a good gossip or groaning,
with a laugh at the end!...

Your ever affectionate sister,
BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

Florence: November 1854.

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--You make me wait and I make you wait for
letters. It is bad of us both--and remember, _worse of you_, seeing that
you left two long letters of mine unanswered for months. I felt as if I
had fallen down an _oubliette_, and I was about to utter the loud
shrieks befitting the occasion, when you wrote at last. Don't treat me
so another time; I want to know your plans for the winter, since the
winter is upon us. Next summer, if it pleases God, we shall certainly
meet somewhere--say Paris, say London. We shall have money for it, which
we had not this year; and now the disappointment's over, I don't care.
The heat at Florence was very bearable, and our child grew into his
roses lost at Rome, and we have lived a very tranquil and happy six
months on our own sofas and chairs, among our own nightingales and
fireflies. There's an inclination in me to turn round with my Penini
and say, 'I'm an Italian.' Certainly both light and love seem stronger
with me at Florence than elsewhere....

The war! The alliance is the consolation; the necessity is the
justification. For the rest, one shuts one's eyes and ears--the rest is
too horrible. What do you mean by fearing that the war itself may not be
all the evil of the war? I expect, on the contrary, a freer political
atmosphere after this thunder. Louis Napoleon is beh