ith
Annette Bracken and a Crimean hero (as Mrs. Stisted has it), who has
turned up at the hotel, with one leg and so many agreeable and amiable
qualities that everybody is charmed with him.

Robert had a letter from Chapman yesterday. Not much news. He speaks of
two penny papers, sold lately, after making the fortune of their
proprietors, for twenty-five and thirty-five thousand pounds. If Robert
'could but write bad enough,' says the learned publisher, he should
recommend one of them. But even Charles Reade was found too good, and
the sale fell ten thousand in a few weeks on account of a serial tale of
his, so he had to make place to his _worses_. Chapman hears of a
'comprehensive review' being about to appear in the 'Westminster' on
'Aurora,' whether for or against he cannot tell. The third edition sells
well.

So happy I am to hear that Mr. Procter's son is safe. We saw his name in
the 'Galignani,' and were alarmed. Lytton has heard from Forster, but I
had no English news from the letter. I get letters from my sisters which
make me feel '_froissee_' all over, except that they seem pretty well.
My eldest brother has returned from Jamaica, and has taken a place with
a Welsh name on the Welsh borders for three years--what I knew he would
do. He wrote me some tender words, dear fellow....

May God bless you!

Yours in much love, BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

La Villa, Bagni di Lucca:
September 14, 1857 [postmark].

My dearest Fanny,--A letter from me will have crossed yours and told you
of all our misadventures. It has been a summer to me full of blots,
vexations, anxieties; and if, in spite of everything, I am physically
stronger for the fresh air and smell of green leaves, that's a proof
that soul and body are two.

Our friends of the hotel went away last Saturday, and I have a letter
from Isa Blagden with a good account of Lytton. He goes back to Villa
Bricchieri, where they are to house together, unless Sir Edward comes
down (which he may do) to catch up his son and change the plan. Isa has
not quite killed herself with nursing him, a little of her being still
left to express what has been.

Now, dear Fanny, I am going to try to tell you of _our_ plans. No,
'plans' is not the word; our thoughts are in the purely elemental state
so far. But we _think_ of going to Rome (or Naples) at the far end of
November, and of staying here as many days deep into October mean