that he was quite moved,
overpowered, and wept like a child. Nevertheless the most of Italy is
under the cloud, and God knows how all may end as the thunder ripens.
Now I mustn't, I suppose, write politics. Our plans about England are
afloat. Impossible to know what we shall do, but if not this summer,
the summer after _must_ help us to the sight of some beloved faces. It
will be a midsummer dream, and we shall return to winter in Italy. My
Flush is as well as ever, and perhaps gayer than ever I knew him. He
runs out in the piazza whenever he pleases, and plays with the dogs
when they are pretty enough, and wags his tail at the sentinels and
civic guard, and takes the Grand Duke as a sort of neighbour of his,
whom it is proper enough to patronise, but who has considerably less
inherent merit and dignity than the spotted spaniel in the alley
to the left. We have been reading over again 'Andre' and 'Leone
Leoni,'[171] and Robert is in an enthusiasm about the first. Happy
person, you are, to get so at new books. Blessed is the man who reads
Balzac, or even Dumas. I have got to admire Dumas doubly since that
fight and scramble for his brains in Paris. Now do think of me and
love me, and let me be as ever your affectionate

BA.

Robert's regards always. Say particularly how you are, and may God
bless you, dearest Miss Mitford, and make you happy.

[Footnote 171: Novels by George Sand.]

_To Miss Mitford_
Florence: April 15, [1848].

... My Flush has recovered his beauty, and is in more vivacious
spirits than I remember to have seen him. Still, the days come when he
will have no pleasure and plenty of fleas, poor dog, for Savonarola's
martyrdom here in Florence is scarcely worse than Flush's in the
summer. Which doesn't prevent his enjoying the spring, though, and
just now, when, by medical command, I drive out two hours every day,
his delight is to occupy the seat in the carriage opposite to Robert
and me, and look disdainfully on all the little dogs who walk afoot.
We drive day by day through the lovely Cascine (where the trees have
finished and spread their webs of full greenery, undimmed by the sun
yet), first sweeping through the city, past such a window where Bianca
Capello looked out to see the Duke go by,[172] and past such a door
where Lapo stood, and past the famous stone where Dante drew his chair
out to sit.[173] Strange, to have all that old-world life about us,
and the blue sky so bright besides, and e