Casa Tolomei, Alia Villa, Bagni di Lucca:
August 30, [1853].

Dearest Fanny,--On your principle that 'there's too much to say,' I
ought not to think of writing to you these three months; you have
pleased me and made me grateful to such an extremity by your most pretty
and graceful illustrative outlines. The death-bed I admire particularly;
the attitudes are very expressive, and the open window helps the
sentiment. What am I to say for your kindness in holding a torch of this
kind (perfumed for the 'nobilities') between the wind and my poems?
Thank you, thank you. And when that's said, I ought to stop short and
beg you, dear Fanny, not to waste yourself in more labour of this kind,
seeing that I am accursed and that nothing is to be done with my books
and me, as far as my public is concerned. Why not get up a book of your
own, a collection of 'outlines' illustrative of everybody's poems, which
would stand well on its own feet and make a circle for itself? Think of
_that_ rather. For my part, there's nothing to be done with me, as I
said; that is, there's nothing to be done with my publishers, who just
do as they like with my books, and don't like to do much good for _me_
with them, whatever they may do for themselves. I am misanthropical in
respect to the booksellers. They manage one as they please, and not at
all to please one. I have no more to say to the fate of my books than
you have--and not much more to pocket. This third edition, for instance,
which should have been out four or five months ago, they are keeping, I
suppose, for the millennium, encouraged probably by the spiritual
manifestations; and _my_ personal manifestations meanwhile have as much
weight with them as facts have with Faraday, or the theory of fair play
with the London 'Athenaeum.' I am sick of it all, indeed. I look down on
it all as the epicurean gods do on the world without putting out a
finger to save an empire; perhaps because they can't. Long live the
----, who are kings of us. It's the best thing possible, I conclude, in
this best of possible social economies, though for ourselves
individually it may not be a very good thing; not precisely what we
should choose. Think of the separate book of outlines. Seriously, Robert
and I recommend you to consider it. You might make a book for
drawing-room tables which would be generally acceptable if not too
expensive. And Mr. Spicer is bringing me more? How kind of you. And when
is he coming? Scarcely could anyone come as a stranger whom I desire
more to see, and I do hope he will bring me facts and fantasies too on
the great subject which is interesting me so deeply. His book of 'Sights
and Sounds' we have read, but the new book has not penetrated to us.
'Sights and Sounds' is very curious, and the authenticity of its facts
has been confirmed to me by various testimonies, but the author is too
clever for his position; I mean too full of flash and wit. There's an
air of levity, and of effective writing, without which the book would
have been more impressive and convincing; don't you think so? And here
we get to the heart of most of the difficulties of the subject. Why do
we make no quicker advances, do you say? Why are our communications
chiefly trivial? Why, but because we ourselves are trivial, and don't
bring serious souls and concentrated attentions and holy aspirations to
the spirits who are waiting for these things? Spirit comes to spirit by
affinity, says Swedenborg; but our cousinship is not with the high and
noble. We try experiments from curiosity, just as children play with the
loadstone; our ducks swim, but they don't get beyond that, and _won't_,
unless we do better. _To_ prove what I say, consider what you say
yourself, that you couldn't manage to draw the same persons together
again (these very persons being persuaded of the verity of the spiritual
communications they were in reach of) on account of the difficulties of
the London season. Difficulties of the London season! The inconsequence
of human nature is more wonderful to me than the ingress of any spirits
could be. This instance is scarcely credible....

I had a letter the other day from Mr. Chorley, and he was chivalrous
enough (I call it real chivalry in his state of opinion) to deliver to
me a message from Mr. Westland Marston, whom he met at Folkestone, and
who kindly proposes to write a full account to me of his own spiritual
experiences, having heard from you that they were likely to interest me;
I mean that I was interested in the whole subject. Will you tell him
from me that I shall be most thankful for anything he will vouchsafe to
write to me, and will you give him my address? I don't know where to
find him, and Mr. Chorley is on the Continent wandering. I have seen
nothing for myself, but I am a believer upon testimony; and a stream of
Americans running through Florence, and generally making way to us, the
testimony has been various and strong. Interested in the subject! Who
can be uninterested in the subject? Even Robert is interested, who
professes to be a sceptic, an infidel indeed (though I can swear to
having seen him considerably shaken more than once), and who promises
never to believe till he has experience by his own senses. Isn't it hard
on me that I can't draw a spirit into our circle and convince him? He
would give much, he says, to find it true....

Here an end. Write soon and write much.

Your ever affectionate
E.B.B. (called BA).

Our child was gathering box leaves in a hedge the other day (wherever we
have a hedge, it's box, I would have you to understand), and pulled a
yellow flower by mistake. Down he flung it as if it stung him. 'Ah,
brutto! Colore Tedesco!' Think of that baby!