43 Via Bocca di Leone, Rome: March 19, 1854.

My dearest Miss Mitford,--Your letter made my heart ache. It is sad, sad
indeed, that you should have had this renewed cold just as you appeared
to be rallying a little from previous shocks, and I know how depressing
and enfeebling a malady the influenza is. It's the vulture finishing the
work of the wolf. I pray God that, having battled through this last
attack, you may be gradually strengthened and relieved by the incoming
of the spring (though an English spring makes one shiver to think of
generally), and with the summer come out into the garden, to sit in a
chair and be shone upon, dear, dear friend. I shall be in England then,
and get down to see you this time, and I tenderly hold to the dear hope
of seeing you smile again, and hearing you talk in the old way....

We see a good deal of the Kembles here, and like them both, especially
the Fanny, who is looking magnificent still, with her black hair and
radiant smile. A very noble creature, indeed. Somewhat unelastic,
unpliant to the eye, attached to the old modes of thought and
convention, but noble in quality and defects; I like her much. She
thinks me credulous and full of dreams, but does not despise me for that
reason, which is good and tolerant of her, and pleasant, too, for I
should not be quite easy under her contempt. Mrs. Sartoris is genial and
generous, her milk has had time to stand to cream, in her happy family
relations. The Sartoris's house has the best society at Rome, and
exquisite music, of course. We met Lockhart there, and my husband sees a
good deal of him--more than I do, because of the access of cold weather
lately which has kept me at home chiefly. Robert went down to the
seaside in a day's excursion with him and the Sartoris's; and, I hear,
found favor in his sight. Said the critic: 'I like Browning, he isn't at
all like a damned literary man.' That's a compliment, I believe,
according to your dictionary. It made me laugh and think of you
directly. I am afraid Lockhart's health is in a bad state; he looks very
ill, and every now and then his strength seems to fail. Robert has been
sitting for his picture to Fisher, the English artist, who painted Mr.
Kenyon and Landor; you remember those pictures in Mr. Kenyon's house?
Landor's was praised much by Southey. Well, he has painted Robert, and
it is an admirable likeness.[32] The expression is an exceptional
expression, but highly characteristic; it is one of Fisher's best works.
Now he is about our Wiedeman, and if he succeeds as well in painting
angels as men, will do something beautiful with that seraphic face. You
are to understand that these works are done by the artist _for_ the
artist. Oh, we couldn't afford to have such a luxury as a portrait done
for us. But I am pleased to have a good likeness of each of my treasures
_extant_ in the possession of somebody. Robert's will, of course, be
eminently saleable, and Wiedeman's too, perhaps, for the beauty's sake,
with those blue far-reaching eyes, and that innocent angel face emplumed
in the golden ringlets! Somebody told me yesterday that she never had
known, in a long experience of children, so attractive a child. He is so
full of sweetness and vivacity together, of imagination and grace. A
poetical child really, and in the best sense. Such a piece of innocence
and simplicity with it all, too! A child you couldn't lie to if you
tried. I had a fit of remorse for telling him the history of Jack and
the Beanstalk, when he turned his earnest eyes up to me at the end and
said, 'I think, if Jack went up so high, he must have seen God.'

To see those two works through the press must be a fatigue to you in
your present weak state, dearest friend, and I keep wishing vainly I
could be of use to you in the matter of the proof sheets. I might, you
know, if I were in England. I do some work myself, but doubt much
whether I shall be ready for the printers by July; no, indeed, it is
clear I shall not. If Robert is, it will be well. Doesn't it surprise
you that Alexander Smith should be already in a third edition? I can't
make it out for my part. I 'give it up' as is my way with riddles. He is
both too bad and too good to explain this phenomenon, which is harder to
me than any implied in the turning tables or involuntary writing. By the
way, a lady whom I know here _writes Greek_ without knowing or having
ever known a single letter of it. The unbelievers writhe under it.

Oh, I have been reading poor Haydon's biography. There is tragedy! The
pain of it one can hardly shake off. Surely, surely, wrong was done
somewhere, when the worst is admitted of Haydon. For himself, looking
forward beyond the grave, I seem to understand that all things when most
bitter worked ultimate good to him, for that sublime arrogance of his
would have been fatal perhaps to the moral nature if developed further
by success. But for the nation we had our duties, and we should not
suffer our teachers and originators to sink thus. It is a book written
in blood of the heart. Poor Haydon!

May God bless you, my dear friend! I think of you and love you dearly,
Robert's love, put to mine, and Penini's love put to Robert's. I give
away Penini's love as I please just now.

Your ever affectionate
E.B.B.

Send my bulletins; only _two lines_ if you will.