Casa Guidi: February 13, [1855].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--How am I to thank you for this most beautiful
shawl, looking fresh from Galatea's flocks, and woven by something finer
than her fingers? You are too good and kind, and I shall wrap myself in
this piece of affectionateness on your part with very pleasant feelings.
Thank you, thank you. I only wish I could have seen you (though more or
less dimly, it would have been a satisfaction) in the face of your
friend who was so kind as to bring the parcel to me. But I have been
very unwell, and was actually in bed when he called; unwell with the
worst attack on the chest I ever suffered from in Italy. Oh, I should
have written to you long since if it had not been for this. For a month
past or more I have been ill. Now, indeed, I consider myself
convalescent; the exhausting cough and night fever are gone, I may say,
the pulse quiet, and, though considerably weakened and pulled down, that
will be gradually remedied as long as this genial mildness of the
weather lasts. You were quite right in supposing us struck here by the
cold of which you complained even at Pau. Not only here but at Pisa
there has been snow and frost, together with a bitter wind which my
precaution of keeping steadily to two rooms opening one into another
could not defend me from. My poor Robert has been horribly vexed about
me, of course, and indeed suffered physically at one time through
sleepless nights, diversified by such pastimes as keeping fires alight
and warming coffee, &c. &c. Except for love's sake it wouldn't be worth
while to live on at the expense of doing so much harm, but you needn't
exhort--I don't give it up. I mean to live on and be well.

In the meantime, in generous exchange for your miraculous shawl, I send
you back sixpence worth of rhymes. They were written for Arabel's Ragged
School bazaar last spring (she wanted our names), and would not be worth
your accepting but for the fact of their not being purchaseable
anywhere.[39] A few copies were sent out to us lately. Half I draw back
my hand as I give you this little pamphlet, because I seem to hear dear
Mr. Martin's sardonic laughter at my phrase about the Czar. 'If she
wink, &c.' Well, I don't generally sympathise with the boasting mania of
my countrymen, but it's so much in the blood that, even with _me_, it
exceeds now and then, you observe. Ask him to be as gentle with me as
possible.

Oh, the East, the East! My husband has been almost frantic on the
subject. We may all cover our heads and be humble.[40] Verily we have
sinned deeply. As to ministers, that there is blame I do not doubt. The
Aberdeen element has done its worst, but our misfortune is that nobody
is responsible; and that if you tear up Mr. So-and-so and Lord So-and-so
limb from limb, as a mild politician recommended the other day, you
probably would do a gross injustice against very well-meaning persons.
It's the system, the system which is all one gangrene; the most corrupt
system in Europe, is it not? Here is my comfort. Apart from the dreadful
amount of individual suffering which cries out against us to heaven and
earth, this adversity may teach us much, this shock which has struck to
the heart of England may awaken us much, and this humiliation will
altogether be good for us. We have stood too long on a pedestal talking
of our moral superiority, our political superiority, and all our other
superiorities, which I have long been sick of hearing recounted. Here's
an inferiority proved. Let us understand it and remedy it, and not talk,
talk, any more.

[_Part of this letter has been cut out_]

We heard yesterday from the editor of the 'Examiner,' Mr. Forster, who
expects some terrible consequence of present circumstances in England,
as far as I can understand. The alliance with France is full of
consolation. There seems to be a real heart-union between the peoples.
What a grand thing the Napoleon loan is! It has struck the English with
admiration.

I heard, too, among other English news, that Walter Savage Landor, who
has just kept his eightieth birthday, and is as young and impetuous as
ever, has caught the whooping cough by way of an illustrative accident.
Kinglake ('E[=o]then') came home from the Crimea (where he went out and
fought as an amateur) with fever, which has left one lung diseased. He
is better, however....

Dearest Mrs. Martin, dearest friends, be both of you well and strong.
Shall we not meet in Paris this early summer?

May God bless you! Your ever affectionate

BA.