[Paris]: 3 Rue du Colisee: February 21, [1856].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I should have answered your note days ago! If
you saw how I am in a plague of industry just now, and not a moment
unspotted!--how, for instance, I kept an 'Examiner' newspaper (sent to
us from London) three days on the table before I could read it,--you
would make an allowance for me. It's a sort of _furia_! I must get over
so much writing, or I shall be too late for the summer's printing. If it
isn't done by June, what will become of me? I shall go back to Italy in
disgrace, and considerably poorer than I need be, which is of more
practical consequence. So I fag. Then there's an hour and a half in the
morning for Penini's lessons. We breakfast at nine, and receive nobody
till past four. This will all prove to you two things, dearest
friend--first (I hope) that I'm pardonable for making you wait a few
days longer than should have been, and secondly that I'm tolerably well.
Yes, indeed. Since our arrival in this house, after just the first, when
there was some frost, we have had such a miraculous mildness under the
name of winter, that I rallied as a matter of course, and for the last
month there has been no return of the spitting of blood, and no
extravagance of cough. I have persisted with cod's liver oil, and I look
by no means ill, people assure me, and so I may assure _you_. But I am
not very strong, and was a good deal tired after a two hours' drive
which I ventured on a week ago in the Bois de Boulogne. The small rooms,
and deficiency of air resulting from them, make a long shutting up a
more serious thing than I find it in Florence in our acres of apartment.
But it is easy to mend strength when only strength is to be mended, and
I, for one, get strong again easily. I only hope that the cold is not
returning. The air was sharp yesterday and is to-day; but it's
February, and the spring is at the doors, and we may hope with
reason....

What do you say of the peace as a final peace? You are not at least
vexed, as so many English are, that we can't fight a little for glory to
reinstate our reputation. You'll excuse that. Still, I can't help
feeling disappointed in the peace--chiefly, perhaps, because I hoped too
much from the war. Will nothing be done after all for Italy? nothing for
Poland?

You want books. Read About's 'Tolla.' He is a new writer, and his book
is exquisite as a transcript of Italian manners. Then read Octave
Feuillet. There is much in him.

Will there be war with America, dear Mr. Martin? Never will I believe it
till I hear the cannons.

Talking of what we should believe, it appears that Mrs. Trollope has
thrown over Hume[48] from some failure in his moral character in
Florence. I have had many letters on the subject. I have no doubt that
the young man, who is weak and vain, and was exposed to gross flatteries
from the various unwise coteries at Florence who took him up, deserves
to be thrown over. But his _mediumship_ is undisproved, as far as I can
understand. It is simply a physical faculty--he is quite an electric
wire. At Florence everybody is quarrelling with everybody on the
subject. I thought I would tell you.

Penini, the pet, is radiant, and learning French triumphantly. May God
bless you! Write to me, dearest Mrs. Martin, and tell me of both of you.
Robert's love.

Your ever, ever affectionate
BA.