_To Mr John Blackwood._ “Trieste, _August_ 16, 1868. “I am worn out with fatigue and anxiety: for five nights I have not been to bed. My poor wife is again dangerously ill, and as yet no sign of any favourable kind has appeared. God help me in this great trouble! “I wanted to see those things in print, but it is late now to correct them. I believe I wrote ‘Mincio’ in the ‘La Marmora’ paper when it should be ‘Oglio.’ Look to this for me.” _To Mr John Blackwood._ “Aug. 18, 1868 “You will, I know, be glad to hear my wife has had a favourable change. One of the doctors of the fleet has been fortunate enough to hit on a lucky treatment, and the admiral most kindly allows him to remain behind and continue the treatment. The fleet sails to-day. “I send you a few lines which, I believe, would be well liked and opportune: they are true, at all events.” _To Mr John Blackwood._ “Trieste, _Sept_. 3, 1868. “I thank you heartily for your kind words about my wife. Thank God, she is now improving daily, and my anxiety has at last got some peace. “I was greatly pressed to join Lord Clarence Paget down amongst the islands of Dalmatia, and nothing but my anxiety for my wife prevented me. It would have been a rare opportunity to pick up much odd material, and a pleasant ramble besides. Sir H. Holland has spent a few days with me, and wished me much to join his tour,--and _his_ companionship would have been delightful,--but I was obliged to refuse. It is weeks since I wrote anything but a few passing lines, and I have not yet come round to the pleasant feeling that in settling down to my work I have got back to a little world where no cares can come in save those necessary to my hero and heroine. But I hope this will come yet. “I’d have waited to send you another O’D. or two, but I wanted to thank you for your hearty note, and acknowledge its enclosure. Just as a little money goes far with a poor man, a few words of sympathy are marvellous sweetness in the cup of a lonely hermit like myself, for you have no idea of the dreary desolation of this place as regards one who does not sweat guineas nor has any to sweat. The Party, I fear, will go out before _I_ can, and for all I see I shall die here; and certainly if they’re not pleasanter company after death than before it, the cemetery will be poor fun with Triestono. “I don’t think Trollope _pleasant_, though he has a certain hard common-sense about him and coarse shrewdness that prevents him being dull or tiresome. His books are not of a high order, but still I am always surprised that he could write them. He is a good fellow, I believe, _au fond_, and has few jealousies and no rancours; and for a writer, is not that saying much?