This is the first letter I have written to anyone out of my own family. I hate writing, and can't help being stupid. * * * * * _To Miss E.F. Haworth_ Florence: [about July 1857]. I write soon, you see, dearest Fanny. I thank you for all, but I do beseech you, _dear_, not to say a word more to me of what is said of me. The truth is, I am made of paper, and it tears me. Do not, dear. Make no reference to things personal to myself. As far as I could read and understand, it was absurd, perfectly _ungenuine_. I shall say nothing to anybody. I have torn that sheet. Do not refer to the subject to Isa Blagden. And there--I have done. No--I thank you; and I know it was your kindness entirely. Will you, if you love me, _not_ touch on the subject (I mean on the personal thing to myself) in your next letters, not even by saying that you were sorry you did once touch on them. I know how foolish and morbid I must seem to you. So I am made, and I can't help my idiosyncrasies. Now don't mistake me. Tell me all about the spirits, only not about what they say of _me_. I am very interested. The drawback is, that without any sort of doubt they _personate falsely_. We are seething in the heat. The last three days have been a composition of Gehenna and Paradise. It is a perpetual steam bath. Yet Robert and I have not finished our plans for escaping. Mrs. Jameson is here still, recovering her health and spirits. The Villa hospitality goes on as usual, and the evening before last we had tea on the terrace by a divine sunset, with a favoring breath or two. Only even there we wished for Lazarus's finger. Certainly Florence will not be bearable many days longer. Write to me though, at Florence as usual.... It is said that Hume, who is back again in Paris and under the shadow of the Emperor's wing, has been the means of an extraordinary manifestation, two spiritual figures, male and female, who were _recognised_ by their friends. Five or six persons (including the medium) fainted away at this apparition. It happened in Paris, lately. Yes, I mistrust the mediums less than I do the spirits who write. Tell me.... Write and tell me everything _with exceptions_ such as I have set down. And forgive my poor brittle body, which shakes and breaks. May God love you, dear. Yours in true affection, BA. * * * * * At the end of July, Florence had become unbearable, and the Brownings removed, for the third time, to the Bagni di Lucca, whither they were followed by some of their friends, notably Miss Blagden and Mr. Robert Lytton. Unfortunately, their holiday was marred by the dangerous illness of Lytton, which not only kept them in great anxiety for a considerable time, but also entailed much labour in nursing on Mr. Browning and Miss Blagden. Besides Mrs. Browning's letters, a letter from her husband to his sister is given below, containing an account of the earlier stages of the illness.