Meanwhile we shall have a free Italy at least, for everything goes well here. Massimo d' Azeglio came to see us in Rome, and he said then, 'It is '48 with matured actors.' Indeed, there is a wonderful unanimity, calm, and resolution everywhere in Italy. All parties are broken up into the one great national party. The feeling of the people is magnificent. The painful experience of ten years has borne fruit in their souls. No more distrust, no more division, no more holding back, no more vacillation. And Louis Napoleon--well, I think he is doing me credit--and you, dear Mr. Ruskin--for _you_, too, held him in appreciation long ago. A great man. I beseech you to believe on my word (and we have our information from good and reliable sources), that the 'Times' newspaper built up its political ideas on the broadest foundation of _lies_. I use the bare word. You won't expel it, in the manner of the Paris Exhibition, for its nudity--lies--not mistakes. For instance, while the very peasants here are giving their crazie, the very labourers their day's work (once in a week or so)--while everyone gives, and every man almost (who can go) goes--the 'Times' says that Piedmont had derived neither paul nor soldier from Tuscany. Tell me what people get by lying so? Faustus sold himself to the Devil. Does Austria pay a higher price, I wonder? Such things I could tell you--things to moisten your eyes--to wring that burning eloquence of yours from your lips. But Robert waits to take this letter. Penini has adorned our terrace with two tricolour flags, the Italian tricolour and the French. May God bless you, dear friend. Speak again for Italy. If you could see with what _eyes_ the Italian speaks of the 'English.' Our love to you, Mr. and Mrs. Ruskin--if we may--because we must. Write to us, do. Ever affectionately yours, R.B. and E.B.B. * * * * * _To Miss Browning_ Florence: [about June 1859.] My dearest Sarianna,--There is a breath of air giving one strength to hold one's pen at this moment. How people can use swords in such weather it's difficult to imagine. We have been melting to nothing, like the lump of sugar in one's tea, or rather in one's lemonade, for tea grows to be an abomination before the sun. The heat, which lingered unusually, has come in on us with a rush of flame for some days past, suggesting, however, the degree beyond itself, which is coming. We stay on at Florence because we can't bear to go where the bulletin twice a day from the war comes less directly; and certainly we shall stay till we can't breathe here any more. On which contingency our talk is to go somewhere for two months. Meanwhile we stay.