I won't quite do like my Wiedeman, who every time he fires his gun (if it's twenty times in five minutes) says, 'Papa, papa,' because Robert gave him the gun, and the gratitude is as re-iterantly and loudly explosive.

But one's thoughts may say what they please and as often as they please.
Arabel tells me that you are kind to the manner of my poem, though to the matter obdurate.

Miss Mitford, too, says that it won't receive the sympathy proper to a home subject, because the English people don't care anything for the Italians now; despising them for their want of originality in _Art_! That's very good of the English people, really! I fear much that dear Miss Mitford has suffered seriously from the effects of the damp house last winter.

What she says of herself makes me anxious about her.
Give my true love to dear Miss Bayley, and say how I repent in ashes for not having written to her.

But she is large-hearted and will forgive me, and I shall make amends and send her sheet upon sheet.