Poor Florence, so dead, as Robert says, and as we both feel, so trodden flat in the dust of the vineyards by these mules of Austria and these asses of the Papacy: good heavens! how long are these things to endure?
I do love Florence, when all's said.

The very calm, the very dying stillness is expressive and touching.

And then our house, our tables, our chairs, our carpets, everything looking rather better for our having been away! Overjoyed I was to feel myself _at home_ again! our Italians so pleased to see us, Wiedeman's nurse rushing in, kissing my lips away almost, and seizing on the child, 'Dio mio, come e bellino! the tears pouring down her cheeks, not able to look, for emotion, at the shawl we had brought her from England.

Poor Italians! who can help caring for them, and feeling for them in their utter prostration just now?
The unanimity of despair on all sides is an affecting thing, I can assure you.

There is no mistake _here_, no possibility of mistake or doubt as to the sentiment of the people towards the actual regime; and if your English newspapers earnestly want to sympathise with an oppressed people, let them speak a little for Tuscany.