But it won't do.

As the Revolutionists say, 'E troppo tardi.' I am not, however, in furies all day, dearest Mrs.Martin.

(I answer satisfactorily your question whether I am 'ever calm.') The newspapers from various parts of Italy thunder down on us here, not to speak of 'Galignanis' and 'Saturday Reviews.' See how calm-blooded I must be to bear the 'Saturday Review.' (I consider it a curiosity in vice, certainly.) Then we have books from the subscription library in Florence, and sights of the 'Cornhill,' and political pamphlets by the book-post; nay, even the 'Spiritual Magazine,' sent by Chapman and Hall, in the last number of which that clever and brave William Howitt (who, like a man, is foolish sometimes) suggests gravely in an article that I have lately been 'biologised by infernal spirits,' in order to the production of certain bad works in the service of 'Moloch,' meaning, of course, L.N.

Oh! and did anyone tell you how Harriet Martineau, in her political letters to America, set me down with her air of serene superiority?
But such things never chafe me--never.

They don't even quicken my pulsation.