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. 6, 1862.] than spending somewhat more in food and in charity, and somewhat less in fancy ways! I, however, am old-fashioned as well as old; and there is nothing in political economy, even in its most pedantic purity, which alters, to my eyes, the old view that every pound of flour spared from the dinner table of the rich is so much left in the market to which the poor resort. To me it seems plain, after all that can be said, that every pound of flour saved from my pastry is available for somebody else’s loaf. Therefore it is that, while anxious to avoid all censure of my neighbours, and all shallow asceticism in the ordering of my household, I do feel sympathy with certain friends of mine who, with the first tidings of a bad harvest, open their extra flour-bin to receive, week by week, what they save from their ordinary consumption of flour, so that, when the time of pressure comes, they may keep out of the market, or, better still, sell at cost price to some needy neighbour the store they have accumulated. To me it seems that it is a very small sacrifice, when flour is scarce, to banish pastry from the table, and substitute rice, and fruit, and foreign maccaroni, and cheese, and other good things into the making of which domestic flour does not enter. This is, however, a resource generally considered appropriate to times of dearth: and we have no reason to dread actual dearth, as if the season had been as unfavourable everywhere as in England. All I want is that we should steadily confront the fact that the coming year must be one of considerable trial, and that we should prepare ourselves to do, bear, and sacrifice anything that may be found desirable, in aid of the classes by which the main pressure must be felt. Let us see the truth, face the truth, and match ourselves stoutly against this one of the many troubles to which nations, as well as men, are born. 2em

if it be in the power of the untravelled British mind to conceive the intense, intolerable heat we have been enduring ever since we left England, here at B, in the Province of Brescia, Italy. It is only since last week, when we had a noble thunderstorm, that I have been able to hold up my head, or to guide a pen. Until then I was one fra quegli sciagurati, ch’ hanno perduti il ben dell’ intelletto, and a letter, had I had the strength to write one, could only have afflicted my friends by revealing the hopeless state of dripping imbecility into which I had sunk. The journey from London to Milan was performed in sixty-three hours of dusty horror, in company with a Milanese nobleman, who informed us at the end thereof that he had not washed himself once during all that time: peretie nov valeva la pena (it was not worth the trouble). The observation was, however, gratuitous, as the fact spoke loudly for itself to several of our senses at once.

We could not breathe in Milan; even the natives faintly gasped that the heat was truly stravagante; so feeling that our only chance of ever returning to England as solid bodies was to get to the mountains at once, on one fatal night we jumped—per train—out of the frying-pan of Milan, into the fire of Brescia; a city which, whatever the Chronicles may say to the contrary, must in fact have been founded by the distinguished firm of Shadrach, Abednego, and Co., and the present inhabitants must be the worthy descendants of those respectable old “parties.” But as they were “no kind a relation of ours,” as the Yorkshire farmer said of George IV., when expected to go into mourning for him, we had made arrangements for flying from the fiery furnace at three in the morning, and were sitting at past midnight with the friend who was to drive us on an exploring expedition to the Lago d’Idro, when, to our astonishment, a waiter, with a very disturbed countenance, opened the door and announced—La Polizia! In strutted an ugly little Commissioner of Police, followed by two satellites, who stationed themselves in what they evidently considered an imposing manner, at the door. The commissioner demanded, in a very haughty and insolent tone, to see my husband’s papers, and on being shown his commission, and the certificate of his having resigned it himself, both signed by the Minister of War, he appeared really annoyed to find everything perfectly en réglerègle [sic], and somewhat embarrassed as to what to do next. He therefore thought proper to relieve his mind and beguile the time by asking an infinity of impertinent questions, first of C, and then, by way of variety, of me; amongst others, whether I was really C’s wife, or only “his companion.”

Hereupon, however, my husband grew very angry, and the small Commissioner, not liking the expression of his countenance, retreated in a nervous manner to the door, and said to his satellites, “Pronti coi revolvers” (Be ready with your revolvers). This proceeding to an unarmed man and a woman is a pleasing instance of what Constitutional Government is under the Piedmontese system. To the unenlightened British mind, it looks strangely like despotism. After stopping two mortal hours, wearying us with useless and insolent questions, the Commissioner would not go away without exacting a promise from C that he would present himself the next morning before the Questore. This he did, and found the said Questore a very insolent personage, too. He desired C to start at once for Turin to obtain a passport (highly constitutional this, a passport for an Italian in Italy!). C refused, of course, and demanded to see the Governor of Brescia.

The Governor of Brescia sang the same song in a still louder key, and said that the police had acted in entire pursuance of an express order dall’ alto. C, however, stoutly refused to go back to Turin, saying he would not be treated like a criminal in his own country, that if there were any charge against him he had a right to know of what he was accused, and that unless they sent gendarmes to conduct us by force to Turin, to Turin he would not go. The governor replied that if we did not start that night, he would send us by force. Meanwhile, however, our friend had gone about the town talking of this fresh instance of governmental oppression of the