d strain of thought--the antique words get muddled and blurred with
warm dashes of modern, everyday tears and fresh grave-clay. Rome
is spoilt to me--there's the truth. Still, one lives through one's
associations when not too strong, and I have arrived at almost enjoying
some things--the climate, for instance, which, though pernicious to the
general health, agrees particularly with me, and the sight of the blue
sky floating like a sea-tide through the great gaps and rifts of ruins.
. . . We are very comfortably settled in rooms turned to the sun, and do
work and play by turns, having almost too many visitors, hear excellent
music at Mrs. Sartoris's (A. K.) once or twice a week, and have Fanny
Kemble to come and talk to us with the doors shut, we three together.
This is pleasant. I like her decidedly.

'If anybody wants small talk by handfuls, of glittering dust swept out
of salons, here's Mr. Thackeray besides! . . .'

Rome: March 29.

'. . . We see a good deal of the Kembles here, and like them both,
especially Fanny, who is looking magnificent still, with her black hair
and radiant smile. A very noble creature indeed. Somewhat unelastic,
unpliant to the age, attached to the old modes of thought and
convention--but noble in qualities and defects. I like her much. She
thinks me credulous and full of dreams--but does not despise me for
that reason--which is good and tolerant of her, and pleasant too, for I
should not be quite easy under her contempt. Mrs. Sartoris is genial and
generous--her milk has had time to stand to cream in her happy family
relations, which poor Fanny Kemble's has not had. Mrs. Sartoris' house
has the best society in Rome--and exquisite music of course. We met
Lockhart there, and my husband sees a good deal of him--more than I
do--because of the access of cold weather lately which has kept me at
home chiefly. Robert went down to the seaside, on a day's excursion with
him and the Sartorises--and I hear found favour in his sight. Said the
critic, "I like Browning--he isn't at all like a damned literary man."
That's a compliment, I believe, according to your dictionary. It made me
laugh and think of you directly. . . . Robert has been sitting for his
picture to Mr. Fisher, the English artist who painted Mr. Kenyon and
Landor. You remember those pictures in Mr. Kenyon's house in London.
Well, he has painted Robert's, and it is an admirable likeness. The
expression is an exceptional expression, bu