the first of a few addressed to Mr. Ruskin,
which have been made available through the kindness of Mrs. Arthur
Severn. The acquaintanceship with Mr. Ruskin dated from the visit of the
Brownings to England in 1852 (see vol. ii. p. 87, above); but the
occasion of the present correspondence was the recent death of Miss
Mitford, which took place on January 10, 1855. Mr. Ruskin had shown much
kindness to her during her later years, and after her death had written
to Mrs. Browning to tell her of the closing scenes of her friend's life.

* * * * *

_To Mr. Ruskin_

Florence: March 17, 1855.

I have your letter, dear Mr. Ruskin. The proof is the pleasure it has
given me--yes, and given my husband, which is better. 'When has a
letter given me so much pleasure?' he exclaimed, after reading it; 'will
you write?' I thank you much--much for thinking of it, and I shall be
thankful of anything you can tell me of dearest Miss Mitford. I had a
letter from her just before she went, written in so firm a hand, and so
vital a spirit, that I could feel little apprehension of never seeing
her in the body again. God's will be done. It is better so, I am sure.
She seemed to me to see her way clearly, and to have as few troubling
doubts in respect to the future life as she had to the imminent end of
the present.

Often we have talked and thought of you since the last time we saw you,
and, before your letter came, we had ventured to put on the list of
expected pleasures connected with our visit to England, fixed for next
summer, the pleasure of seeing more of Mr. Ruskin. For the rest, there
will be some bitter things too. I do not miss them generally in England,
and among them this time will be an empty place where I used always to
find a tender and too indulgent friend.

You need not be afraid of my losing a letter of yours. The peril would
be mine in that case. But among the advantages of our Florence--the art,
the olives, the sunshine, the cypresses, and don't let me forget the
Arno and mountains at sunset time--is that of an all but infallible post
office. One loses letters at Rome. Here, I think, we have lost _one_ in
the course of eight years, and for that loss I hold my correspondent to
blame.

How good you are to me! How kind! The soul of a cynic, at its third
stage of purification, might feel the value of 'Gold' laid on the
binding of a book by the hand of John Ruskin. Much more I, who am apt to