of the children in a poem of Heine's who set up housekeeping in
a tub, and inquired gravely the price of coffee. Ah, but she has
left Pisa at last--left it yesterday. It was a painful parting to
everybody. Seven weeks spent in such close neighbourhood--a month of
it under the same roof and in the same carriages--will fasten
people together, and then travelling _shakes_ them together. A more
affectionate, generous woman never lived than Mrs. Jameson, and it
is pleasant to be sure that she loves us both from her heart, and not
only _du bout des levres_. Think of her making Robert promise (as he
has told me since) that in the case of my being unwell he would write
to her instantly, and she would come at once if anywhere in Italy. So
kind, so like her. She spends the winter in Rome, but an intermediate
month at Florence, and we are to keep tryst with her somewhere in the
spring, perhaps at Venice. If not, she says that she will come back
here, for that certainly she will see us. She would have stayed
altogether perhaps, if it had not been for her book upon art which she
is engaged to bring out next year, and the materials for which are to
be _sought_. As to Pisa, she liked it just as we like it. Oh, it is so
beautiful and so full of repose, yet not _desolate_: it is rather the
repose of sleep than of death. Then after the first ten days of rain,
which seemed to refer us fatally to Alfieri's 'piove e ripiove,' came
as perpetual a divine sunshine, such cloudless, exquisite weather that
we ask whether it may not be June instead of November. Every day I am
out walking while the golden oranges look at me over the walls, and
when I am tired Robert and I sit down on a stone to watch the lizards.
We have been to your seashore, too, and seen your island, only he
insists on it (Robert does) that it is not Corsica but Gorgona, and
that Corsica is not in sight. _Beautiful_ and blue the island was,
however, in any case. It might have been Romero's instead of either.
Also we have driven up to the foot of mountains, and seen them
reflected down in the little pure lake of Ascuno, and we have seen the
pine woods, and met the camels laden with faggots all in a line. So
now ask me again if I enjoy my liberty as you expect. My head goes
round sometimes, that is all. I never was happy before in my life. Ah,
but, of course, the painful thoughts recur!

There are some whom I love too tenderly to be easy under their
displeasure, or even under the