ction which is
worthy of all adoration; it really is not very hard work to please
this taskmaster. For Pisa, we both like it extremely. The city is
full of beauty and repose, and the purple mountains gloriously seem
to beckon us on deeper into the vineland. We have rooms close to the
Duomo and Leaning Tower, in the great Collegio built by Vasari, three
excellent bedrooms and a sitting-room, matted and carpeted, looking
comfortable even for England. For the last fortnight, except the very
last few sunny days, we have had rain; but the climate is as mild as
possible, no cold, with all the damp. Delightful weather we had for
the travelling. Ah, you, with your terrors of travelling, how you
amuse me! Why, the constant change of air in the continued fine
weather made me better and better instead of worse. It did me
infinite good. Mrs. Jameson says she 'won't call me _improved_, but
_transformed_ rather.' I like the new sights and the movement; my
spirits rise; I live--I can adapt myself. If you really tried it and
got as far as Paris you would be drawn on, I fancy, and on--on to the
East perhaps with H. Martineau, or at least as near it as we are here.
By the way, or out of the way, it struck me as unfortunate that my
poems should have been printed _just now_ in 'Blackwood;' I wish it
had been otherwise. Then I had a letter from one of my Leeds readers
the other day to expostulate about the _inappropriateness_ of certain
of them! The fact is that I sent a heap of verses swept from my desk
and belonging to old feelings and impressions, and not imagining that
they were to be used in that quick way. There can't be very much to
like, I fear, apart from your goodness for what calls itself mine.
Love me, dearest dear Miss Mitford, my dear kind friend--love me, I
beg of you, still and ever, only ceasing when I cease to think of you;
I will allow of that clause. Mrs. Jameson and Gerardine are staying at
the hotel here in Pisa still, and we manage to see them every day; so
good and true and affectionate she is, and so much we shall miss
her when she goes, which will be in a day or two now. She goes to
Florence, to Siena, to Rome to complete her work upon art, which
is the object of her Italian journey. I read your vivid and glowing
description of the picture to her, or rather I showed your picture
to her, and she quite believes with you that it is most probably a
_Velasquez_. Much to be congratulated the owner must be. I mean to
know