and preserve
you. We love you dearly, and talk of you continually--of both of you.
Your most affectionate sister,

BA.

Best love to your father.--Peninni.

* * * * *

_To John Kenyon_

Casa Guidi: November 23, 1852.

We flatter ourselves, dearest Mr. Kenyon, that as we think so much of
you, you may be thinking a little of us, and will not be sorry--who
knows?--to have a few words from us.

November 24.

Just as I was writing, had written, that sentence yesterday, came the
letter which contained your notelet. Thank you, thank you, dearest
friend, it is very pleasant to have such a sign from your hand across
the Alps of kindness and remembrance. As to my sins in the choice of the
Mont Cenis route, 'Bradshaw' was full of temptation, and the results to
me have so entirely passed away now, that even the wholesome state of
repentance is very faded in the colours. What chiefly remains is the
sense of wonderful contrast between climate and climate when we found
ourselves at Genoa and in June. I can't get rid of the astonishment of
it even now. At Turin I had to keep up a fire most of the night in my
bedroom, and at Genoa, with all the windows and doors open, we were
gasping for breath, languid with the heat, blue burning skies overhead,
and not enough stirring air for refreshment. Nothing less, perhaps,
would have restored me so soon, and it was delightful to be able during
our last two days of our ten days there to stand on Andrea Doria's
terrace, and look out on that beautiful bay with its sweep of marble
palaces. My 'unconquerable mind' even carried me halfway up the
lighthouse for the sake of the 'view,' only there I had to stop
ingloriously, and let Robert finish the course alone while I rested on a
bench: aspiration is not everything, either in literature or
lighthouses, you know, let us be ever so 'insolvent.'

Well, and since we left Turin, everywhere in Italy we have found summer,
summer--not a fire have we needed even in Florence. Such mornings, such
evenings, such walkings out in the dusk, such sunsets over the Arno!
ah, Mr. Kenyon, you in England forget what life is in this out-of-door
fresh world, with your cloistral habits and necessities! I assure you I
can't help fancying that the winter is over and gone, the past looks so
cold and black in the warm light of the present. We have had some rain,
but at night, and only thundery frank rains which made the next day
warm