I ought to be,
and even, perhaps, a little more. She has been very kind and gracious to
me; she was to have spent an evening with us three days since, but
something intervened. I am much impressed by her as well as attracted to
her. What a voice, what eyes, what eyelids full of utterance!

Then we have had various visits from Mr. Thackeray and his daughters.
'She writes to me of Thackeray instead of Raffael, and she is at Rome'!
But she _isn't_ at Rome. There's the sadness of it. We got to Gibson's
studio, which is close by, and saw his coloured Venus. I don't like her.
She has come out of her cloud of the ideal, and to my eyes is not too
decent. Then in the long and slender throat, in the turn of it, and the
setting on of the head, you have rather a grisette than a goddess. 'Tis
over pretty and _petite_, the colour adding, of course, to this effect.
Crawford's studio (the American sculptor) was far more interesting to me
than Gibson's. By the way, Mr. Page's portrait of Miss Cushman is really
something wonderful--soul and body together. You can show nothing like
it in England, take for granted. Indeed, the American artists consider
themselves a little aggrieved when you call it as good as a Titian.
'_Did_ Titian ever produce anything like it?' said an admirer in my
hearing. Critics wonder whether the colour will _stand_. It is a theory
of this artist that time does not _tone_, and that Titian's pictures
were painted as we see them. The consequence of which is that his
(Page's) pictures are undertoned in the first instance, and if they
change at all will turn black[30]. May all Boston rather turn black,
which it may do one of these days by an eruption from the South, when
'Uncle Tomison' gets strong enough.

We have been to St. Peter's; we have stood in the Forum and seen the
Coliseum. Penini says: 'The sun has tome out. I think God knows I want
to go out to walk, and _so_ He has sent the sun out.' There's a child
who has faith enough to put us all to shame. A vision of angels wouldn't
startle him in the least. When his poor little friend died, and we had
to tell him, he inquired, fixing on me those earnest blue eyes, 'Did
papa _see_ the angels when they took away Joe?' And when I answered 'No'
(for I never try to deceive him by picturesque fictions, I should not
dare, I tell him simply what I believe myself), 'Then did Joe _go up_ by
himself?' In a moment there was a burst of cries and sobs. The other day
he asked me