d
it in 'Orley Farm.' How admirably this last opens! We are both delighted
with it. What a pity it is that so powerful and idiomatic a writer
should be so incorrect grammatically and scholastically speaking! Robert
insists on my putting down such phrases as these: 'The Cleeve was
distant from Orley two miles, though it _could not be driven_ under
five.' '_One rises up the hill._' 'As good as _him_.' 'Possessing more
_acquirements_ than he would have _learned_ at Harrow.' _Learning
acquirements!_ Yes, they are faults, and should be put away by a
first-rate writer like Anthony Trollope. It's always worth while to be
correct. But do understand through the pedantry of these remarks that we
are full of admiration for the book. The movement is so excellent and
straightforward--walking like a man, and 'rising up-hill,' and not going
round and round, as Thackeray has taken to do lately. He's clever
always, but he goes round and round till I'm dizzy, for one, and don't
know where I am. I think somebody has tied him up to a post, leaving a
tether. Dearest Isa, the day before yesterday I had two letters from
Madame M---- to ask us to take rooms. He is coming directly to Rome. She
says he has much to tell me, and it's evident, of course, that an
Italian senator, native to the Roman States, wouldn't come here just now
without mission or permission. I am full of expectation, but will say no
more.

Dearest Isa, have I been long in writing indeed? You see, I let so many
letters accumulate which I hadn't the heart to reply to, that, on taking
up the account, I had over much to do in writing letters. Then I have
been working a little at some Italian lyrics. Three more are gone lately
to the 'Independent,' and another is ready to go. All this, with helping
Pen to prepare for the Abbe, has filled my hands, and they are soon
tired, my Isa, nowadays. When the sun goes down, I am down. At eight I
generally am in bed, or little after. And people will come in
occasionally in the day, and annul me. I had a visit from Lady Annabella
Noel lately, Lord Byron's granddaughter. Very quiet, and very intense, I
should say. She is going away, and I shall not see her more than that
once, I dare say; but she looked at me so with her still deep eyes, and
spoke so feelingly, that I kissed her when she went away. Another new
acquaintance is Lady Marion Alford, the Marquis of Northampton's
daughter, very eager about literature and art and Robert, for all which