I am afraid this is a dull letter, for I am very tired. You must take
the will for the deed, my dear, and good night.

Ever most affectionately.

[Sidenote: Miss Hogarth.]

ROME, _Sunday Night, Nov. 13th, 1853._

MY DEAREST GEORGY,

We arrived here yesterday afternoon, at between three and four. On
sending to the post-office this morning, I received your pleasant little
letter, and one from Miss Coutts, who is still at Paris. But to my
amazement there was none from Catherine! You mention her writing, and I
cannot but suppose that your two letters must have been posted together.
However, I received none from her, and I have all manner of doubts
respecting the plainness of its direction. They will not produce the
letters here as at Genoa, but persist in looking them out at the
post-office for you. I shall send again to-morrow, and every day until
Friday, when we leave here. If I find no letter from her _to-morrow_, I
shall write to her nevertheless by that post which brings this, so that
you may both hear from me together.

One night, at Naples, Edward came in, open-mouthed, to the table d'hote
where we were dining with the Tennents, to announce "The Marchese
Garofalo." I at first thought it must be the little parrot-marquess who
was once your escort from Genoa; but I found him to be a man (married to
an Englishwoman) whom we used to meet at Ridgway's. He was very glad to
see me, and I afterwards met him at dinner at Mr. Lowther's, our charge
d'affaires. Mr. Lowther was at the Rockingham play, and is a very
agreeable fellow. We had an exceedingly pleasant dinner of eight,
preparatory to which I was near having the ridiculous adventure of not
being able to find the house and coming back dinnerless. I went in an
open carriage from the hotel in all state, and the coachman, to my
surprise, pulled up at the end of the Chiaja. "Behold the house," says
he, "of Il Signor Larthoor!"--at the same time pointing with his whip
into the seventh heaven, where the early stars were shining. "But the
Signor Larthoor," returns the Inimitable darling, "lives at Pausilippo."
"It is true," says the coachman (still pointing to the evening star),
"but he lives high up the Salita Sant' Antonio, where no carriage ever
yet ascended, and that is the house" (evening star as aforesaid), "and
one must go on foot. Behold the Salita Sant' Antonio!" I went up it, a
mile a