The correspondence with Mr. Westwood, which had lapsed for a
considerable time, was resumed with the following letter:

_To Mr. Westwood_
Collegio Ferdinando, Pisa: March 10, 1847.

If really, my dear Mr. Westwood, it was an 'ill temper' in you,
causing the brief note, it was a most flattering ill temper, and I
thank you just as I have had reason to do for the good nature which
has caused you to bear with me so often and so long. You have been
misled on some points. I did not go to Italy last year, or rather the
year before last! I was disappointed and forced to stay in Wimpole
Street after all; but the winter being so mild, so miraculously mild
for England you may remember, I was spared my winter relapse and
left liberty for new plans such as I never used to think were in
my destiny! Such a change it is to me, such a strange happiness and
freedom, and you must not in your kindness wish me back again, but
rather be contented, like a friend as you are, to hear that I am very
happy and very well, and still doubtful whether all the brightness can
be meant for _me_! It is just as if the sun rose again at 7 o'clock
P.M. The strangeness seems so great....

I am now very well, and so happy as not to think much of it, except
for the sake of another. And do you fancy how I feel, carried; into
the visions of nature from my gloomy room. Even now I walk as in a
dream. We made a pilgrimage from Avignon to Vaucluse in right poetical
duty, and I and my husband sate upon two stones in the midst of the
fountain which in its dark prison of rocks flashes and roars and
testifies to the memory of Petrarch. It was louder and fuller than
usual when we were there, on account of the rains; and Flush, though
by no means born to be a hero, considered my position so outrageous
that he dashed through the water to me, splashing me all over, so he
is baptised in Petrarch's name. The scenery is full of grandeur, the
rocks sheathe themselves into the sky, and nothing grows there except
a little cypress here and there, and a straggling olive tree; and the
fountain works out its soul in its stony prison, and runs away in a
green rapid stream. Such a striking sight it is. I sate upon deck,
too, in our passage from Marseilles to Genoa, and had a vision of
mountains, six or seven deep, one behind another. As to Pisa, call it
a beautiful town, you cannot do less with Arno and its palaces, and
above all the wonderful Duomo and Campo Santo, and Leaning