mountains. Think of my travelling in that
fashion in those wild places at four o'clock in the morning, a little
frightened, dreadfully tired, but in an ecstasy of admiration above
all! It was a sight to see before one died and went away to another
world. Well, but being expelled ignominiously at the end of five days,
we had to come back to Florence, and find a new apartment cooler than
the old, and wait for dear Mr. Kenyon. And dear Mr. Kenyon does
not come (not this autumn, but he may perhaps at the first dawn of
spring), and on September 20 we take up our knapsacks and turn our
faces towards Rome, I think, creeping slowly along, with a pause at
Arezzo, and a longer pause at Perugia, and another perhaps at Terni.
Then we plan to take an apartment we have heard of, over the Tarpeian
Rock, and enjoy Rome as we have enjoyed Florence. More can scarcely
be. This Florence is unspeakably beautiful, by grace both of nature
and art, and the wheels of life slide on upon the grass (according
to continental ways) with little trouble and less expense. Dinner,
'unordered,' comes through the streets and spreads itself on our
table, as hot as if we had smelt cutlets hours before. The science
of material life is understood here and in France. Now tell me, what
right has England to be the dearest country in the world? But I love
dearly dear England, and we hope to spend many a green summer in her
yet. The winters you will excuse us, will you not? People who are,
like us, neither rich nor strong, claim such excuses. I am wonderfully
well, and far better and stronger than before what you call the Pisan
'crisis.' Robert declares that nobody would know me, I _look_ so much
better. And you heard from dearest Henrietta. Ah, both of my dearest
sisters have been perfect to me. No words can express my feelings
towards their goodness. Otherwise, I have good accounts from home of
my father's excellent health and spirits, which is better even than
to hear of his loving and missing me. I had a few kind lines yesterday
from Miss Martineau, who invites us from Florence to Westmoreland. She
wants to talk to me, she says, of 'her beloved Jordan.' She is
looking forward to a winter of work by the lakes, and to a summer of
gardening. The kindest of letters Robert has had from Carlyle, who
makes us very happy by what he says of our marriage. Shakespeare's
favorite air of the 'Light of Love,' with the full evidence of
its being Shakespeare's favorite air, i