repose, and the purple mountains gloriously seem to beckon us on deeper into the vineland.  We have rooms close to the Duomo and Leaning Tower, in the great Collegio built by Vasari, three excellent bedrooms and a sitting-room, matted and carpeted, looking comfortable even for England.  For the last fortnight, except the very last few sunny days, we have had rain; but the climate is as mild as possible, no cold, with all the damp.  Delightful weather we had for the travelling.  Ah, you, with your terrors of travelling, how you amuse me!  Why, the constant change of air in the continued fine weather made me better and better instead of worse.  It did me infinite good.  Mrs. Jameson says she ’won’t call me improved, but transformed rather.’  I like the new sights and the movement; my spirits rise; I live—­I can adapt myself.  If you really tried it and got as far as Paris you would be drawn on, I fancy, and on—­on to the East perhaps with H. Martineau, or at least as near it as we are here.  By the way, or out of the way, it struck me as unfortunate that my poems should have been printed just now in ‘Blackwood;’ I wish it had been otherwise.  Then I had a letter from one of my Leeds readers the other day to expostulate about the inappropriateness of certain of them!  The fact is that I sent a heap of verses swept from my desk and belonging to old feelings and impressions, and not imagining that they were to be used in that quick way.  There can’t be very much to like, I fear, apart from your goodness for what calls itself mine.  Love me, dearest dear Miss Mitford, my dear kind friend—­love me, I beg of you, still and ever, only ceasing when I cease to think of you; I will allow of that clause.  Mrs. Jameson and Gerardine are staying at the hotel here in Pisa still, and we manage to see them every day; so good and true and affectionate she is, and so much we shall miss her when she goes, which will be in a day or two now.  She goes to Florence, to Siena, to Rome to complete her work upon art, which is the object of her Italian journey.  I read your vivid and glowing description of the picture to her, or rather I showed your picture to her, and she quite believes with you that it is most probably a Velasquez.  Much to be congratulated the owner must be.  I mean to know something about pictures some day.  Robert does, and I shall get him to open my eyes for me with a little instruction.  You know that in this place are to be seen the first steps of art, and it will be interesting to trace them from it as we go farther ourselves.  Our present residence we have taken for six months; but we have dreams, dreams, and we discuss them like soothsayers over the evening’s roasted chestnuts and grapes.  Flush highly approves of Pisa (and the roasted chestnuts), because here he goes out every day and speaks Italian to the little dogs.  Oh, Mr. Chorley, such a kind, feeling note he wrote to Robert from Germany, when he read of our