Your ever attached
E.B.B.

At Paris how near we shall be!  How sure to meet.  Have you been to the
Exposition yourself?  Tell me.  And what is the general feeling now?

* * * * *

To John Kenyon

Paris:  July 7, [1851].

My dearest Mr. Kenyon,—­I have waited day after day during this week that we have been here, to be able to tell you that we have decided this or that—­but the indecision lasts, and I can’t let you hear from others of our being in Paris when you have a right more than anybody almost to hear all about us.  I wanted to write to you, indeed, from Venice, where we stayed a month, and much the same reason made me leave it undone, as we were making and unmaking plans the whole time, and we didn’t know till the last few hours, for instance, whether or not we should go to Milan.  Venice is quite exquisite; it wrapt me round with a spell at first sight, and I longed to live and die there—­never to go away.  The gondolas, and the glory they swim through, and the silence of the population, drifted over one’s head across the bridges, and the fantastic architecture and the coffee-drinking and music in the Piazza San Marco, everything fitted into my lazy, idle nature and weakness of body, as if I had been born to the manner of it and to no other.  Do you know I expected in Venice a dreary sort of desolation?  Whereas there was nothing melancholy at all, only a soothing, lulling, rocking atmosphere which if Armida had lived in a city rather than in a garden would have suited her purpose.  Indeed Taglioni seems to be resting her feet from dancing, there, with a peculiar zest, inasmuch as she has bought three or four of the most beautiful palaces.  How could she do better?  And one or two ex-kings and queens (of the more vulgar royalties) have wrapt themselves round with those shining waters to forget the purple—­or dream of it, as the case may be.  Robert and I led a true Venetian life, I assure you; we ‘swam in gondolas’ to the Lido and everywhere else, we went to a festa at Chioggia in the steamer (frightening Wilson by being kept out by the wind till two o’clock in the morning), we went to the opera and the play (at a shilling each, or not as much!), and we took coffee every evening on St. Mark’s Piazza, to music and the stars.  Altogether it would have been perfect, only what’s perfect in the world?  While I grew fat, Wilson grew thin, and Robert could not sleep at nights.  The air was too relaxing or soft or something for them both, and poor Wilson declares that another month of Venice would have killed her outright.  Certainly she looked dreadfully ill and could eat nothing.  So I was forced to be glad to go away, out of pure humanity and sympathy, though I keep saying softly to myself ever since, ’What is there on earth like Venice?’