from his radiant cheeks.  We are very comfortably settled in rooms turned to the sun, and do work and play by turns—­having almost too many visitors—­hear excellent music at Mrs. Sartoris’s (Adelaide Kemble) once or twice a week, and have Fanny Kemble to come and talk to us with the doors shut, we three together.  This is pleasant.  I like her decidedly.  If anybody wants small-talk by handfuls of glittering dust swept out of salons, here’s Mr. Thackeray besides; and if anybody wants a snow-man to match Southey’s snow-woman (see ’Thalaba’), here’s Mr. Lockhart, who, in complexion, hair, conversation, and manners, might have been made out of one of your English ‘drifts’—­’sixteen feet deep in some places,’ says Galignani.  Also, here’s your friend V.—­Mrs. Archer Clive.[31] We were at her house the other evening.  She seems good-natured, but what a very peculiar person as to looks, and even voice and general bearing; and what a peculiar unconsciousness of peculiarity.  I do not know her much.  I go out very little in the evening, both from fear of the night air and from disinclination to stir.  Mr. Page, our neighbour downstairs, pleases me much, and you ought to know more of him in England, for his portraits are like Titian’s—­flesh, blood, and soul.  I never saw such portraits from a living hand.  He professes to have discovered secrets, and plainly knows them, from his wonderful effects of colour on canvas—­not merely in words.  His portrait of Miss Cushman is a miracle.  Gibson’s famous painted Venus is very pretty—­that’s my criticism.  Yes, I will say besides that I have seldom, if ever, seen so indecent a statue.  The colouring with an approximation to flesh tints produces that effect, to my apprehension.  I don’t like this statue colouring—­no, not at all.  Dearest Miss Mitford, will you write to me?  I don’t ask for a long letter, but a letter—­a letter.  And I entreat you not to prepay.  Among other disadvantages, that prepaying tendency of yours may lose me a letter one day.  I want much to hear how you are bearing the winter—­how you are.  Give me details about your dear self.

[The remainder of this letter is missing]

* * * * *

To Mr. Westwood

43 Via Bocca di Leone, Rome:  February 2, [1854].

Thank you, my dear Mr. Westwood, for your kind defence of me against the stupid, blind, cur-dog backbiting of the American writer.  I will tell you.  Three weeks ago I had a letter from my brother, apprising me of what had been said, and pressing on me the propriety of a contradiction in form.  Said I in reply:  ’When you marry a wife, George, take her from the class of those who have never printed a book, if this thing vexes you.  A woman in a crowd can’t help the pushing up against her of dirty coats; happy if somebody in boots does not tread upon her toes!  Words to that effect, I said.  I really could not do the American the honour of sitting down at