We could not stand “beautiful Venice the pride of the sea” any longer.  It blew and rained and colded for eight-and-forty hours consecutively.  Everybody said it was a most exceptional season, but that did not make us any warmer or prevent your mother from catching an awful cold.  So as soon as she got better we packed up and betook ourselves here by way of Milan and Genoa.  At Milan it was so like London on a wet day, that except for the want of smoke we might have been in our dear native land.  At Genoa we arrived late one afternoon and were off early in the morning—­but by dint of taking a tram after dinner (not a dram) and going there and back again we are able to say we have seen that city of palaces.  The basements we saw through the tram windows by mixed light of gas and moon may in fact all have belonged to palaces.  We are not in a position to say they did not.

The quick train from Genoa here is believed to go fully twenty-five miles an hour, but starts at 7 A.M., but the early morning air being bad for the health, we took the slow train at 9.30, and got here some time in the afternoon.  But mind you it is a full eighty miles, and when we were at full speed between the stations—­very few donkeys could have gone faster.  But the coast scenery is very pretty, and we didn’t mind.

Here we are very well off and as nearly warm as I expect to be before reaching England.  You can sit out in the sun with satisfaction, though there is a little knife-edge of wind just to remind us of Florence.  Everybody, however, tells us it is quite an exceptional season, and that it ought to be the most balmy air imaginable.  Besides there are no end of date-palms and cactuses and aloes and odorous flowers in the garden—­and the loveliest purple sea you can imagine.

Well, we shall stop some days and give San Remo a chance—­at least a week, unless the weather turns bad.

As to your postcards which have been sent on from Venice and are really shabby, I am not going to any dinners whatsoever, either Middle Temple or Academy.  Just write to both that “Mr. H. regrets he is unable to accept the invitation with which —­ have honoured him.”  (It’s like putting the shutters up,” [he said sadly to his wife, when he felt unable to attend the Royal Academy dinner as he had done for many years.])

I have really nothing the matter with me now—­but my stock of strength is not great, and I can’t afford to spend any on dinners.

The blessedest thing now will be to have done with the nomadic life of the last five months—­and see your ugly faces (so like their dear father) again.  I believe it will be the best possible tonic for me.

M—­ has not got rid of her cold yet, but a few warm days here will, I hope, set her up.

I met Lady Whitworth on the esplanade to-day—­she is here with Sir Joseph, and this afternoon we went to call on her.  The poor old man is very feeble and greatly altered since I saw him last.