'. . . and he, as you say, had done everything for me--he loved me for reasons which had helped to weary me of myself--loved me heart to heart persistently--in spite of my own will . . . drawn me back to life and hope again when I had done with both. My life seemed to belong to him and to none other, at last, and I had no power to speak a word. Have faith in me, my dearest friend, till you know him. The intellect is so little in comparison to all the rest--to the womanly tenderness, the inexhaustible goodness, the high and noble aspiration of every hour. Temper, spirits, manners--there is not a flaw anywhere. I shut my eyes sometimes and fancy it all a dream of my guardian angel. Only, if it had been a dream, the pain of some parts of it would have wakened me before now--it is not a dream. . . .' The three next speak for themselves. Pisa: ('46). '. . . For Pisa, we both like it extremely. The city is full of beauty and repose,--and the purple mountains gloriously seem to beckon us on deeper into the vine land. We have rooms close to the Duomo, and leaning down on the great Collegio built by Facini. Three excellent bed-rooms and a sitting-room matted and carpeted, looking comfortable even for England. For the last fortnight, except the 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. Mrs. Jameson says she won't call me improved but transformed rather. . . . 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--in this place are to be seen the first steps of Art. . . .' Pisa: Dec. 19 ('46). '. . . Within these three or four days we have had frost--yes, and a little snow--for the first time, say the Pisans, within five years. Robert says the mountains are powdered towards Lucca. . . .' Feb. 3 ('47). '. . . Robert is a warm admirer of Balzac and has read most of his books, but certainly he does not in a general way appreciate our French people quite with my warmth. He takes too high a standard, I tell him, and won't listen to a story for a story's sake--I can bear, you know, to be amused without a strong pull on my admiration. So we have great wars sometimes--I put up Dumas' flag or Soulie's or Eugene Sue's (yet he was properly impressed by the 'Mysteres de Paris'), and carry it till my arms ache. The plays and vaudevilles he knows far more of than I do, and always maintains they are the happiest growth of the French school. Setting aside the 'masters', observe; for Balzac and George Sand hold all their honours. Then we read together the other day 'Rouge et Noir', that powerful work of Stendhal's, and he observed that it was exactly like Balzac 'in the raw'--in the material and undeveloped conception . . . We leave Pisa in April, and pass through Florence towards the north of Italy . . .'