Yet we delight in Italy, and dream of 'pleasures new' for the summer--_pastures_ new, I should have said--but it comes to the same thing. The _padrone_ in this house sent us in as a gift (in gracious recognition, perhaps, of our lawful paying of bills) an immense dish of oranges--two hanging on a stalk with the green leaves still moist with the morning's dew--every great orange of twelve or thirteen with its own stalk and leaves. Such a pretty sight! And better oranges, I beg to say, never were eaten, when we are barbarous enough to eat them day by day after our two o'clock dinner, softening, with the vision of them, the winter which has just shown itself. Almost I have been as pleased with the oranges as I was at Avignon by the _pomegranate_ given to me much in the same way. Think of my being singled out of all our caravan of travellers--Mrs. Jameson and Gerardine Jameson[153] both there--for that significant gift of the pomegranates! I had never seen one before, and, of course, proceeded instantly to cut one 'deep down the middle'[154]--accepting the omen. Yet, in shame and confusion of face, I confess to not being able to appreciate it properly. Olives and pomegranates I set on the same shelf, to be just looked at and called by their names, but by no means eaten bodily. But you mistake me, dearest friend, about the 'Blackwood' verses. I never thought of writing _applicative poems_--the heavens forfend! Only that just _then_, [in] the midst of all the talk, _any_ verses of mine should come into print--and some of them to that _particular effect_--looked unlucky. I dare say poor papa (for instance) thought me turned suddenly to brass itself. Well, it is perhaps more my fancy than anything else, and was only an impression, even there. Mr. Chorley will tell you of a play of his, which I hope will make its way, though I do wonder how people can bear to write for the theatres in the present state of things. Robert is busy preparing a new edition of his collected poems which are to be so clear that everyone who has understood them hitherto will lose all distinction. We both mean to be as little idle as possible.... We shall meet one day in joy, I do hope, and then you will love my husband for his own sake, as for mine you do not hate him now. Your ever affectionate E.B.B. [Footnote 153: This surname is a mistake on Mrs. Browning's part; see her letter of October 1, 1849.] [Footnote 154: See _Lady Geraldine's Courtship_, stanza xli.] _To H.S. Boyd_ [Pisa:] December 21 [1846].