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 the table with him to say: 'Sir, you are considerably mistaken.' He was not only mistaken, you see, but so stupid and self-willed in his mistake, so determined to make a system of it, but he was too disreputable to set right. Also of the tendency of one's writings one's readers are the best judges. I don't profess to write a religious commentary on my writings. I am content to stand by the obvious meaning of what I have written, according to the common sense of the general reader.