On the 4th of December Richard notes a never-to-be-forgotten day--so dark, foggy, deep snow, and a red, lurid light. All the gas and candles had to be lit at nine o'clock in the morning. London was like a Dante's snow hell; the squares were like a Christmas tree. It was as dark as if some great national crime was being committed. A large family party accompanied us to the Pavilion at Folkestone to see us off, and there Carlo Pellegrini joined us. He was staying there for his health, and painting a little. Andrew Wilson, of the "Abode of Snow," also joined us, and travelled with us for a week. The snow was eight feet deep. We were joined by several surrounding relations, living at short distances from there. The Dover train stuck in the snow from six till twelve at night. The boat did not cross; the night train did not come in. It was blowing great guns at sea. On the 7th it was something better, and two sledges took us to the station. We landed with great difficulty on the French side. We always lingered at Boulogne whenever we got there. We used to go and see Constantin (Richard's old fencing-master), all the old haunts, the Ramparts where we first met. Caroline, the Queen of the Poissardes, who received us _à bras ouverts_, talked of old times when we were young people, and reminded me of a promise which was _then_ very unlikely, that if ever I should go to Jerusalem I should bring her a rosary, and I was now able to fulfil it. We went on to Paris. We did not care for Rossi's _Hamlet_, after Mr. Henry Irving's in London and Salvini's in Italy. I never can see any smartness in a Paris theatre; the scenery is so bad, the dresses so flashy and tinsel, no appliances for effect. I suppose in old days it was different, as so many people raved about it. The acting and the wit I can appreciate. We left Paris on the 16th, to my great delight--I believe I am the only woman who hates Paris--and dined next night at Turin with Cristoforo Negri and family, the head of the Geographical Society of Italy, and Signor Cora and wife, the editor of the most influential paper; and then we went on to Milan, where we always begin to consider ourselves at home on our own ground.