ToMiss Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal

Denmark Hill, 27 January, 1856.

Dear Ida,—I was heartily glad to hear from you, though I am never angry when people don't write, for I know what a troublesome thing it is to do; one can never do it but when one is tolerably well, and then one always wants to be doing something else. I am particularly pleased by hearing of your walks “over the mountains,” as the mountains near Nice are real ones, and not to be walked over without some strength. I trust now you will do well. I am rejoiced also at your entirely agreeing with me about the vapid colour of that Southern scenery. I hate it myself. The whole coast of Genoa, with its blue sea, hills, and white houses, looks to me like a bunch of blue ribands dipped in mud and then splashed all over with lime. I except always Mentone, which has fine green and purple, and has a unique kind of glen behind it among the lemons. But as soon as spring comes you must get up among the Alps; it will brace you and revive you; and there the colour is insuperable. Even very early in the season I think you might go to Genoa, thence to Turin and Susa at the foot of Mont Cenis; where, if with red campaniles, green and white torrents, purple-grey and russet rocks, deep green pines, white satisfaction, I shan't pity you.

(April 6th.) Certainly, Ida, you and Rossetti have infected me with your ways of going on. Never did I leave a letter so long in hand before.