letter I hope you will receive. Some three years ago, or it may be more, I
recollect you telling me that you had received a letter from our friend,
Sam, dated "On board his gondola." _My_ gondola is, at this present,
waiting for me on the canal; but I prefer writing to you in the house, it
being autumn--and rather an English autumn than otherwise. It is my
intention to remain at Venice during the winter, probably, as it has
always been (next to the east) the greenest island of my imagination. It
has not disappointed me; though its evident decay would, perhaps, have
that effect upon others. But I have been familiar with ruins too long to
dislike desolation. Besides, I have fallen in love, which, next to falling
into the canal (which would be of no use, as I can swim,) is the best or
the worst thing I could do. I have got some extremely good apartments in
the house of a "Merchant of Venice," who is a good deal occupied with
business, and has a wife in her twenty-second year. Marianna (that is her
name) is in her, appearance altogether like an antelope. She has the large,
black, oriental eyes, with that peculiar expression in them, which is seen
rarely among _Europeans_--even the Italians--and which many of the Turkish
women give themselves by tinging the eyelid--an art not known out of that
country, I believe. This expression she has _naturally_--and something
more than this. In short, I cannot describe the effect of this kind of
eye--at least upon me. Her features are regular, and rather aquiline--mouth
small--skin clear and soft, with a kind of hectic colour--forehead
remarkably good; her hair is of the dark gloss, curl, and colour of Lady
J----'s; her figure is light and pretty, and she is a famous
songstress--scientifically so; her natural voice (in conversation, I mean,)
is very sweet; and the _naiveté_ of the Venetian dialect is always
pleasing in the mouth of a woman.

November 23.