We arrived here night before last, pretty well fagged: an e 8-hour pull from Rome to Florence; a rest there of a day & two nights; then 5½ hours to Bologna; one night’s rest; then from noon to 10.30 pm carried us to Trent, in the Austrian Tyrol, where the confounded hotel had not received our message, & so at that miserable hour, in that snowy region, the tribe had to shiver together in fireless rooms while beds were prepared & warmed; then up at 6 in the morning & a noble view of snow-peaks glittering in the rich light of a full moon while the hotel-devils lazily deranged a breakfast for us in the dreary gloom of blinking candles; then a solid 12-hour pull through the loveliest snow-ranges & snow-draped forests—& at 7 pm we hauled up, in drizzle & fog at the domicil which had been engaged for us ten months before. Munich did seem the horriblest place, the most desolate place, the most unendurable place!—& the rooms were so small, the conveniences so meagre, & the porcelain stoves so grim, ghastly, dismal, intolerable! So Livy & Clara sat down forlorn, & cried, & I retired to a private place to pray. By & by we all retired to our narrow German beds; & when Livy & I finished talking across the room, it was all decided that we would rest 24 hours, then pay whatever damages were required, & straightway fly to the south of France.

But you see, that was simply fatigue. Next morning the tribe fell in love with the rooms, with the weather, with Munich, & head over heels in love with Fraülein Dahlweiner. We got a lager larger parlor—an ample one—threw two communicating bedrooms into one, for the children, & now we are entirely comfortable. The only apprehension, now, is that the climate may not be just right for the children—in which case we shall have to go to France, but it will be with the sincerest regret.

Now I brought the tribe through F from Rome, myself. We never had so little trouble before. The next time anybody has a courier to put out to nurse, I shall not be in the market.

Last night the forlornities had all disappeared; so we gathered ou around the lamp, after supper, with our beer & my pipe, & in a condition of gratefuln snugness tackled the new magazines. I read your new story aloud, amid thunders of applause, & we all agreed that the old Captain Jenness & the old man with the accordion hat are lovely people and most skilfully drawn—& that cabin-boy, too, we like. Of course we are all glad the girl is gone to Venice—for there is no place like Venice. Now I easily understand that the old man couldn’t go, because you have a purpose in sending Lyddy by herself; but you you could send the old man over in another ship, & we particularly want him along. Suppose you don’t need him there? What of that? Can’t you let him feed the doves? in the piazza Can’t you let him fall in the Canal occasionally? Can’t you let his goodnatured purse be a daily prey to guides and beggar-boys? Can’t you let the cheerful gondoliers canvas his hat? Can’t you let him find peace & rest & fellowship under père Jacopo’s kindly wing? (However, you are writing the book, not I.,—still, I am one of the people you are writing it for, you understand.) I only want to insist, in a friendly way, that the old man shall shed his sweet influence frequently upon the page—that is all.

The first time we called at the convent, père Jacopo was absent; the next (just at this moment Miss Spaulding spoke up & said something about père Jacopo—there is more in this acting of one mind upon another than people think) time, he was there, & gave us preserved rose-leaves to eat, & talked about you, & Mrs. Howells, & Winnie, & brought out his photographs, & showed us a picture of “the library of your new house,” but not so—it was the study in your Cambridge house. He was very sweet & good. He called on us next day; & the day after that we left Venice, after a pleasant sojourn of 3 or 4 weeks. He expects to spend this winter in Munich & will see us often, he said.

Pretty soon I’m going to write something, & when I send I finish it I shall know whether to put it to itself or in the “Contributor’s Club.” That “Contributor’s Club” was a most happy idea. The idiot does not more unfailingly turn first to the dismal “Drawer” than does the wise man to the “C. C.” By the way, I think that the man who wrote the paragraph beginning at the bottom of page 643 has said a mighty sound and sensible thing. I wish his suggestion could be adopted.

It is lovely of you to keep that old pipe in such a place of honor.

While it occurs to me, I must tell you Susie’s last. She is sorely badgered with dreams; & her stock dream is that she is ea being eaten up by bears. She is a grave & thoughtful child, as you will remember. Last night she had the usual dream. This morning she stood apart (after telling it,) for some time, looking vacantly at the floor, & absorbed in meditation. At last she looked up, & with the pathos of one who feels he has not been dealt by with even-handed fairness, said, “But mamma, the trouble is, that I am never the bear, but always the person.” It would not have occurred to me that there might be an advantage, even in a dream, of in occasionally being the eater, instead of always ◇◇y the party eaten, but I easily perceived that her point was well taken.

I’m sending to Heidelberg for your letter & Winnie’s, & I do hope they haven’t been lost. My wife & I send love to you all.