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To John Olmsted

Dear Father, [March] 27, 1856

We were not quite so near Genoa as I thought when I ended my last letter to you, however we reached there during the morning and before we could get a permit to land, the weather had become fine and we had a capital day ashore and enjoyed ourselves very much.

During the night we ran calm[ly] to Leghorn, where we landed, paying nine francs ([three for] permit and six for boats) soon after noon. We rode to the English Cemetery, a beautiful place, and looked for an hour or more for the grave stone of Mr. Brush, but could not find it.

We had a delightful sail along the moonlighted mountain coast, the sea as calm as a mill pond and the air softer than anything, arriving early next morning at Civita Vecchia—six days from Marseilles—& gladly exchanged the Bosphorus for the top of a little diligence.

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The road to Rome, though the scenery was monotonous, was not uninteresting & the ride was very pleasant. I shall go on using superlatives of pleasure if I diarize Rome.

Most things disappointed [my] expectations at the first glance. Rome is smal[ler an]d drearier and uglier in its whole outside [than I] should have thought & thus far in pictures [I have] seen nothing that would pay you for crossing [the] street.

It is otherwise with the marbles, and St. Peter’s, poor as it seemed at a distance & mean as [compared] to my anticipations, still in some particularities, quite profounded me as I approached [the] front closely & though exceedingly different f[rom] all I had imagined, astonished and regularly [awed] me. Three or four times indeed I have been [back &] felt in a dream.

The nature about Rome [is far finer than I had known and I have never seen anything like it. In fact,] where I am disappointed in my imaginations, I am not less in[terested &] instructed & every day more & more gratified.

I was born for a traveler. I do enjoy it exceedingly & I had no idea I could get so much out of such a hasty journey.

Bertha & Sophie are both more than they used to be—than we had imagined.

Bertha says I can’t write any more for this mail.