FEBRUARY 14.

I am often asked by people who are thinking of coming here, or who want to send presents to friends here, what to bring or send.  Of course it is difficult to say, because my experience is limited and confined to one spot at present:  therefore I give my opinion very guardedly, and acknowledge it is derived in great part from the experience of others who have been here a long time.  Amongst other wraps, I brought a sealskin jacket and muff which I happened to have.  These, I am assured, will be absolutely useless, and already they are a great anxiety to me on account of the swarms of fish-tail moths which I see scuttling about in every direction if I move a box or look behind a picture.  In fact, there are destructive moths everywhere, and every drawer is redolent of camphor.  The only things I can venture to recommend as necessaries are things which no one advised me to bring, and which were only random shots.  One was a light waterproof ulster, and the other was a lot of those outside blinds for windows which come, I believe, from Japan, and are made of grass—­green, painted with gay figures.  I picked up these latter by the merest accident at the Baker-street bazaar for a few shillings:  they are the comfort of my life, keeping out glare and dust in the day and moths and insects of all kinds at night.  As for the waterproof, I do not know what I should have done without it; and little G——­’s has also been most useful.  It is the necessary of necessaries here—­a real, good substantial waterproof.  A man cannot do better than get a regular military waterproof which will cover him from chin to heel on horseback; and even waterproof hats and caps are a comfort in this treacherous summer season, where a storm bursts over your head out of a blue dome of sky, and drenches you even whilst the sun is shining brightly.

A worse climate and country for clothes of every kind and description cannot be imagined.  When I first arrived I thought I had never seen such ugly toilettes in all my life; and I should have been less than woman (or more—­which is it?) if I had not derived some secret satisfaction from the possession of at least prettier garments.  What I was vain of in my secret heart was my store of cotton gowns.  One can’t very well wear cotton gowns in London; and, as I am particularly fond of them, I indemnify myself for going abroad by rushing wildly into extensive purchases in cambrics and print dresses.  They are so pretty and so cheap, and when charmingly made, as mine were (alas, they are already things of the past!), nothing can be so satisfactory in the way of summer country garb.  Well, it has been precisely in the matter of cotton gowns that I have been punished for my vanity.  For a day or two each gown in turn looked charming.  Then came a flounce or bordering of bright red earth on the lower skirt and a general impression of red dust and