far more of than I do, and always maintains they are the happiest growth
of the French school. Setting aside the `masters', observe;

for Balzac and George Sand hold all their honours. Then we read together
the other day `Rouge et Noir', that powerful work of Stendhal's,

and he observed that it was exactly like Balzac `in the raw' --
in the material and undeveloped conception . . . We leave Pisa in April,

and pass through Florence towards the north of Italy . . .'
(She writes out a long list of the `Comedie Humaine' for Miss Mitford.)

==
Mr. and Mrs. Browning must have remained in Florence,

instead of merely passing through it; this is proved
by the contents of the two following letters:

==
Aug. 20 ('47).

`. . . We have spent one of the most delightful of summers
notwithstanding the heat, and I begin to comprehend the possibility

of St. Lawrence's ecstasies on the gridiron. Very hot certainly
it has been and is, yet there have been cool intermissions,

and as we have spacious and airy rooms, as Robert lets me sit all day
in my white dressing-gown without a single masculine criticism,

and as we can step out of the window on a sort of balconyterrace
which is quite private, and swims over with moonlight in the evenings,

and as we live upon water-melons and iced water and figs
and all manner of fruit, we bear the heat with an angelic patience.

We tried to make the monks of Vallombrosa let us stay with them
for two months, but the new abbot said or implied that Wilson and I

stank in his nostrils, being women. So we were sent away
at the end of five days. So provoking! Such scenery, such hills,

such a sea of hills looking alive among the clouds -- which rolled,
it was difficult to discern. Such fine woods, supernaturally silent,

with the ground black as ink. There were eagles there too,
and there was no road. Robert went on horseback, and Wilson and I

were drawn on a sledge -- (i.e. an old hamper, a basket wine-hamper --
without a wheel) by two white bullocks, up the precipitous mountains.

Think of my travelling in those wild places at four o'clock in the morning!
a little frightened, dreadfully" target="_blank" title="ad.可怕地；糟透地">dreadfully tired, but in an ecstasy of admiration.

It was a sight to see before one died and went away into another world.
But being expelled ignominiously at the end of five days,

we had to come back to Florence to find a new apartment cooler than the old,
and wait for dear Mr. Kenyon, and dear Mr. Kenyon does not come after all.

And on the 20th of September we take up our knapsacks and turn our faces
towards Rome, creeping slowly along, with a pause at Arezzo,

and a longer pause at Perugia, and another perhaps at Terni.
Then we plan to take an apartment we have heard of, over the Tarpeian rock,

and enjoy Rome as we have enjoyed Florence. More can scarcely be.
This Florence is unspeakably beautiful . . .'

==
==

Oct. ('47).
`. . . Very few acquaintances have we made in Florence,

and very quietly lived out our days. Mr. Powers, the sculptor,
is our chief friend and favourite. A most charming, simple, straightforward,

genial American -- as simple as the man of genius he has proved himself to be.
He sometimes comes to talk and take coffee with us, and we like him much.

The sculptor has eyes like a wild Indian's, so black and full of light --
you would scarcely marvel if they clove the marble without

the help of his hands. We have seen, besides, the Hoppners,
Lord Byron's friends at Venice; and Miss Boyle, a niece of the Earl of Cork,

an authoress and poetess on her own account, having been introduced to Robert
in London at Lady Morgan's, has hunted us out, and paid us a visit.

A very vivacious little person, with sparkling talk enough . . .'
==

In this year, 1847, the question arose of a British mission to the Vatican;
and Mr. Browning wrote to Mr. Monckton Milnes begging him

to signify to the Foreign Office his more than willingness to take part in it.
He would be glad and proud, he said, to be secretary to such an embassy,

and to work like a horse in his vocation. The letter is given
in the lately published biography of Lord Houghton, and I am obliged

to confess that it has been my first intimation of the fact recorded there.
When once his `Paracelsus' had appeared, and Mr. Browning

had taken rank as a poet, he renounced all idea of more active work;
and the tone and habits of his early married life would have seemed

scarcely consistent with a renewed impulse towards it.
But the fact was in some sense due to the very circumstances of that life:

among them, his wife's probable incitement to, and certain sympathy with,
the proceeding.

The projected winter in Rome had been given up, I believe against
the doctor's advice, on the strength of the greater attractions of Florence.

Our next extract is dated from thence, Dec. 8, 1847.
==

`. . . Think what we have done since I last wrote to you. Taken two houses,
that is, two apartments, each for six months, presigning the contract.

You will set it down to excellent poet's work in the way of domestic economy,
but the fault was altogether mine, as usual. My husband, to please me,

took rooms which I could not be pleased with three days
through the absence of sunshine and warmth. The consequence was that

we had to pay heaps of guineas away, for leave to go away ourselves --
any alternative being preferable to a return of illness --

and I am sure I should have been ill if we had persisted in staying there.
You can scarcely fancy the wonderful difference which the sun makes in Italy.

So away we came into the blaze of him in the Piazza Pitti;
precisely opposite the Grand Duke's palace; I with my remorse,

and poor Robert without a single reproach. Any other man,
a little lower than the angels, would have stamped and sworn a little

for the mere relief of the thing -- but as to HIS being angry with ME
for any cause except not eating enough dinner, the said sun

would turn the wrong way first. So here we are in the Pitti till April,
in small rooms yellow with sunshine from morning till evening,

and most days I am able to get out into the piazza and walk up and down
for twenty minutes without feeling a breath of the actual winter . . .

and Miss Boyle, ever and anon, comes at night, at nine o'clock,
to catch us at hot chestnuts and mulled wine, and warm her feet at our fire --

and a kinder, more cordial little creature, full of talent and accomplishment
never had the world's polish on it. Very amusing she is too, and original;

and a good deal of laughing she and Robert make between them.
And this is nearly all we see of the Face Divine -- I can't make Robert go out

a single evening. . . .'
==

We have five extracts for 1848. One of these, not otherwise dated,
describes an attack of sore-throat which was fortunately Mr. Browning's last;

and the letter containing it must have been written
in the course of the summer.

==
`. . . My husband was laid up for nearly a month with fever

and relaxed sore-throat. Quite unhappy I have been over those burning hands
and languid eyes -- the only unhappiness I ever had by him.

And then he wouldn't see a physician, and if it had not been
that just at the right moment Mr. Mahoney, the celebrated Jesuit,

and "Father Prout" of Fraser, knowing everything as those Jesuits
are apt to do, came in to us on his way to Rome, pointed out to us

that the fever got ahead through weakness, and mixed up with his own kind hand
a potion of eggs and port wine; to the horror of our Italian servant,

who lifted up his eyes at such a prescription for fever,
crying, "O Inglesi! Inglesi!" the case would have been far worse,

I have no kind of doubt, for the eccentric prescription
gave the power of sleeping, and the pulse grew quieter directly.

I shall always be grateful to Father Prout -- always.'*
--

* It had not been merely a case of relaxed sore-throat.
There was an abscess, which burst during this first night of sleep.

--
==

==
May 28.

`. . . And now I must tell you what we have done since I wrote last,
little thinking of doing so. You see our problem was, to get to England