Your ever most affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss Browning_

[Florence: February 1857.]

My dearest Sarianna,--I am delighted, and so is Robert, that you should

have found what pleases you in the clock. Here is Penini's letter, which

takes up so much room that I must be sparing of mine--and, by the way,

if you consider him improved in his writing, give the praise to Robert,

who has been taking most patient pains with him indeed. You will see how

the little curly head is turned with carnival doings. So gay a carnival

never was in our experience--for until last year (when we were absent)

all masks had been prohibited, and now everybody has eaten of the tree

of good and evil till not an apple was left. Peni persecuted me to let

him have a domino, with tears and embraces; he '_almost never_ in all

his life had had a domino,' and he would like it so. Not a black

domino--no; he hated black--but a blue domino, trimmed with pink! that

was his taste. The pink trimming I coaxed him out of; but for the rest I

let him have his way, darling child; and certainly it answered, as far

as the overflow of joy in his little heart went. Never was such delight.

Morning and evening there he was in the streets, running Wilson out of

breath, and lost sight of every ten minutes. 'Now, Lily, I do _pray_ you

not to call out "Penini! Penini!"' Not to be known was his immense

ambition. Oh, of course he thought of nothing else. As to lessons, there

was an absolute absence of wits. All Florence being turned out into the

streets in one gigantic pantomime, one couldn't expect people to be

wiser indoors than out. For my part, the universal madness reached me

sitting by the fire (whence I had not stirred for three months); and

you will open your eyes when I tell you that I went (in domino and

masked) to the great opera ball. Yes, I did really. Robert, who had been

invited two or three times to other people's boxes, had proposed to

return this kindness by taking a box himself at the opera this night and

entertaining two or three friends with _gallantina_ and champagne. Just

as he and I were lamenting the impossibility of my going, on that very

morning the wind changed, the air grew soft and mild, and he maintained

that I might and should go. There was no time to get a domino of my own

(Robert himself had a beautiful one made, and I am having it

metamorphosed into a black silk gown for myself!), so I sent out and

hired one, buying the mask. And very much amused I was. I like to see

these characteristic things. (I shall never rest, Sarianna, till I risk

my reputation at the Bal de l'Opéra at Paris.) Do you think I was

satisfied with staying in the box? No, indeed. Down I went, and Robert

and I elbowed our way through the crowd to the remotest corner of the

ball below. Somebody smote me on the shoulder and cried 'Bella

mascherina!' and I answered as imprudently as one feels under a mask. At

two o'clock in the morning, however, I had to give up and come away

(being overcome by the heavy air), and ingloriously left Robert and our

friends to follow at half-past four. Think of the refinement and

gentleness--yes, I must call it _superiority_--of this people, when no

excess, no quarrelling, no rudeness nor coarseness can be observed in

the course of such wild masked liberty. Not a touch of license anywhere.

And perfect social equality! Ferdinando side by side in the same

ballroom with the Grand Duke, and no class's delicacy offended against!

For the Grand Duke went down into the ballroom for a short time. The

boxes, however, were dear. We were on a third tier, yet paid 2_l._ 5_s._

English, besides entrance money. I think that, generally speaking,

theatrical amusements are cheaper in Paris, in spite of apparent

cheapnesses here. The pit here and stalls are cheap. But 'women in

society' can't go there, it is said; and you must take a whole box, if

you want two seats in a box--which seems to me monstrous. People combine

generally....

Ever affectionate

BA.

I meant to write only a word--and see! May it not be overweight!

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

Florence: April 9 [1857].

Dearest Madonna,--I must not wait, lest I miss you in your transit to

Naples; thank you for your dear letter, then. The weather has burst

suddenly into summer (though it rains a little this morning), and I have

been let out of prison to drive in the Cascine and to Bellosguardo.

Beautiful, beautiful Florence. How beautiful at this time of year! The

trees stand in their 'green mist' as if in a trance of joy. Oh, I do

hope nothing will drive us out of our Paradise this summer, for I seem

to hate the North more 'unnaturally' than ever.

Mrs. Stowe has just arrived, and called here yesterday and this morning,

when Robert took her to see the Salvators at the end of our street. I

like her better than I thought I should--that is, I find more refinement

in her voice and manner--no rampant Americanisms. Very simple and

gentle, with a sweet voice; undesirous of shining or _poser_-ing, so it

seems to me. Never did lioness roar more softly (that is quite certain);

and the temptations of a sudden enormous popularity should be estimated,

in doing her full justice. She is nice-looking, too; and there's

something strong and copious and characteristic in her dusky wavy hair.

For the rest, the brow has not very large capacity; and the mouth wants

something both in frankness and sensitiveness, I should say. But what

can one see in a morning visit? I must wait for another opportunity.

She spends to-morrow evening with us, and talks of remaining in Florence

till the end of next week--so I shall see and hear more. Her books are

not so much to me, I confess, as the fact is, that she above all women

(yes, and men of the age) has moved the world--and _for good_.

I hear that Mrs. Gaskell is coming, whom I am sure to like and love. I

know _that_ by her letters, though I was stupid or idle enough to let

our correspondence go by; and by her books, which I earnestly admire.

How anxious I am to see the life of Charlotte Brontë! But we shall have

to wait for it here.

Dearest friend, you don't mention Madme de Goethe, but I do hope you

will have her with you before long. The good to you will be immense, and

after friendship (and reason) the sun and moon and earth of Italy will

work for you in their places. May God grant to us all that you may be

soon strong enough to throw every burden behind you! The griefs that are

incurable are those which have our own sins festering in them....

On April 6 we had tea out of doors, on the terrace of our friend Miss

Blagden in her villa up [at] Bellosguardo (not exactly Aurora

Leigh's,[54] mind). You seemed to be lifted up above the world in a

divine ecstasy. Oh, what a vision!

Have you read Victor Hugo's 'Contemplations'? We are doing so at last.

As for _me_, my eyes and my heart melted over them--some of the personal

poems are overcoming in their pathos; and nothing more exquisite in

poetry can express deeper pain....

Robert comes back. He says that Mrs. Stowe was very simple and pleasant.

He likes her. So shall I, I think. She has the grace, too, to admire our

Florence.

Your ever affectionate

BA.

I dare say the illustrations will be beautiful. But you are at work on a

new book, are you not?

* * * * *

The mention of the 'Contemplations' of Victor Hugo in the preceding

letter supplies a clue to the date of the following draft of an appeal

to the Emperor Napoleon on behalf of the poet, which has been found

among Mrs. Browning's papers. An endorsement on the letter says that it

was not sent, but it is none the less worthy of being printed.

* * * * *

_To the Emperor Napoleon_

[April 1857.]

Sire,--I am only a woman, and have no claim on your Majesty's attention

except that of the weakest on the strongest. Probably my very name as

the wife of an English poet, and as named itself a little among English

poets, is unknown to your Majesty. I never approached my own sovereign

with a petition, nor am skilled in the way of addressing kings. Yet

having, through a studious and thoughtful life, grown used to great men

(among the dead, at least), I cannot feel entirely at a loss in speaking

to the Emperor Napoleon.

And I beseech you to have patience with me while I supplicate you. It is

not for myself nor for mine.

I have been reading with wet eyes and a swelling heart (as many who love

and some who hate your Majesty have lately done) a book called the

'Contemplations' of a man who has sinned deeply against you in certain

of his political writings, and who expiates rash phrases and

unjustifiable statements in exile in Jersey. I have no personal

knowledge of this man; I never saw his face; and certainly I do not come

now to make his apology. It is, indeed, precisely because he cannot be

excused that, I think, he might worthily be forgiven. For this man,

whatever else he is not, is a great poet of France, and the Emperor, who

is the guardian of her other glories, should remember him and not leave

him out. Ah, sire, what was written on 'Napoleon le Petit' does not

touch your Majesty; but what touches you is, that no historian of the

age should have to write hereafter, 'While Napoleon III. reigned, Victor

Hugo lived in exile.' What touches you is, that when your people count

gratefully the men of commerce, arms, and science secured by you to

France, no voice shall murmur, 'But where is our poet?' What touches you

is, that, however statesmen and politicians may justify his exclusion,

it may draw no sigh from men of sentiment and impulse, yes, and from

women like myself. What touches you is, that when your own beloved young

prince shall come to read these poems (and when you wish him a princely

nature, you wish, sire, that such things should move him), he may exult

to recall that his imperial father was great enough to overcome this

great poet with magnanimity.

Ah, sire, you are great enough! You can allow for the peculiarity of the

poetical temperament, for the temptations of high gifts, for the fever

in which poets are apt to rage and suffer beyond the measure of other

men. You can consider that when they hate most causelessly there is a

divine love in them somewhere; and that when they see most falsely they

are loyal to some ideal light. Forgive this enemy, this accuser, this

traducer. Disprove him by your generosity. Let no tear of an admirer of

his poetry drop upon your purple. Make an exception of him, as God made

an exception of him when He gave him genius, and call him back _without

condition_ to his country and his daughter's grave.

I have written these words without the knowledge of any. Naturally I

should have preferred, as a woman, to have addressed them through the

mediation of the tender-hearted Empress Eugénie; but, a wife myself, I

felt it would be harder for her Majesty to pardon an offence against the

Emperor Napoleon, than it could be for the Emperor.

And I am driven by an irresistible impulse to your Majesty's feet to ask

this grace. It is a woman's voice, sire, which dares to utter what many

yearn for in silence. I have believed in Napoleon III. Passionately

loving the democracy, I have understood from the beginning that it was

to be served throughout Europe in you and by you. I have trusted you for

doing greatly. I will trust you, besides, for pardoning nobly. You will

be Napoleon in this also.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

[Illustration]

* * * * *

Shortly after this date, on April 17, Mrs. Browning's father died. In

the course of the previous summer an attempt made by a relative to bring

about a reconciliation between him and his daughters was met with the

answer that they had 'disgraced his family;' and, although he professed

to have 'forgiven' them, he refused all intercourse, removed his family

out of town when the Brownings came thither, and declined to give his

daughter Henrietta's address to Mr. Kenyon's executor, who was

instructed to pay her a small legacy. A further attempt at

reconciliation was made by Mrs. Martin only a few months before his

death, but had no better success. His pride stood in the way of his

forgiveness to the end.

On receiving the news of his death, the following letter was written by

Robert Browning to Mrs. Martin; but it was not until two months later

that Mrs. Browning was able to bring herself to write to anyone outside

her own family.

* * * * *

_Robert Browning to Mrs. Martin_

Florence: May 3, 1857.

My dear Mrs. Martin,--Truest thanks for your letter. We had the

intelligence from George last Thursday week, having been only prepared

for the illness by a note received from Arabel the day before. Ba was

sadly affected at first; miserable to see and hear. After a few days

tears came to her relief. She is now very weak and prostrated, but

improving in strength of body and mind: I have no fear for the result. I

suppose you know, at least, the very little that we know; and how

unaware poor Mr. Barrett was of his imminent death: 'he bade them,' says

Arabel, 'make him comfortable for the night, but a moment before the

last.' And he had dismissed her and her aunt about an hour before, with

a cheerful or careless word about 'wishing them good night.' So it is

all over now, all hope of better things, or a kind answer to entreaties

such as I have seen Ba write in the bitterness of her heart. There must

have been something in the organisation, or education, at least, that

would account for and extenuate all this; but it has caused grief

enough, I know; and now here is a new grief not likely to subside very

soon. Not that Ba is other than reasonable and just to herself in the

matter: she does not reproach herself at all; it is all mere grief, as I

say, that this should have been _so_; and I sympathise with her there.

George wrote very affectionately to tell me; and dear, admirable Arabel

sent a note the very next day to prove to Ba that there was nothing to

fear on her account. Since then we have heard nothing. The funeral was

to take place in Herefordshire. We had just made up our minds to go on

no account to England this year. Ba felt the restraint on her too

horrible to bear. I will, or she will, no doubt, write and tell you of

herself; and you must write, dear Mrs. Martin, will you not?

Kindest regard to Mr. Martin and all.

Yours faithfully ever,

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

_E.B. Browning to Mrs. Martin_

Florence: July 1, [1857].

Thank you, thank you from my heart, my dearest friend--this poor heart,

which has been so torn and mangled,--for your dear, tender sympathy,

whether expressed in silence or in words. Of the past I cannot speak.

You understand, yes, you understand. And when I say that you understand

(and feel that you do), it is an expression of belief in the largeness

of your power of understanding, seeing that few _can_ understand--few

can. There has been great bitterness--great bitterness, which is

natural; and some recoil against myself, more, perhaps, than is quite

rational. Now I am much better, calm, and not despondingly calm (as,

off and on, I have been), able to read and talk, and keep from vexing my

poor husband, who has been a good deal tried in all these things.

Through these three months you and what you told me touched me with a

thought of comfort--came the nearest to me of all. May God bless you and

return it to you a hundredfold, dear dear friend!

I believe _hope_ had died in me long ago of reconciliation in this

world. Strange, that what I called 'unkindness' for so many years, in

departing should have left to me such a sudden desolation! And yet, it

is not strange, perhaps.

No, I cannot write any more. You will understand....

We shall be in Paris next summer. This year we remain quietly where we

are. Presently we may creep to the seaside or into the mountains to

avoid the great heats, but no further. My temptation is to lie on the

sofa, and never stir nor speak, only I don't give up, be certain. I

drive out for two or three hours on most days, and I hear Peni's

lessons, and am good and obedient. If I could get into hard regular work

of some kind, it would be excellent for me, I know; but the 'flesh is

weak.' Oh, no, to have gone to England this summer would have _helped

nobody_, and would have been very overcoming to _me_. I was not fit for

it, indeed, and Robert was averse on his own account....

May God bless you both, dearest friends. My little Penini is bright and

well. I have begun to teach him German. I do hope you won't fatigue

yourselves too much at Colwall. Enjoy the summer and the roses, and be

well, be well. We shall meet next year....

Once more, goodbye.

Your ever affectionate and grateful

BA.

Robert's love as ever.

This is the first letter I have written to anyone out of my own family.

I hate writing, and can't help being stupid.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

Florence: [about July 1857].

I write soon, you see, dearest Fanny. I thank you for all, but I do

beseech you, _dear_, not to say a word more to me of what is said of me.

The truth is, I am made of paper, and it tears me. Do not, dear. Make no

reference to things personal to myself. As far as I could read and

understand, it was absurd, perfectly _ungenuine_. I shall say nothing to

anybody. I have torn that sheet. Do not refer to the subject to Isa

Blagden. And there--I have done.

No--I thank you; and I know it was your kindness entirely. Will you, if

you love me, _not_ touch on the subject (I mean on the personal thing to

myself) in your next letters, not even by saying that you were sorry you

did once touch on them. I know how foolish and morbid I must seem to

you. So I am made, and I can't help my idiosyncrasies.

Now don't mistake me. Tell me all about the spirits, only not about what

they say of _me_. I am very interested. The drawback is, that without

any sort of doubt they _personate falsely_.

We are seething in the heat. The last three days have been a composition

of Gehenna and Paradise. It is a perpetual steam bath. Yet Robert and I

have not finished our plans for escaping. Mrs. Jameson is here still,

recovering her health and spirits. The Villa hospitality goes on as

usual, and the evening before last we had tea on the terrace by a divine

sunset, with a favoring breath or two. Only even there we wished for

Lazarus's finger.

Certainly Florence will not be bearable many days longer. Write to me

though, at Florence as usual....

It is said that Hume, who is back again in Paris and under the shadow of

the Emperor's wing, has been the means of an extraordinary

manifestation, two spiritual figures, male and female, who were

_recognised_ by their friends. Five or six persons (including the

medium) fainted away at this apparition. It happened in Paris, lately.

Yes, I mistrust the mediums less than I do the spirits who write. Tell

me....

Write and tell me everything _with exceptions_ such as I have set down.

And forgive my poor brittle body, which shakes and breaks. May God love

you, dear.

Yours in true affection,

BA.

* * * * *

At the end of July, Florence had become unbearable, and the Brownings

removed, for the third time, to the Bagni di Lucca, whither they were

followed by some of their friends, notably Miss Blagden and Mr. Robert

Lytton. Unfortunately, their holiday was marred by the dangerous illness

of Lytton, which not only kept them in great anxiety for a considerable

time, but also entailed much labour in nursing on Mr. Browning and Miss

Blagden. Besides Mrs. Browning's letters, a letter from her husband to

his sister is given below, containing an account of the earlier stages

of the illness.

* * * * *

_Robert Browning to Miss Browning_

Bagni di Lucca: August 18, [1857].

Dearest,--We arrived here on the 30th last, and two or three days after

were followed by Miss Blagden, Miss Bracken, and Lytton--all for our

sake: they not otherwise wanting to come this way. Lytton arrived

unwell, got worse soon, and last Friday week was laid up with a sort of

nervous fever, caused by exposure to the sun, or something, acting on

his nervous frame: since then he has been very ill in bed--doctor,

anxiety &c. as you may suppose: they are exactly opposite us, at twelve

or fifteen feet distance only. Through sentimentality and economy

combined, Isa would have no nurse (an imbecile arrangement), and all has

been done by her, with me to help: I have sate up four nights out of the

last five, and sometimes been there nearly all day beside....[55] He is

much better to-day, taken broth, and will, I hope, have no relapse, poor

fellow: imagine what a pleasant holiday we all have! Otherwise the place

is very beautiful, and cool exceedingly. We have done nothing notable

yet, but all are very well, Peni particularly so: as for me, I bathe in

the river, a rapid little mountain stream, every morning at 6-1/2, and

find such good from the practice that I shall continue it, and whatever

I can get as like it as possible, to the end of my days, I hope: the

strength of all sorts therefrom accruing is wonderful: I thought the

shower baths perfection, but this is far above it.... I was so rejoiced

to hear from you, and think you so wise in staying another month. I sent

the 'Ath.' to 151 R. de G. Kindest love to papa: we can't get news from

England, but the Americans have paid up the rest of the money for

'Aurora:' by the by, in this new book of Ruskin's, the drawing book,[56]

he says '"Aurora Leigh" is the finest poem written in any language this

century.' There is a review of it, which I have not yet got, in the

'Rivista di Firenze' of this month. God bless you. I will write very

soon again. Do you write at once. Ba will add a word. How fortunate

about the books! How is Milsand? Pray always remember my best love to

him.

* * * * *

_E.B. Browning to Miss Browning_

[Same date.]

My dearest Sarianna,--Robert will have told you, I dare say, what a

heavy time we have had here with poor Lytton. It was imprudent of him

to come to Florence at the hottest of the year, and to expose himself

perfectly unacclimated; and the chance by which he was removed here just

in time to be nursed was happy for him and all of us. We have had great

heat in the days even here, of course--no blotting out, even by

mountains, of the Italian sun; but the cool nights extenuate very

much--refresh and heal. Now I do hope the corner is turned of the

illness. Isa Blagden has been devoted, sitting up night after night, and

Robert has sate up four nights that she might not really die at her

post. There is nothing _infectious_ in the fever, so don't be afraid.

Robert is quite well, with good appetite and good spirits, and Peni is

like a rose possessed by a fairy. They both bathe in the river, and

profit (as I am so glad you do). Not that it's a real river, though it

has a name, the _Lima_. A mere mountain stream, which curls itself up

into holes in the rocks to admit of bathing. Then, as far as they have

been able on account of Lytton, they have had riding on donkeys and

mountain ponies, Peni as bold as a lion.

[_The last words of the letter, with the signature, have been cut off_]

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

La Villa, Bagni di Lucca: August 22, [1857].

As you bid me write, my dear friend, about Lytton, I write, but I grieve

to say we are still very uneasy about him. For sixteen days he has been

prostrate with this gastric fever, and the disease is not baffled,

though the pulse is not high nor the head at all affected. Dr. Trotman,

however, is uncheerful about him--is what medical men call '_cautious_'

in giving an opinion, observing that, though _at present_ he is not in

danger, the delicacy of his constitution gives room for great

apprehension in the case of the least turning towards relapse. Robert

had been up with him during eight nights, and Isa Blagden eight nights.

Nothing can exceed her devotion to him by night or day. We have

persuaded her, however, at last to call in a nurse for the nights. I am

afraid for Robert, and in fact a trained nurse can do certain things

better than the most zealous and tender friend can pretend to do. You

may suppose how saddened we all are. Dear Lytton! At intervals he talks

and can hear reading, but this morning he is lower again. In fact, from

the first he has been very apprehensive about himself--inclined to talk

of divine things, of the state of his soul and God's love, and to hold

this life but slackly.

I feel I am writing a horrible account to you. You will conclude the

worst from it, and that is what I don't want you to do. The pulse has

never been high, and is now much lower, and if he can be kept from a

relapse he will live. I pray God he may live. He is not altered in the

face, and Dr. Trotman reiterated this morning, 'There _is no_ danger at

present.'

You are better. I thank God for it. Oh, yes, it is very beautiful, that

cathedral. The weather here is cool and enjoyable by day even. At nights

it is really cold, and I _have_ thought of a blanket once or twice as of

a thing tolerable. I will write again when there is a change. The course

of the fever may extend to six days more.

Your ever most affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

Thursday, [end of August 1857].

Dearest Friend,--I think it better to inclose to you this letter which

has come to your address. Thank you for your kind words about Lytton,

which will be very soothing to him. He continues better, and is

preparing to take his first drive to-day, for half an hour, with his

_nurse_ and Robert. See how weak he must be, and the hollow cheeks and

temples remain as signs of the past. Still, he is convalescent, and

begins to think of poems and apple puddings in a manner other than

celestial. I do thank God that our anxieties have ended so.

Robert bathes in the river every morning, which does him great good;

besides the rides at mornings and evenings on mountain ponies with

Annette Bracken and a Crimean hero (as Mrs. Stisted has it), who has

turned up at the hotel, with one leg and so many agreeable and amiable

qualities that everybody is charmed with him.

Robert had a letter from Chapman yesterday. Not much news. He speaks of

two penny papers, sold lately, after making the fortune of their

proprietors, for twenty-five and thirty-five thousand pounds. If Robert

'could but write bad enough,' says the learned publisher, he should

recommend one of them. But even Charles Reade was found too good, and

the sale fell ten thousand in a few weeks on account of a serial tale of

his, so he had to make place to his _worses_. Chapman hears of a

'comprehensive review' being about to appear in the 'Westminster' on

'Aurora,' whether for or against he cannot tell. The third edition sells

well.

So happy I am to hear that Mr. Procter's son is safe. We saw his name in

the 'Galignani,' and were alarmed. Lytton has heard from Forster, but I

had no English news from the letter. I get letters from my sisters which

make me feel '_froissée_' all over, except that they seem pretty well.

My eldest brother has returned from Jamaica, and has taken a place with

a Welsh name on the Welsh borders for three years--what I knew he would

do. He wrote me some tender words, dear fellow....

May God bless you!

Yours in much love, BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

La Villa, Bagni di Lucca:

September 14, 1857 [postmark].

My dearest Fanny,--A letter from me will have crossed yours and told you

of all our misadventures. It has been a summer to me full of blots,

vexations, anxieties; and if, in spite of everything, I am physically

stronger for the fresh air and smell of green leaves, that's a proof

that soul and body are two.

Our friends of the hotel went away last Saturday, and I have a letter

from Isa Blagden with a good account of Lytton. He goes back to Villa

Bricchieri, where they are to house together, unless Sir Edward comes

down (which he may do) to catch up his son and change the plan. Isa has

not quite killed herself with nursing him, a little of her being still

left to express what has been.

Now, dear Fanny, I am going to try to tell you of _our_ plans. No,

'plans' is not the word; our thoughts are in the purely elemental state

so far. But we _think_ of going to Rome (or Naples) at the far end of

November, and of staying here as many days deep into October meanwhile

as the cold mountain air will let us. On leaving this place we go to

Florence and wait. Unless, indeed (which is possible too), we go to

Egypt and the Holy Land, in which case we shall not remain where we are

beyond the end of September....

I never could consent to receive my theology or any other species of

guidance, in fact--from the 'spirits,' so called. I have no more

confidence, apart from my own conscience and discretionary selection, in

spirits out of the body than in those embodied. The submission of the

whole mind and judgment carries you in either case to the pope--or to

the devil. So _I_ think. Don't let them bind you hand and foot. Resist.

Be yourself. Also where (as in the medium-writing) you have the human

mixture to evolve the spiritual sentiment from, the insecurity becomes

doubly insecure....

Your ever affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

The end of the time at the Bagni di Lucca was clouded by another

anxiety, caused by the illness of Penini. It was not, however, a long

one, and early in October the whole party was able to return to

Florence, where they remained throughout the winter and the following

spring. Letters of this period are, however, scarce, and there is

nothing particular to record concerning it. Since the publication of

'Aurora Leigh,' Mrs. Browning had been taking a holiday from poetical

composition; indeed she never resumed it on a large scale, and published

no other volume save the 'Poems before Congress,' which were the fruit

of a later period of special excitement. She had put her whole self into

'Aurora Leigh,' and seemed to have no further message to give to

mankind. It is evident, too, that her strength was already beginning to

decline and the various family and public anxieties which followed 1856

made demands on what remained of it too great to allow of much

application to poetry.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

[Bagni di Lucca:] Monday, September 28, [1857].

You will understand too well why I have waited some days before

answering your letter, dearest Fanny, though you bade me write at once,

when I tell you that my own precious Penini has been ill with gastric

fever and is even now confined to his bed. Eleven days ago, when he was

looking like a live rose and in an exaggeration of spirits, he proposed

to go with me, to run by my portantina in which I went to pay a visit

some mile and a half away. The portantini men walked too fast for him,

and he was tired and heated. Then, while I paid my visit, he played by

the river with a child of the house, and returned with me in the dusk.

He complained of being tired during the return, and I took him up into

my portantina for ten minutes. He was over-tired, however, over-heated,

over-chilled, and the next day had fever and complained of his head. We

did not think much of it; and the morning after he seemed so recovered

that we took him with us to dine in the mountains with some American

friends (the Eckleys--did you hear of them in Rome?)--twenty miles in

the carriage, and ten miles on donkey-back. He was in high spirits, and

came home at night singing at the top of his voice--probably to keep off

the creeping sense of illness, for he has confessed since that he felt

unwell even then. The next day the fever set in. The medical man doubted

whether it was measles, scarlatina, or what; but soon the symptoms took

the decisive aspect. He has been in bed, strictly confined to bed, since

last Sunday-week night--strictly confined, except for one four hours,

after which exertion he had a relapse. It is the same fever as Mr.

Lytton's, only not as severe, I thank God; the attacks coming on at

nights chiefly, and terrifying us, as you may suppose. The child's

sweetness and goodness, too, his patience and gentleness, have been very

trying. He said to me, 'You pet! don't be unhappy for _me_. Think it's a

poor little boy in the street, and be just only a little sorry, and not

unhappy at all.' Well, we may thank God that the bad time seems passed.

He is still in bed, but it is a matter of precaution chiefly. The fever

is quite in abeyance--has been for two days, and we have all to be

grateful for two most tranquil nights. He amuses himself in putting maps

together, and cutting out paper, and packing up his desk to _go to

Florence_, which is the _idée fixe_ just now. In fact when he can be

moved we shall not wait here a day, for the rains have set in, and the

dry elastic air of Florence will be excellent for him. The medical man

(an Italian) promises us almost that we may be able to go in a week

from this time; but we won't hurry, we will run no risks. For some days

he has been allowed no other sort of nourishment but ten

dessert-spoonfuls of thin broth twice a day--literally nothing; not a

morsel of bread, not a drop of tea, nothing. Even now the only change

is, a few more spoonfuls of the same broth. It is hard, for his appetite

cries out aloud; and he has agonising visions of beefsteak pies and

buttered toast seen in _mirage_. Still his spirits don't fail on the

whole and now that the fever is all but gone, they rise, till we have to

beg him to be quiet and not to talk so much. He had the flower-girl in

by his bedside yesterday, and it was quite impossible to help laughing,

so many Florentine airs did he show off. 'Per Bacco, ho una fame

terribile, e non voglio aver più pazienza con questo Dottore.' The

doctor, however, seems skilful....

But you may think how worn out I have been in body and soul, and how

under these circumstances we think little of Jerusalem or of any other

place but our home at Florence. Still, we shall probably pass the winter

either at Rome or Naples, but I know no more than a swaddled baby which.

Also we _shan't_ know, probably, till the end of November, when we take

out our passports. Doubt is our element....

I must go to my Peni. I am almost happy about him now. And yet--oh, his

lovely rosy cheeks, his round fat little shoulders, his strength and

spring of a month ago!--at the best, we must lose our joy and pride in

these for a time. May God bless you! I know you will feel for me, and

that makes me so egotistical.

Your ever affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss Browning_

[Florence: February 1858.]

My dearest Sarianna,--Robert is going to write to dear M. Milsand, whose

goodness is 'passing that of men,' of all common friends certainly.

Robert's thanks are worth more than mine, and so I shall leave it to

Robert to thank him.

The 'grippe' has gripped us here most universally, and no wonder,

considering our most exceptional weather; and better the grippe than the

fever which preceded it. Such cold has not been known here for years,

and it has extended throughout the south, it seems, to Rome and Naples,

where people are snowed and frozen up. So strange. The Arno, for the

first time since '47, has had a slice or two of ice on it. Robert has

suffered from the prevailing malady, which did not however, through the

precautions we took, touch his throat or chest, amounting only to a bad

cold in the head. Peni was afflicted in the same way but in a much

slighter degree, and both are now quite well. As for me I have caught no

cold--only losing my breath and my soul in the usual way, the cough not

being much. So that we have no claim, any of us, on your compassion, you

see....

I think, I think Miss Blackwell has succeeded in frightening you a

little. In the case of _chaos_, she will fly to England, I suppose; and

even there she may fall on a refugee plot; for I have seen a letter of

Mazzini's in which it was written that people stood on ruins in England,

and that at any moment there might be a crash! Certainly, confusion in

Paris would be followed by confusion in Italy and everywhere on the

Continent at least, so I should never think of running away, let what

might happen. In '52 and '53, when we were in Paris, there was more

danger than _could_ arise now, under a successful plot even; for, even

if the Emperor fell, the people and the army seem prepared to stand by

the dynasty. Also, public order has attained to some of the force of an

habitual thing.

As to the crime,[57] it has no more sympathy here than in France--be

sure of that. That unscrupulous bad party is repudiated by this

majority--by this people as a mass. I hear nothing but lamentations

that Italians should be dishonored so by their own hands. Father Prout

says that the Emperor's speech is 'the most heroic document of this

century,' and in my mind the praise is merited. So indignant I feel with

Mazzini and all who name his name and walk in his steps, that I couldn't

find it in my heart to write (as I was going to do) to that poor

bewitched Jessie on her marriage. Really, when I looked at the pen, I

_couldn't move it_....

Best love from

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

Florence: March 27 [1858]

This moment I take up my pen to write to you, my dearest Mrs. Martin.

Did you not receive a long letter I wrote to you in Paris? No? Answer me

categorically....

And you are not very strong, even now? That grieves me. But here is the

sun to make us all strong. For my part, my chest has not been

particularly wrong this winter, nor my cough too troublesome. But the

weight of the whole year heavy with various kinds of trouble, added to a

trying winter, seems to have stamped out of me the vital fluid, and I am

physically low, to a degree which makes me glad of renewed opportunities

of getting the air; and I mean to do little but drive out for some time.

It does not answer to be mastered so. For months I have done nothing but

dream and read French and German romances; and the result (of learning a

good deal of German) isn't the most useful thing in the world one can

attain to. Then, of course, I teach Peni for an hour or so. He reads

German, French, and, of course, Italian, and plays on the piano

remarkably well, for which Robert deserves the chief credit. A very

gentle, sweet child he is; sweet to look at and listen to; affectionate

and good to live with, a real 'treasure' so far. His passion is music;

and as we are afraid of wearing his brain, we let him give most of his

study-time to the piano.

So you want me, you expect me, I suppose, to approve of the miserable,

undignified, unconscientious doings in England on the conspiracy

question?[58] No, indeed. I would rather we had lost ten battles than

stultified ourselves in the House of Commons with Brummagem brag and

Derby intrigues before the eyes of Europe and America. It seems to me

utterly pitiful. I hold that the most susceptible of nations should not

reasonably have been irritated by the Walewski despatch, which was

absolutely true in its statement of facts. Ah, dearest friend, _how_

true I know better than you do; for I know of knowledge how this

doctrine of assassination is held by chief refugees and communicated to

their disciples in England--yes, to noble hearts, and to English hands

still innocent--my very soul has bled over these things. With my own

ears I have heard them justified. For nights I have been disturbed in my

sleep with the thoughts of them. In the name of liberty, which I love,

and of the Democracy, which I honour, I protest against them. And if

such things can be put down, I hold they should be put down; and that

the Conspiracy Bill is the smallest and lightest step that can be taken

towards the putting down. For the rest, the great Derby intrigue, as

shown in its acts, and as resulting in its State papers, nothing in

history, it seems to me, was ever so small and mean.

What I think of _him_? Why, I think he is the only great man of his age,

speaking of public men. I think 'Napoleon III devant le peuple anglais'

a magnificent State paper. I confess to you it drew the tears to my eyes

as I read it. So grand, so calm, so simply true!

And now with regard to Switzerland. You must remember that there is such

a thing as an international law, and that only last year the Swiss

appealed in virtue of it to France about the Neufchâtel refugees, and

that France received and acted on that appeal. The very translation of

the French despatch adds to the injustice done to it in England; because

'_insister_' does not mean to 'insist upon a thing being done,' but to

'urge it upon one's attention.'

'The Times,' 'The Times.' Why, 'The Times' has intellect, but no

conscience. 'The Times' is the most immoral of journals, as well as the

most able. 'The Times,' on this very question of the Conspiracy Bill,

has swerved, and veered, and dodged, till its readers may well be dizzy

if they read every paragraph every day.

See how I fall into a fury. 'Oh, Liberty! I would cry, like the woman

who did not love liberty more than I do--'Oh, Liberty, what deeds are

done in thy name!' and (looking round Italy) what sorrows are suffered!

For I do fear that Mazzini is at the root of the evil; that man of

unscrupulous theory!

Now you will be enough disgusted with me. Tell me that you and dear Mr.

Martin forgive me. I never saw Orsini, but have heard and known much of

him. Unfortunate man. He died better than he lived--it is all one can

say. Surely you admit that the permission to read that letter on the

trial was large-hearted. And it has vexed Austria to the last degree, I

am happy to say. It was not allowed to be read here, by the Italian

public, I mean.

Our plans are perfectly undefined, but we do hope to escape England....

Robert talks of Egypt for the winter. I don't know what may happen; and

in the meantime would rather not be pulled and pulled by kind people in

England, who want me or fancy they do. You know everybody is as free as

I am now, and freer; and if they do want me, and it isn't fancy--never

mind! We may see you perhaps, in Paris, after all, this summer....

Now let me tell you. Hume, my _protégé_ prophet, is in Italy. Think of

that. He was in Pisa and in Florence for a day, saw friends of his and

acquaintances of ours with whom he stayed four months on the last

occasion, and who implicitly believe in him. An Englishwoman, who from

infidel opinions was converted by his instrumentality to a belief in the

life after death, has died in Paris, and left him an annuity of £240,

English. On coming here, he paid all his wandering debts, I am glad to

hear, and is even said to have returned certain _gifts_ which had been

rendered unacceptable to him from the bad opinion of the givers. I hear,

too, that his manners, as well as morals, are wonderfully improved. He

is gone to Rome, and will return here to pay a visit to his friends in

Florence after a time. The object of his coming was health. While he

passed through Tuscany, the _power_ seemed to be leaving him, but he has

recovered it tenfold, says my informant, so I hope we shall hear of more

wonders. Did you read the article in the 'Westminster'? The subject _se

prête au ridicule_, but ridicule is not disproof. The Empress Eugénie

protects his little sister, and has her educated in Paris.

Surely I have made up for silence. Dearest friends, both of you, may God

bless you!

Your affectionate

BA.

Robert's love and Peni's.

* * * * *

In the summer of 1858 an expedition was made to France, in order to

visit Mr. Browning's father and sister; but no attempt was made to

extend the journey into England. In fact, the circle of their flights

from Florence was becoming smaller; and as 1856 saw Mrs. Browning's last

visit to England, so 1858 saw her last visit to France, or, indeed,

beyond the borders of Italy at all. It was only a short visit, too,--not

longer than the usual expeditions into the mountains to escape the

summer heat of Florence. In the beginning of July they reached Paris,

where they stayed at the Hôtel Hyacinthe, rue St. Honoré, for about a

fortnight, before going on to Havre in company with old Mr. Browning and

Miss Browning. There they remained until September, when they returned

to Paris for about a month, and thence, early in October, set out for

Italy.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

Hôtel Hyacinthe, St. Honoré:

Wednesday and Thursday, July 8, 1858 [postmark].

My dearest Fanny,--The scene changes. No more cypresses, no more

fireflies, no more dreaming repose on burning hot evenings. Push out the

churches, push in the boulevards. Here I am, sitting alone at this

moment, in an hotel near the Tuileries, where we have taken an apartment

for a week, a pretty salon, with the complement of velvet sofas, and

arm-chairs, and looking-glasses, and bedrooms to correspond, with clocks

at distances of three yards, as if the time was in desperate danger of

forgetting itself--which it is, of course. Paris looks more splendid

than ever, and we were not too much out of breath with fatigue, on our

arrival last night, to admit of various cries of admiration from all of

us. It is a wonderfully beautiful city; and wonderfully cold considering

the climate we came from. Think of our finding ourselves forced into

winter suits, and looking wistfully at the grate. I did so this morning.

But now there is sunshine.

We had a prosperous journey, except the sea voyage which prostrated all

of us--_Annunziata_, to 'the lowest deep' of misery. At Marseilles we

slept, and again at Lyons and Dijon, taking express trains the whole

way, so that there was as little fatigue as possible; and what with the

reviving change of air and these precautions, I felt less tired

throughout the journey than I have sometimes felt at Florence after a

long drive and much talking. We had scarcely any companions in the

carriages, and were able to stretch to the full longitude of us--a

comfort always; and I had 'Madame Ancelot,' and 'Doit et Avoir,' which

dropped into my bag from Isa's kind fingers on the last evening, and we

gathered 'Galignanis' and 'Illustrations' day by day. Travelling has

really become a luxury. I feel the _repose_ of it chiefly. Yes, no

possibility of unpleasant visitors! no fear of horrible letters! quite

lifted above the plane of bad news, or of the expectation of bad news,

which is nearly the same thing. There you are, shut in, in a carriage!

Quite out of reach of the telegraph even, which you mock at as you run

alongside the wires.

Yes, but some visitors, some faces, and voices are missed. And

altogether I was very sad at leaving my Italy, oh, very sad!...

Tell me how you like 'up in the villa' life, and how long you shall bear

it.

Paris! I have not been out of the house, except when I came into it. But

to-day, Thursday, I mean to drive out a little with Robert. You know I

have a _weakness_ for Paris, and a _passion_ for Italy; which would

operate thus, perhaps, that I could easily stay here when once here, if

there was but a sun to stay with me. We are in admiration, all of us, at

everything, from cutlets to costumes. On the latter point I shall give

myself great airs over you barbarians presently--no offence to

Zerlinda--and, to begin, pray draw your bonnets more over your faces.

I would rather send this bit than wait, as I did not write to you from

Marseilles.

May God bless you! If you knew how happy I think you for being in

Italy--if you knew.

I shiver with the cold. I tie up three loves to send you from

Your truly affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

Hôtel Hyacinthe, St. Honoré, Paris:

Thursday [July 8, 1858].

My dearest dear Isa,--We are here, having lost nothing--neither a carpet

bag nor a bit of our true love for you. We arrived the evening before

last, and this letter should have been written yesterday if I hadn't

been interrupted. Such a pleasant journey we had, after the curse of the

sea! ('_Where there shall be no more sea_' beautifies the thought of

heaven to me. But Frederick Tennyson's prophets shall compound for as

many railroads as they please.)

In fact, we did admirably by land. We were of unbridled extravagance,

and slept both at Lyons and Dijon, and travelled by express trains

besides, so that we were almost alone the whole way, and able to lie at

full length and talk and read, and 'Doit et Avoir' did duty by me, I

assure you--to say nothing of 'Galignanis' and French newspapers. I was

nearly sorry to arrive, and Robert suggested the facility of 'travelling

on for ever so.' He (by help of _nux_) was in a heavenly state of mind,

and never was the French people--public manners, private customs,

general bearing, hostelry, and cooking, more perfectly appreciated than

by him and all of us. Judge of the courtesy and liberality. _One_ box

had its lid opened, and when Robert disclaimed smuggling, 'Je vous

crois, monsieur' dismissed the others. Then the passport was never

looked at after a glance at Marseilles. I am thinking of writing to the

'Times,' or should be if I could keep my temper.

So you see, dear Isa, I am really very well for me to be so pert. Yes,

indeed, I am very well. The journey did not overtire me, and change of

air had its usual reviving effect. Also, Robert keeps boasting of his

influx of energies, and his appetite is renewed. We have resolved

nothing about our sea plans, but have long lists of places, and find it

difficult to choose among so many enchanting paradises, with drawbacks

of 'dearness,' &c. &c. Meanwhile we are settled comfortably in an hotel

close to the Tuileries, in a pretty salon and pleasant bedrooms, for

which we don't pay exorbitantly, taken for a week, and we shall probably

outstay the week. Robert has the deep comfort of finding his father, on

whose birthday we arrived, looking ten years younger--really, I may say

so--and radiant with joy at seeing him and Peni. Dear Mr. Browning and

Sarianna will go with us wherever we go, of course.

Paris looks more beautiful than ever, and we were not too dead to see

this as we drove through the streets on Wednesday evening. The

development of architectural splendour everywhere is really a sight

worth coming to see, even from Italy. Observe, I always feel the charm.

And yet I yearn back to my Florence--the dearer the farther.

We slept at Dijon, where Robert, in a passion of friendship, went out

twice to stand before Maison Milsand (one of the shows of the town), and

muse and bless the threshold. Little did he dream that Milsand was there

at that moment, having been called suddenly from Paris by the dangerous

illness of his mother. So we miss our friend; but we shall not, I think,

altogether, for he talked of following us to the sea, Sarianna says, and

even if he is restrained from doing this, we shall pass some little time

in Paris on our return, and so see him....

Mrs. Jameson is here, but goes on Saturday to England.

[_Incomplete_]

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

2 Rue de Perry, Le Havre, Maison Versigny:

July 23, 1858 [postmark].

My dearest Fanny,-- ... I gave you an account of our journey to Paris,

which I won't write over again, especially as you may have read some

things like it. In Paris we remained a fortnight except a day, and I

liked it as I always like Paris, for which I have a decided fancy. And

yet I did nothing, except in one shop, and in a fiacre driving round and

round, and sometimes at a restaurant, dining round and round. But Paris

is so full of life--murmurs so of the fountain of intellectual youth for

ever and ever--that rolling up the rue de Rivoli (much more the

Boulevards) suggests a quicker beat of the fancy's heart; and I like

it--I like it. The architectural beauty is wonderful. Give me Venice on

water, Paris on land--each in its way is a dream city. If one had but

the sun there--such a sun as one has in Italy! Or if one had no lungs

here--such lungs as are in me. But no. Under actual circumstances

something different from Paris must satisfy me. Also, when all's said

and sighed. I love Italy--I love my Florence. I love that 'hole of a

place,' as Father Prout called it lately--with all its dust, its

cobwebs, its spiders even, I love it, and with somewhat of the kind of

blind, stupid, respectable, obstinate love which people feel when they

talk of 'beloved native lands.' I feel this for Italy, by mistake for

England. Florence is my chimney-corner, where I can sulk and be happy.

But you haven't come to that yet. In spite of which, you will like the

Baths of Lucca, just as you like Florence, for certain advantages--for

the exquisite beauty, and the sense of abstraction from the vulgarities

and vexations of the age, which is the secret of the strange charm of

the south, perhaps--who knows? And yet there are vulgarities and

vexations even in Tuscany, if one digs for them--or doesn't dig,

sometimes....

In Paris we saw Father Prout, who was in great force and kindness, and

Charles Sumner, passing through the burning torture under the hands of

French surgeons, which is approved of by the brains of English surgeons.

Do you remember the Jesuit's agony, in the 'Juif Errant'? Precisely

that. Exposed to the living coal for seven minutes, and the burns taking

six weeks to heal. Mr. Sumner refused chloroform--from some foolish

heroic principle, I imagine, and suffered intensely. Of course he is not

able to stir for some time after the operation, and can't read or sleep

from the pain. Now, he is just 'healed,' and is allowed to travel for

two months, after which he is to return and be burned again. Isn't it a

true martyrdom? I ask. What is apprehended is paralysis, or at best

nervous infirmity for life, from the effect of the blows (on the spine)

of that savage.

Then, just as we arrived in Paris, dear Lady Elgin had another 'stroke,'

and was all but gone. She rallied, however, with her wonderful vitality,

and we left her sitting in her garden, fixed to the chair, of course,

and not able to speak a word, nor even to gesticulate distinctly, but

with the eloquent soul full and radiant, alive to both worlds. Robert

and I sate there, talking politics and on other subjects, and there she

sate and let no word drop unanswered by her bright eyes and smile. It

was a beautiful sight. Robert fed her with a spoon from her soup-plate,

and she signed, as well as she could, that he should kiss her forehead

before he went away. She was always so fond of Robert, as women are apt

to be, you know--even _I_, a little....

Forster wrote the other day, melancholy with the misfortunes of his

friends, though he doesn't name Dickens. Landor had just fled to his

(Forster's) house in London for protection from _an action for libel_.

See what a letter I have written. Write to me, dearest Fanny, and love

me. Oh, how glad I shall be to be back among you again in my Florence!

Your ever affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

Maison Versigny, 2 Rue de Perry, Le Havre:

July 24, 1858 [postmark].

Dearest Mona Nina,--Have you rather wondered at not hearing? We have

been a-wandering, a-wandering over the world--have been to Étretat and

failed, and now are ignominiously settled at Havre--yes, at Havre, the

name of which we should have scorned a week ago as a mere roaring

commercial city. But after all, as sometimes I say with originality,

'civilisation is a good thing.' The country about Étretat is very

pretty, and the coast picturesque with fantastic rocks, but the

accommodation dear in proportion to its badness; which I do believe is

the case everywhere with places, now and then even with persons--dear in

proportion to their badness. We could get three bedrooms, a salon, and

kitchen, one opening into another and no other access, and the kitchen

presenting the first door, all furnished exactly alike, except that

where the bedroom had a bed the kitchen had a stove; wooden chairs _en

suite_, not an inch of carpet, and just an inch of looking-glass in the

best bedroom. View, a potato-patch, and price two hundred francs a

month. Robert took it in a 'fine phrenzy,' on which I rebelled, and made

him give it up on a sacrifice of ten francs, which was the only cheap

thing in the place, as far as I observed anything. Also, the bay is so

restricted that whoever takes a step is 'commanded' by all the windows

of the primitive hotel and the few villas, and as people have nothing

whatever to do but to look at you, you may imagine the perfection of the

analysis. I should have been a fly in a microscope, feeling my legs and

arms counted on all sides, and receiving no comfort from the scientific

results. So, you see, we 'gave it up' and came here in a sort of

despair, meaning to take the railroad to Dieppe; when lo! our examining

forces find that the place here is very tenable, and we take a house

close to the sea (though the view is interrupted) in a green garden, and

quite away from a suggestion of streets and commerce. The bathing is

good, we have a post-office and reading-rooms at our elbow, and nothing

distracting of any kind. The house is large and airy, and our two

families are lodged in separate apartments, though we meet at dinner in

our dining-room. Certainly the country immediately around Havre is not

pretty, but we came for the sea after all, and the sea is open and

satisfactory. Robert has found a hole I can creep through to the very

shore, without walking many yards, and there I can sit on a bench and

get strength, if so it pleases God.

Have I not sent you a full account of us? Now if you would return me a

cent. per cent.--_soll und haben_. I want so much to know all about

you--how you feel, dearest friend, and how you are. Do write and tell me

of yourself. May God bless you ever and ever!

Your affectionate and grateful

BA.

* * * * *

_To Madame Braun_

2 Rue do Perry, Le Havre, Maison Versigny:

August 10 [1858].

My dearest Madame Braun,--If you have not heard from me before, it has

not been that I have not thought of you anxiously and tenderly, but I

had the idea that so many must be thinking of you, and saying to you

with sad faces 'they were sorry,' that I kept away, not to be the one

too many. It seems so vain when we sympathise with a suffering friend.

And yet it is _something_--oh yes, I have felt that! But you _knew_ I

must feel for you, if I teased you with words or not; and I, for my

part, hearing of you from others, felt shy, as I say, till I heard you

were better, of writing to you myself. And you _are_ feeling better,

Mrs. Jameson tells me, and are somewhat more cheerful about your state.

I thank God for this good news....

One of the few reasons for which I regret our absence from England this

summer is that I miss seeing you with my own eyes, and I should like

much to see you and talk to you of things of interest to both of us. If

illness suppresses in us a few sources of pleasure, it leaves the real

_ich_ open to influences and keen-sighted to _facts_ which are as surely

_natural_ as the fly's wing, though we are apt to consider them vaguely

as 'supernatural.'

'More and more life is what we want' Tennyson wrote long ago, and that

is the right want. Indifference to life is disease, and therefore not

strength. But the life here is only half the apple--a cut out of the

apple, I should say, merely meant to suggest the perfect round of

fruit--and there is in the world now, I can testify to you, _scientific

proof_ that what we call death is a mere change of circumstances, a

change of dress, a mere breaking of the outside shell and husk. This

subject is so much the most interesting to me of all, that I can't help

writing of it to you. Among all the ways of progress along which the

minds of men are moving, this draws me most. There is much folly and

fanaticism, unfortunately, because foolish men and women do not cease to

be foolish when they hit upon a truth. There was a man who hung

bracelets upon plane trees. But it was a tree--it is a

truth--notwithstanding; yes, and so much a truth that in twenty years

the probability is you will have no more doubters of the immortality of

souls, and no more need of Platos to prove it.

We have come here to dip _me_ in warm sea-water, in order to an

improvement in strength, for I have been very weak and unwell of late,

as perhaps Mrs. Jameson has told you. But the sea and the change have

brought me up again, as I hope they may yourself, and now I am looking

forward to getting back to Italy for the winter, and perhaps to Rome.

Did you know Lady Elgin in Paris? She has been hopelessly, in the

opinion of her physicians, affected by paralysis, but is now better, her

daughter writes to me. A most remarkable person Lady Elgin is. We left

her sitting in her garden, not able to speak--to articulate one

word--but with one of the most radiant happy faces I ever saw in man or

woman. I think I remember that you knew her. Her salon was one of the

most agreeable in Paris, and she herself, with her mixture of learning

and simplicity, one of the most interesting persons in it....

Dearest Madame Braun, I won't think of the possibility even of your

writing to me, so little do I expect to hear. Indeed, I would not write

if I considered it would entail writing upon _you_. Only believe that I

tenderly regard and think of you, and always shall. May God bless you,

my dear friend! Your attached

ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.

* * * * *

The following letter was written at Paris during the stay there which

intervened between leaving Havre and the return to Florence:

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

6 Rue de Castiglione, Place Vendôme, Paris:

October 2 [1858].

My dearest Isa,--I am saddened, saddened by your letter. We both are.

Indeed, this last news from India must have struck--I know it did.

Still, to your generous nature, long regret for your dear Louisa will be

impossible; and you, so given to forget yourself, will come to forget a

grief which is only your own. For she was in the world as not of it, in

a painful sense; she was cut off from the cheerful, natural development

of ordinary human beings; and if, as was probable, the conviction of

this dreary fact had fastened on her mind, the result would have been

perhaps demoralising, certainly depressing, more and more. Rather praise

God for her therefore, dearest Isa, that she is gone above the cloud,

gone where she can exercise active virtues and charities, instead of

being the mild patient object of the charities and virtues of her

friends. Perhaps she ministers to _you_ now instead of being ministered

to by you, while the remembrance of her life on earth is tenderly united

to you ever, a proof before men and angels that _your_ life (whatever

you may please to say of yourself) has not been useless, nor barren of

good and tender deeds....

In this letter and the last (such depressed letters!) you compare your

own fate with that of some others with an injustice which God measures,

and which I too have knowledge of. Isa, you speak you know not what. Be

sure of one thing, however, that God has not been niggardly towards you,

and that He never made a creature for which He did not make the work

suited to its hand. He never made a creature necessarily useless, nor

gave a life which it was not sin on the creature's part to hold

unthankfully and throw back as a poor gift. Your excellent understanding

will work clear your spirits presently. Some of those whom you think

enviable, if they showed you their secret griefs, unsuspected by you,

would leave tears in your eyes for _them_, not _you_. Every heart knows

its own bitterness, and God knows when the bitterest drop is necessary

for the heart's health. May He bless you, love you, teach you,

strengthen you, make you serene and bright in Him, dear, dear Isa. I

have spoken as to a sister; I have spoken as to my own soul in an hour

of faintness. Let us take courage, Isa.

Dear, I had just folded up your parcel for Miss Alexander that my

brother George should take it to-morrow. It has been my first

opportunity for England--at least, for London. But now I will carry it

back to you....

Arabel stays with me till we go, which will be in a fortnight perhaps

from now. We have an apartment in an exquisite situation, two paces from

the Tuileries Gardens, first floor, three best bedrooms and two

servants' rooms, a closet of a dining-room, a salon--all small, but

exquisitely comfortable and Parisian, looking into a court though, and

we are not tempted to stay the winter. No; we return to Florence

faithfully. Write again, and be happy, Isa; it is as if I said _be

good_. Tell me, can it be true that Lytton is in Florence with his

mother, as Father Prout assures us on the authority of Lady Walpole?...

Write to your ever, in word and deed, loving

BA.

* * * * *

In October the travellers were back in Florence, but this time only for

a short stay of some six weeks, since it was decided that Rome would be

more suitable to Mrs. Browning's failing health during the winter. On

November 24 they reached Rome, and for the next six months were

quartered, as in the winter of 1853-4, at No. 43 Via Bocca di Leone.

Here it was that they heard the first mutterings of the storm which was

to burst during the following year and to result in the making of Italy.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

Casa Guidi: Saturday [about October 1858].

You do not come, dearest Fanny, though I am here waiting, and I begin to

be uneasy about you. Do at least write, do. We have been here since

Tuesday, and here is Saturday, and every morning there has been an

anxious looking forward for you....

Miss ---- wrote to me in Paris to propose travelling with us, which

Robert lacked chivalry to accede to; and, in fact, our ways of

journeying are too uncertain to admit of arrangements with anyone beyond

our circle. For instance, we took nine days to get here from Paris,

spending only one day at Chambéry, for the sake of Les Charmettes and

Rousseau. Robert played the 'Dream' on the old harpsichord, the keys of

which rattled in a ghastly way, as if it were the bones of him who once

so 'dreamed.' Then there was the old watch hung up, without a tick in

it. At St. Jean de Maurienne we got into difficulties with diligences,

and submitted to being thrown out for the night at Lanslebourg, I more

dead than alive, and indeed I suffered much in passing the mountain next

morning. Then again, on the sea, we had a _burrasca_, and the captain

had half a mind when half-way to Leghorn to turn back to Genoa.

Passengers much frightened, including me, a little. A wretched

Neapolitan boat, with a machine 'inclined to go to the devil every time

the wind went anywhere,' as I heard a French gentleman on board say

afterwards. Altogether we were so done up after eighteen hours of it,

that we stayed at Leghorn instead of going on straight to Florence.

Still, now I seem to have got over fatigue and the rest--and we keep our

faces turned undeviatingly to Rome. Mdme. du Quaire having carefully

apprised M. Mignaty that we left Paris on the thirteenth, our friends

here seem to have made up their minds that we had perished by land or

water, and Annunziata's poor sister had passed three days in tears, for

instance.

Now, dearest Fanny, let me confess to you. I have not brought the

bonnet. A bonnet is a personal matter, and I would not let anyone choose

one for _me_. Still, as you had more faith in man (or woman), I would

have risked even displeasing you, only Robert would not let me. He said

it was absurd--I 'did not know your size;' I 'could not know your

taste;' in fact, he would not let me. Perhaps after all it is better.

You shall see mine, which is the last novelty, and I will tell you the

results of having investigated the bonnet question generally. I was told

at a fashionable shop that hats might be worn out of one's teens; but

in Paris, let me hasten to add, you don't see hats walking about except

on the heads of small girls. In Rome it may be otherwise, as at the

seaside it was. Bonnets are a great deal larger, but you shall see.

Oh, so glad I am to be back--so glad, so glad!

And so happy I shall be to see you, dearest Fanny, whom, till now, I

have not thanked for the pretty, pretty sketch. I recognised the persons

at a glance, you threw into them so much character....

Your ever most affectionate

E.B.B.

* * * * *

_To Miss Browning_

[Florence: about November 1858.]

Robert's uncertainty about Rome, my dearest Sarianna, has led him into

delay of writing. We dropped here upon summer, and a few days

afterwards, just as suddenly, the winter dropped upon _us_. Such

wonderful weather, such cold, such snow--enough to strangle one. The

rain has come, however, to-day, and though everything feels wretched

enough, and I am languid about schemes of travelling, we talk of going

next week, should nothing hinder.

'If it be possible

After much grief and pain.'

Peni would rather stay, I believe. His Florence is in his heart still.

Robert will have told you about his bust,[59] which is exquisite in the

clay, and will be exhibited in London in the marble next May. The

likeness, the poetry, the ideal grace and infantile reality are all

there. I am so happy to have it. I set about teasing Robert till he gave

it to me, and, as he really loses nothing thereby, I accepted at once,

as you may suppose. I would rather have given up Rome and had the bust;

but the artist was generous, and would only accept what would cover the

expenses, twenty-five guineas. He said he 'would not otherwise do it for

us, as he asked in the first place to be allowed to make the sketch in

clay, and would not appear to have laid a trap for an order.' So we are

all three very happy and grateful to one another--which is pleasant. I

feel the most obliged perhaps of the three--obliged to the other

two--and ought to be, after the napoleons dropt in Paris, Sarianna!

Oh no; the sea was necessary from Genoa. The expense of the journey

would have been very much increased if we had taken the whole way by

land, and it was a great thing to escape that rough Gulf of Lyons. The

journey to Rome will be rendered easy to Robert's pocket by the

extraordinary chance of Mr. Eckley's empty carriage, otherwise the

repeated pulls might have pulled us down too low.

Peni will write to you. He loves his nonno and you very much--tell

nonno; and my love goes with my message.

May God bless both of you! Love to M. Milsand.

Your affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_Robert Browning to Miss Browning_

Rome, 43 Bocca di Leone:

Friday, November 26, 1858 [postmark].

Dearest Sis,--You received a letter written last thing on Wednesday,

18th. We started next day with perfectly fine mild weather and every

sort of comfort, and got to our first night's stage, Poggio Bagnoli,

with great ease; with the same advantages next day, we passed Arezzo and

reached Camuscia, and on Saturday slept at Perugia, having found the

journey delightful. Sunday was rainy, but just as mild, so Ba did not

suffer at all; we slept at Spoleto. Rain again on Monday. We reached

Terni early in the day in order to go to the Falls, but the thing was

impossible for Ba. Eckley, his mother-in-law, and I went, however,

getting drenched, but they were fine, the rain and melted snow having

increased the waters extraordinarily. On Tuesday we had fine weather

again to Cività Castellana; there we found that on the previous day,

while we were staying at Terni, a carriage was stopped and robbed in the

road we otherwise should have pursued. They said such a thing had not

happened for years. On Wednesday afternoon, four o'clock, we reached

Rome, with beautiful weather; so it had been for some four out of our

seven days. Ba bore the journey irregularly well; of course she has thus

had a week of open air, beside the change, which always benefits her. We

always had the windows of the carriage open. We passed Wednesday night

at an hotel in order to profit by any information friends might be able

to furnish, but we ended by returning to the rooms here we occupied

before, of which we knew the virtues--a blaze of sun on the front

rooms--and absolute healthiness. Rents are enormous; we pay only ten

dollars a month more than before, in consideration of the desire the old

landlady had to get us again. To anybody else the price would have been

20 more--60 in all--for which we are to pay 40. The Eckleys took _good

rooms_ and pay 1,000 (£210 or 15) for six months! One can't do _that_.

The best is that they have thoroughly cleaned and painted the place, and

everything is very satisfactorily arranged. We take the apartment for

four months, meaning to be at liberty to go to Naples if we like. We

have no fire this morning while I write, but it is before breakfast and

Ba may like the sight of one, tho' I rather think she will not. Rome

looks very well, and I hope we shall have a happier time of it than

before. Many friends are here and everybody is very kind. The Eckleys

were extravagantly good to us, something beyond conception almost. We

have seen Miss Cushman, Hatty,[60] Leighton, Cartwright, the Storys,

Page and his new (third) wife, Gibson, beside the Brackens and Mrs.

Mackenzie; and there are others I shall see to-day. Ferdinando was sent

on by sea with the luggage, and met us at the gate. It has been an

expensive business altogether, but I think we shall not regret it. I

daresay you have mild weather at Paris also. These premature beginnings

of cold break down and leave the rest of the year the warmer, if not the

better for them. Dearest Sis, write and tell me all the news of your two

selves. Do you hear anything about Reuben's leaving London? Anything of

Lady Elgin? How is Madame Milsand? I will send you the last 'Ath.' I

have received, but break off here rather abruptly, in order to let Ba

write. Good-bye. God bless you both. Kindest love to Milsand.

Yours ever affectionately

R.B.

* * * * *

_E.B. Browning to Miss Browning_

My dearest Sarianna,--I don't know whether this letter from Rome will

surprise you, but we have done it at last. Our journey was most

prosperous, the wonderful inrush of winter which buried all Italy in

snow, and for some days rendered the possibility of any change of

quarters so more than doubtful (I myself gave it up for days), having

given way to an inrush of summer as wonderful. The change was so

pleasant that I bore with perfect equanimity the lamentations of certain

English acquaintances of ours in Florence, who declared it was the most

frightful and dangerous climate that could be, that now one was frozen

to death and the next day burnt and melted, and that people couldn't be

healthy under such transitions. But all countries of the south are

subject to the same of course wherever there is a southern sun, and

mountains to retain snow. Even in Paris you complain of something a

little like it, because of the sun. We left Florence in a blaze of

sunshine accordingly, and there and everywhere found the country

transfigured back into summer, except for two days of April rain. Of the

kindness of our dear friends Mr. and Mrs. Eckley I am moved when I try

to speak. They humiliate me by their devotion. Such generosity and

delicacy, combined with so much passionate sentiment (there is no other

word), are difficult to represent. The Americans are great in some

respects, not that Americans generally are like these, but that these

could scarcely be English--for instance, that mixture of enthusiasm and

simplicity we have not. Our journey was delightful and not without some

incidents, which might have been accidents. We were as nearly as

possible thrown once into a ditch and once down a mountain precipice,

the spirited horses plunging on one side, but at last Mr. Eckley lent us

his courier, who sate on the box by the coachman and helped him to

manage better. Then there was a fight between our oxen-drivers, one of

them attempting to stab the other with a knife, and Robert rushing in

between till Peni and I were nearly frantic with fright. No harm

happened, however, except that Robert had his trousers torn. And we

escaped afterwards certain banditti, who stopped a carriage only the day

before on the very road we travelled, and robbed it of sixty-two scudi.

Here at Rome we are still fortunate, for with enormous prices rankling

around us we get into our old quarters at eleven pounds a month. The

rooms are smaller than our ambition would fain climb to (one climbs,

also, a little too high on the stairs), but on the whole the quiet

healthfulness and sunshine are excellent things, particularly in Rome,

and we are perfectly contented....

Rome is so full that I am proceeding to lock up my doors throughout the

day. I can't live without some use of life. Here must come the break.

May God bless you both! Pen's love with mine to the dear nonno and

yourself.

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mr. Ruskin_

Rome, 43 Bocca di Leone: January 1, 1859.

My dear Mr. Ruskin,--There is an impulse upon me to write to you, and as

it ought to have come long ago, I yield to it, and am glad that it comes

on this first day of a new year to inaugurate the time. It may be a good

omen for _me_. Who knows?

We received your letter at Florence and very much did it touch me--us, I

should say--and then I would have written if you hadn't bade us wait for

another letter, which has not come to this day. Shall I say one thing?

The sadness of that letter struck me like the languor after victory, for

you who have fought many good fights and never for a moment seemed to

despond before, write this word and this. After treading the world down

in various senses, you are tired. It is natural perhaps, but this evil

will pass like other evils, and I wish you from my heart a good clear

noble year, with plenty of work, and God consciously over all to give

you satisfaction. What would this life be, dear Mr. Ruskin, if it had

not eternal relations? For my part, if I did not believe so, I should

lay my head down and die. Nothing would be worth doing, certainly. But I

am what many people call a 'mystic,' and what I myself call a 'realist,'

because I consider that every step of the foot or stroke of the pen here

has some real connection with and result in the hereafter.

'This life's a dream, a fleeting show!' no indeed. That isn't my

'_doxy_.' I don't think that nothing is worth doing, but that everything

is worth doing--everything good, of course--and that everything which

does good for a moment does good for ever, in _art_ as well as in

morals. Not that I look for arbitrary punishment or reward (the last

least, certainly. I would no more impute merit to the human than your

Spurgeon would), but that I believe in a perpetual sequence, according

to God's will, and in what has been called a 'correspondence' between

the natural world and the spiritual.

Here I stop myself with a strong rein. It is fatal, dear Mr. Ruskin, to

write letters on New Year's day. One can't help moralising; one falls on

the metaphysical vein unaware.

Forgive me.

We are in Rome you see. We have been very happy and found rooms swimming

all day in sunshine, when there is any sun, and yet not ruinously dear.

I was able to go out on Christmas morning (a wonderful event for me) and

hear the silver trumpets in St. Peter's. Well, it was very fine. I never

once thought of the Scarlet Lady, nor of the Mortara case, nor anything

to spoil the pleasure. Yes, and I enjoyed it both æsthetically and

devotionally, putting my own words to the music. Was it wise, or wrong?

But we have had and are having some cold, some tramontana, and I have

kept house ever since. Only in Rome there's always hope of a good warm

scirocco. We talk of seeing Naples before we turn home to our Florence,

to keep feast for Dante.

It is delightful to hear of all you are _permitted_ to do for England

meanwhile in matters of art, and one of these days we shall go north to

take a few happy hours of personal advantage out of it all. Not this

year, however, I think. We have done duty to the north too lately. Now

it seems to me we have the right (of virtue, in spite of what I said on

another page, or rather, _because_ I said it in good human

inconsistency), the right to have and hold our Italy in undisturbed

possession. I never feel at home anywhere else, or to _live_ rightly

anywhere else at all. It's a horrible want of patriotism, of course,

only, if I were upon trial, I might say in a low voice a few things to

soften the judgment against me on account of that sin. Ah! we missed you

at Havre! If you had come it would have been something pleasant to

remember that detestable place by, besides the salt-water which profited

one's health a little. We were in Paris too some six weeks in all

(besides eight weeks at Havre!) and Paris has a certain charm for me

always. If we had seen you in Paris! But no, you must have floated past

us, close, close, yet we missed you.

A good happy new year we wish to Mr. and Mrs. Ruskin, as to yourself,

and, dear Mr. Ruskin, to your mother I shall say that my child is

developing in a way to make me very contented and thankful. Yes, I thank

God for him more and more, and _she_ can understand that, I know. His

musical faculty is a decided thing, and he plays on the piano quite

remarkably for his age (through his father's instruction) while I am

writing this. He is reading aloud to me an Italian translation of 'Monte

Cristo,' and with a dramatic intelligence which would strike you, as it

does perhaps, that I should select such a book for a child of nine years

old to read at all. It's rather young to be acclimated to French novels,

is it not? But the difficulty of getting Italian books is great, and

there's a good deal in the early part of 'Monte Cristo,' the prison

part, very attractive. His voice was full of sobs when poor Dantes was

consigned to the Château d'If. "Do you mean to say, mama, that _that

boy_ is to stay there all his life?" He made me tell him 'to make him

happy,' as he said.

For the rest he reads French and German, and we shall have to begin

Latin in another year I suppose. Do you advise that, you, Mr. Ruskin? He

has not given up the drawing neither. Ah! but there is a weight beyond

the post, whatever your goodness may bear, and I must leave a little

space for Robert.

May God bless you, my dear friend! Dare I say it? it _came_.

Affectionately yours always,

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

_Robert Browning to Mr. Ruskin_

I am to say something, dear Ruskin; it shall be only the best of wishes

for this and all other years; go on again like the noble and dear man

you are to us all, and especially to us two out of them all. Whenever I

chance on an extract, a report, it lights up the dull newspaper stuff

wrapt round it and makes me glad at heart and clearer in head. We, for

our part, have just sent off a corrected 'Aurora Leigh,' which is the

better for a deal of pains, we hope, and my wife deserves. There will be

a portrait from a photograph done at Havre without retouching--good, I

think. Truest love to you and yours--your father and mother. Do help us

by a word every now and then.

Affectionately yours,

R.B.

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

[Rome]: 43 Bocca di Leone: January 7 [1859].

My dearest Isa,--Your letter seemed long in coming, as this will seem to

you, I fear. I ought to have answered mine at once, and put off doing so

from reason to reason, and from day to day. Very busy I have been,

sending off seven of the nine books of 'Aurora,'[61] having dizzied

myself with the 'ifs' and 'ands,' and done some little good I hope at

much cost....

As to the Roman climate, we have had some beautiful weather, but Robert

was calling his gods to witness (the goddess Tussis among them) that he

never felt it so cold in Florence--never. Fountains frozen, Isa, and the

tramontana tremendous. But it can't last--that's the comfort at Rome;

and meantime we are housed exquisitely in our lion's mouth; the new

_portiere_ and universal carpeting keeping it snugger than ever, and the

sun over-streaming us through six windows. I have just been saying that

whenever I come to Rome I shall choose to come here. The only fault is,

the height and the smallness of the rooms; and, in spite of the last, we

have managed to have and hold twenty people and upwards through a

_serata_. Peni has had a bad cold, from over-staying the time on the

Pincio one afternoon, and I have kept him in the house these ten days.

Such things one may do by one's lion-cubs; but the lions are harder to

deal with, and Robert caught cold two or three days ago; in spite of

which he chose to get up at six every morning as usual and go out to

walk with Mr. Eckley. Only by miracle and nux is he much better to-day.

I thought he was going to have a furious grippe, as last year and the

year before. I must admit, however, that he is extremely well just now,

to speak generally, and that this habit of regular exercise (with

occasional homoeopathy) has thrown him into a striking course of

prosperity, as to looks, spirits and appetite. He eats 'vulpinely' he

says--which means that a lark or two is no longer enough for dinner. At

breakfast the loaf perishes by Gargantuan slices. He is plunged into

gaieties of all sorts, caught from one hand to another like a ball, has

gone out every night for a fortnight together, and sometimes two or

three times deep in a one night's engagements. So plenty of distraction,

and no Men and Women. Men and women from without instead! I am shut up

in the house of course, and go to bed when he goes out--and the worst

is, that there's a difficulty in getting books. Still, I get what I can,

and stop up the chinks with Swedenborg; and in health am very well, for

me, and in tranquillity excellently well. Not that there are not people

more than enough who come to see me, but that there is nothing vexatious

just now; life goes smoothly, I thank God, and I like Rome better than I

did last time. The season is healthy too (for Rome). I have only heard

of one English artist since we came, who arrived, sickened, died, and

was buried, before anyone knew who he was. Besides ordinary cases of

slight Roman fever among the English, Miss Sherwood (who with her father

was at Florence) has had it slightly, and Mrs. Marshall who came to us

from Tennyson. (A Miss Spring-Rice she was.) But the poor Hawthornes

suffer seriously. Una is dissolved to a shadow of herself by reiterated

attacks, and now Miss Shepherd is seized with gastric fever. Mr.

Hawthorne is longing to get away--where, he knows not.

My Peni has conquered his cold, and when the weather gets milder I shall

let him out. Meanwhile he has taken to--what do you suppose? I go into

his room at night and find him with a candle regularly settled on the

table by him, and he reading, deeply rapt, an Italian translation of

'Monte Cristo.' Pretty well for a lion-cub, isn't it? He is enchanted

with this book, lent to him by our padrona; and exclaims every now and

then, 'Oh, magnificent, magnificent!' And this morning, at breakfast, he

gravely delivered himself to the following effect: 'Dear mama, for the

future I mean to read _novels_. I shall read all Dumas's, to begin. And

then I shall like to read papa's favourite book, "Madame Bovary."'

Heavens, what a lion-cub! Robert and I could only answer by a burst of

laughter. It was so funny. That little dot of nine and a half full of

such hereditary tendencies.

And 'Madame Bovary' in a course of education!...

May God bless you, my much-loved Isa, for this and other years beyond

also! I shall love you all that way--says the genius of the ring.

Your ever loving

BA.

FOOTNOTES:

[46] Ferdinando Romagnoli. He died at Venice, in the Palazzo Rezzonico,

January 1893. His widow (who, as the following letters show, continued

to be called Wilson in the family) is still living with Mr. R.B.

Browning.

[47] This refers to a note from Mrs. Browning to Miss Haworth, inquiring

whether it was true that she was engaged to be married.

[48] The notorious medium, prototype of Mr. Browning's 'Sludge.' He

subsequently changed his name to Home.

[49] An attempted revision of the poem, subsequently abandoned, as

explained in the preface addressed to M. Milsand in 1863.

[50] Mr. Browning and the boy had been suffering from sore throats.

[51] For the substance of this information I am indebted to Mr. Charles

Aldrich, to whom the letter was presented by Mrs. Kinney, and through

whose kindness it is here printed. The original now forms part of the

Aldrich collection in the Historical Department of Iowa, U.S.A.

[52] The husband of Wilson, Mrs. Browning's maid.

[53] An odd commentary on this 'poem' may be found in Mrs. Orr's _Life

of Robert Browning_, p. 219.

[54] See _Aurora Leigh_, p. 276:

'I found a house at Florence on the hill

Of Bellosguardo. 'Tis a tower which keeps

A post of double observation o'er

That valley of Arno (holding as a hand

The outspread city) straight toward Fiesole

And Mount Morello and the setting sun,

The Vallombrosan mountains opposite,

Which sunrise fills as full as crystal cups

Turned red to the brim because their wine is red.

No sun could die nor yet be born unseen

By dwellers at my villa: morn and eve

Were magnified before us in the pure

Illimitable space and pause of sky,

Intense as angels' garments blanched with God,

Less blue than radiant. From the outer wall

Of the garden drops the mystic floating grey

Of olive trees (with interruptions green

From maize and vine), until 'tis caught and torn

Upon the abrupt black line of cypresses

Which signs the way to Florence. Beautiful

The city lies along the ample vale,

Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza and street,

The river trailing like a silver cord

Through all, and curling loosely, both before

And after, over the whole stretch of land

Sown whitely up and down its opposite slopes

With farms and villas.'

Miss Blagden's villa was the Villa Bricchieri, which is alluded to

elsewhere in the letters.

[55] A line or two has been cut off the bottom of the sheet at this

place.

[56] The _Elements of Drawing_.

[57] Orsini's attempt on the life of the Emperor Napoleon on January 14,

1858.

[58] Referring to the Conspiracy Bill introduced by Lord Palmerston

after the Orsini conspiracy against Napoleon in January 1858, and to the

outcry against it, as an act of subservience to France, which led to

Palmerston's fall. Count Walewski was the French Minister for Foreign

Affairs, and his despatch, alluded to below, called the attention of the

English Government to the shelter afforded by England to conspirators of

the type of Orsini.

[59] A bust of the child, by Monroe.

[60] Miss Hosmer.

[61] The fourth edition, in which several alterations were made.