d 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 d