eard in the hills;
and the vast solitudes of the wood, with their ruined chapels and shrines,
made this sojourn to the Brownings something to be treasured in memory
forever. They even wandered to that beautiful old fifteenth-century
church, Santa Maria delle Grazie Vallombrosella, "a daughter of the
monastery of Vallombrosa," where were works of Robbia, and saw the blue
hills rise out of the green forests in their infinite expanse.

[Illustration: OLD MONASTERY AT VALLOMBROSA

"_And Vallombrosa we two went to see_
_Last June beloved companion..._"

Casa Guidi Windows.]

When they fared forth for Vallombrosa, it was at four o'clock in the
morning, Mrs. Browning being all eagerness and enthusiasm for this
matutinal pilgrimage. Reaching Pelago, their route wound for five miles
along a "_via non rotabile_," through the most enchanting scenery, to
Pontassieve.

"Oh! such mountains," wrote Mrs. Browning of this
never-to-be-forgotten journey, "as if the whole world were alive with
mountains--such ravines--black in spite of flashing waters in
them--such woods and rocks--traveled in basket sledges drawn by four
white oxen--Wilson and I and the luggage--and Robert riding step by
step. We were four hours doing the five miles, so you may fancy what
rough work it was. Whether I was most tired or charmed was a _tug_
between body and soul.

"The worst was that," she continued, "there being a new abbot at the
monastery--an austere man, jealous of his sanctity and the approach of
women--our letter, and Robert's eloquence to boot, did nothing for us,
and we were ingloriously and ignominiously expelled at the end of five
days."

While the Brownings were in Vallombrosa Arnould wrote to Alfred Domett:

"Browning is spending a luxurious year in Italy--is, at this present
writing, with his poetess bride dwelling in some hermit hut in
Vallombrosa, where the Etruscan shades high overarched embower. He
never fails to ask pressingly about you, and I give him all your
messages. I would to God he would purge his style of
obscurities,--that the wide world would, and the gay world and even
the less illuminated part of the thinking world, know his greatness
even as we do. I find myself reading 'Paracelsus' and the 'Dramatic
Lyrics' more often than anything else in verse."

They descended, perforce, into Florence again, burning sunshine and al