dliest nature; simple, peaceful folk,
hard-working and contented. Perched on high in their picturesque
dwellings, they seem raised above at least some of our terrestrial
troubles. They live sheltered by solid masses of mediaeval stone, and
surrounded by the gardens they cultivate; the vine is here, there, and
everywhere, zig-zagging along rough stone terraces and gliding down the
slopes, or creeping into the windows. A tangle of massive foliage
springs from one knows not where, large leaves that dwarf all else elbow
their way to the front, and here and there in their midst a big yellow
gourd comfortably rests on a stone cornice or on an artificial prop.

The fig leaves, though certainly overshadowed by their bulky neighbours,
hold their own in the universal struggle for air and space. And
somewhere in the distance is a little graceful figure stretching upward
to train the vine in the way it should go, and right or wrong you
straightway jump to the conclusion, if you are an artist, that that
figure belongs to a beautiful girl.

The children are out of doors; so are the pigs. Whilst the latter always
seem grumbling and dissatisfied, the former are as happy as sunshine and
_polenta_ can make a child. The sight of an approaching stranger
carrying the artist's paraphernalia, at once suggests to a sturdy urchin
the idea that he should rush for a chair, and to the woman at her door,
that she should offer you a hearty welcome. No wonder if some of these
good people were destined to entertain an angel or a poet unawares.
Browning might not have manifested himself as such, but there was
something about him that endeared him to all he met. Faces brightened as
I spoke of him; voices deepened as they answered, "_Ah poveretto!_ how
kind he was--_proprio buono!_ Here he used to sit and chat with us;" or,
"I showed him the way to the Rocca eleven years ago." This last remark
came from the postmaster, who took the deepest interest in everything
concerning Browning. He was very anxious that I should paint a picture
of the post-office, as being the historical place the poet had many a
time visited. "It was over that counter of mine," he said, "that his
last work, the immortal 'Asolando,' was handed. On me he relied to
transmit it with the greatest care, for he assured me he had kept no
copy of it. Yes, it went per book-post, registered and addressed, I well
recollect, to the publisher Mr. Smith, of London, and he was surprised
it should