On June 4th 1860 they left Rome, travelling by vettura through Orvieto and Chiusi to their home in Florence.[80] The journey fatigued Mrs Browning, but on arriving they had the happiness of finding Landor well; he looked not less than magnificent, displaying “the most beautiful sea-foam of a beard ... all in a curl and white bubblement of beauty.”  Wilson had the old man under happy control; only once had he thrown his dinner out of the window; that he should be at odds with all the world was inevitable, and that all the world should be in the wrong was exhilarating and restorative.  The plans for the summer were identical with those of the preceding year; the same “great lonely villa” near Siena was occupied again; the same “deep soothing silence” lapped to rest Mrs Browning’s spirits; Landor, her “adopted son”—­a son of eighty-six years old—­was hard by as he had been last summer.  The neighbourhood of Miss Blagden was this year an added pleasure.  “The little eager lady,” as Henry James describes her, “with gentle, gay black eyes,” had seen much, read much, written already a little (with more to follow), but better than all else were her generous heart and her helpful hand.  The season was one of unusual coolness for Italy.  Pen’s pony, as before, flashed through the lanes and along the roads.  Browning had returned from Rome in robust health, and looking stouter in person than six months previously.  Now, while a tenant of the Villa Alberti, he spent his energies in long rides, sometimes rides of three or four continuous hours.  On returning from such careers on horseback little inclination, although he had his solitary room in which to work, remained for the pursuit of poetry.

The departure for Rome was early—­about September; in the Via Felice rooms were found.  A new and great sorrow had fallen upon Mrs Browning—­her sister Henrietta, Mrs Surtees Cook, was dead, leaving behind her three young children.  Mrs Browning could not shed tears nor speak of her grief:  she felt tired and beaten by the pain; and tried to persuade herself that for one who believed the invisible world to be so near, such pain was but a weakness.  Her husband was able to do little, but he shared in his degree in the sense of loss, and protected her from the intrusion of untimely visitors.  Sir John Bowring was admitted because he presented a letter of introduction and had intimate relations with the French Emperor; his ridicule of the volunteer movement in England, with its cry of “Riflemen, form!” was grateful to Mrs Browning’s political feelings.  French troops were now in Rome; their purpose was somewhat ambiguous; but Pen had fraternised with the officers on the Pincio, had learnedly discussed Chopin and Stephen Heller with them, had been assured that they did not mean to fight for the Holy Father, and had invited “ever so many of them” to come and see mamma—­an invitation which they were too discreet to accept.  Mrs Browning’s excitement about public affairs had somewhat abated; yet she watched with deep interest the earlier stages of the great struggle in America; and she did not falter in her hopes for Italy; by intrigues and smuggling the newspapers which she wished to see were obtained through the courteous French generals.  But her spirits were languid; “I gather myself up by fits and starts,” she confesses, “and then fall back.”