home-sickness—­gave their origin to the patriotic lines beginning, “Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the north-west died away.”  Under the bulwark of the Norham Castle, off the African coast, when the fancy of a gallop on his Uncle Reuben’s horse suddenly presented itself in pleasant contrast with the tedium of the hours on shipboard, he wrote in pencil, on the flyleaf of Bartoli’s Simboli, that most spirited of poems which tell of the glory of motion—­How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix.  The only adventure of the voyage was the discovery of an Algerine pirate ship floating keel uppermost; it righted suddenly under the stress of ropes from the Norham Castle, and the ghastly and intolerable dead—­Algerines and Spaniards—­could not scare the British sailors eager for loot; at last the battered hulk was cast loose, and its blackness was seen reeling slowly off “into the most gorgeous and lavish sunset in the world.”  Having visited Venice, Vicenza and Padua—­cities and mountain solitudes, which gave their warmth and colour to his unfinished poem—­Browning returned home by way of Tyrol, the Rhine, Liege and Antwerp.  It was his first visit to Italy and was a time of enchantment.  Fifty years later he recalled the memories of these early days when his delight had something insubstantial, magical in it, and the vision was half perceived with the eye and half projected from within:—­

    How many a year my Asolo,
      Since—­one step just from sea to land—­
    I found you, loved yet feared you so—­
      For natural objects seemed to stand
    Palpably fire-clothed![21]

Of evenings soon after his return to London Mrs Bridell-Fox writes:  “He was full of enthusiasm for Venice, that Queen of Cities.  He used to illustrate his glowing descriptions of its beauties, the palaces, the sunsets, the moonrises, by a most original kind of etching.  Taking up a bit of stray notepaper, he would hold it over a lighted candle, moving the paper about gently till it was cloudily smoked over, and then utilising the darker smears for clouds, shadows, water, or what not, would etch with a dry pen the forms of lights on cloud and palace, on bridge or gondola on the vague and dreamy surface he had produced.”  The anticipations of genius had already produced a finer etching than any of these, in those lines of marvellous swiftness and intensity in Paracelsus, which describe Constantinople at the hour of sunset.

[Illustration:  MAIN STREET OF ASOLO, SHOWING BROWNING’S HOUSE.

From a drawing by Miss D. NOYES.]