many of the poems in the volumes of 1844 are abandoned; the licences of language are less frequent; the verse runs smoothly and is more uniformly under command.  It would appear as if the heat of inspiration which produced the ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’ had left a permanent and purifying effect upon her style.  The poem has been neglected by those who take little interest in Italy and its history, and adversely criticised by those who do not sympathise with its political and religious opinions; but with those who look only to its poetry and to its warm-hearted championship of a great cause, it will always hold a high place of its own among Mrs. Browning’s writings.

* * * * *

To Miss I. Blagden

Florence:  May 1, [1851].

I am writing to you, dearest Miss Blagden, at last, you see; though you must have excommunicated me before now as the most ungrateful of correspondents and friends.  Do forgive what you can—­and your kindness is so great that I believe you can, and shall go on to write as if you did.  We have been in the extremity of confusion and indecision.  Remember how the fairy princes used to do when they arrived at the meeting of three roads, and had to consider what choice to make.  How they used to shake their heads and ponder, and end sometimes by drawing lots!  Much in the like perplexity have we been.  Everything was ready for Rome—­the day fixed, the packing begun, the vettura bargained for.  Suddenly, visions of obstacles rose up.  We were late in the season.  We should be late for the festas.  May would be hot in Rome for Wiedeman.  Then two journeys, north and south, to Rome and Naples, besides Paris and England, pulled fearfully at the purse-strings.  Plainly we couldn’t afford it.  So everything was stopped and changed.  We gave up Rome and you, and are now actually on the point of setting out for Venice; Venice is to console us for Rome.  We go to-morrow, indeed.  The plan is to stay a fortnight at Venice (or more or less, as the charm works), and then to strike across to Milan; across the Spluegen into Switzerland, and to linger there among the hills and lakes for a part of the summer, so working out an intention of economy; then down the Rhine; then by railroad to Brussels; so to Paris, settling there; after which we pay our visit to England for a few weeks.  Early next spring we mean to go to Rome and return here, either for good (which is very possible) or for the purpose of arranging our house affairs and packing up books and furniture.  As it is, we have our apartment for another year, and shall let it if we can.  It has been painted, cleaned, and improved in all ways, till my head and Robert’s ring again with the confusion of it all.  Oh that we were gone, since we are to go!  When out of sight of Florence, we shall begin to enjoy, I hope, the sight of other things, but as it is the impression is only painful and dizzying.  Our friends Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvy go with us as far as Venice, and then leave us on a direct course for England, having committed their children and nurses to the care of her sister at the Baths of Lucca meantime.  We take with us only Wilson.