Florence,
and its thick, opaque surface hardly retained even a suggestion of color.

Not the least of Mrs. Browning's enjoyment of that winter was the pleasure
that Rome gave to her little son. "Penini is overwhelmed with attentions
and gifts of all kinds," she wrote, and she described a children's party
given for him by Mrs. Page, who decorated the table with a huge cake,
bearing "Penini" in sugar letters, where he sat at the head and did the
honors. Browning all this time was writing, although the social
allurements made sad havoc on his time. They wandered under the great ilex
trees of the Pincio, and gazed at the Monte Mario pine. Then, as now,
every one drove in that circular route on the Pincian hill, where
carriages meet each other in passing every five minutes. With the Storys
and other friends they often went for long drives and frequent picnics on
the wonderful Campagna, that vast green sea that surrounds Rome, the
Campagna Mystica. On one day Mr. Browning met "Hatty" Hosmer on the
Spanish Steps, and said to her: "Next Saturday Ba and I are going to
Albano on a picnic till Monday, and you and Leighton are to go with us."
"Why this extravagance?" laughingly questioned Miss Hosmer. "On account of
a cheque, a _buona grazia_, that Ticknor and Fields of Boston have
sent--one they were not in the least obliged to send," replied the poet.

In those days there was no international copyright, but Mr. Browning's
Boston publishers needed no legal constraint to act with ideal honor. So
on the appointed morning, a _partie carre_ of artists--two poets, one
sculptor, one painter--drove gayly through the Porta San Giovanni, on that
road to Albano, with its wonderful views of the Claudian aqueducts in the
distance, through whose arches the blue sky is bluer, and beyond which are
the violet-hued Alban hills. Then, as now, the road led by the Casa dei
Spirite, with its haunting associations, and its strange mural decorations
of specters and wraiths. Past that overhanging cliff, with its tragic
legend, they drove, encountering the long procession of wine carts, with
their tinkling bells, and the dogs guarding the sleeping padrones. Passing
the night in Albano, the next day they mounted donkeys for their excursion
into the Alban hills, past lonely monasteries, up the heights of Rocca
di Papa, where the traveler comes on the ancient camping-ground of
Hannibal, and where they see the padres and acolytes sunning themselves on
the sl