his sister in
lovely Chambery, making various excursions in all the picturesque region
about, and again visiting "Les Charmettes," which Miss Browning had not
before seen; as before, Browning sat down to the old harpsichord,
attempting to play "Rousseau's Dream," but only two notes of the antique
instrument responded to his touch. Through all the wonderful scenery of
the Mont Cenis pass they proceeded to Turin and thence to Venice, where
they arrived in the midst of the festivities of the Congress Carnival in
September of 1881. The Storys, whom Browning had anticipated meeting in
Venice, had gone to Vallombrosa, where their daughter (the Marchesa
Peruzzi di' Medici) had a villa, to which the family retired in summer
from their stately old palace in Florence. Mr. Story's two sons, the
painter and the sculptor, both had studios in Venice at this time, and Mr.
Browning often strolled into these. Among other friends Browning and his
sister visited the Countess Mocenigo, who was ensconced in the same palace
that Byron had occupied. She showed her guests through all the rooms with
their classic associations, and Browning sat down to the desk at which
Byron had written the last canto of "Childe Harold." To the satisfaction
of the Brownings, Venice soon regained her usual quiet,--that wonderful
silence broken only by the plash of water against marble steps, and the
cries of the gondoliers,--and he resumed his long walks, often accompanied
by Miss Browning, exploring every curious haunt and lingering in shops and
squares. The poet familiarized himself with the enchanting dream city, as
no tours in gondolas alone could ever do. To him Venice came to be dear
beyond words, and soon after he made all arrangements to purchase the
Palazzo Manzoni, an ancient Venetian palace of the fifteenth century,
whose facade was a faint glow of color from its medallions of colored
marbles, and whose balconies and arched windows seemed especially designed
for a poet's habitation. But the ancient structure was found to be in a
too perilous condition, and Browning, with never-failing regret, resigned
the prospect; nor was he ever consoled, it is said, until, some years
later, his son became the owner of the noble Palazzo Rezzonico.

Every day the poet saw Venice transformed into new splendor. "To see these
divine sunsets is the joy of life," he would say, as a city, flushed with
rose, reflected itself in pale green waters, and the golden sunset filled