My dearest Mrs. Martin,—­Now I am going to answer your letter, which I all but lost, and got ever so many days beyond the right day, because you directed it to Mrs. William Browning.  Pray remember Robert Browning for the future, in right descent from Robert Brunnyng,[178] the first English poet.  Mrs. Jameson says, ’It’s ominous of the actual Robert’s being the last English poet;’ a saying which I give you to remember us by, rejecting the omen....  We have grown to be Florentine citizens, as perhaps you have heard.  Health and means both forbade our settlement in England; and the journey backwards and forwards being another sort of expense, and very necessary with our ties and affections, we had to think how to live here, when we were here, at the cheapest.  The difference between taking a furnished apartment and an unfurnished one is something immense.  For our furnished rooms we have had always to pay some four guineas a month; and unfurnished rooms of equal pretension we could have for twelve a year, and the furniture (out and out) for fifty pounds.  This calculation, together with the consideration that we could let our apartment whenever we travelled and receive back the whole cost, could not choose, of course, but determine us.  On coming to the point, however, we grew ambitious, and preferred giving five-and-twenty guineas for a noble suite of rooms in the Palazzo Guidi, a stone’s throw from the Pitti, and furnishing them after our own taste rather than after our economy, the economy having a legitimate share of respect notwithstanding; and the satisfactory thing being that the whole expense of this furnishing—­rococo chairs, spring sofas, carved bookcases, satin from cardinals’ beds, and the rest—­is covered by the proceeds of our books during the last two winters.  This is satisfying, isn’t it?  We shall stand safe within the borders of our narrow income even this year, and next year comes the harvest!  We shall go to England in the spring, and return home to Italy.  Do you understand?  Mr. Kenyon, our friend and counsellor, writes to applaud—­such prudence was never known before among poets.  Then we have a plan, that when the summer (this summer) grows too hot, we shall just take up our carpet-bag and Wilson and plunge into the mountains in search of the monasteries beyond Vallombrosa, from Arezzo go to St. Sepolchro in the Apennines, and thence to Fano on the seashore, making a round back perhaps (after seeing the great fair at Sinigaglia) to Ravenna and Bologna home.  As to Rome, our plan is to give up Rome next winter, seeing that we must go to England in the spring.  I must see my dearest sisters and whoever else dear will see me, and Robert must see his family beside; and going to Rome will take us too far from the route and cost too much; and then we are not inclined to give the first-fruits of our new apartment to strangers if we could let it ever so easily this year.