Do you say Edward Lytton?  But he isn’t Edward Lytton now—­he is Robert.  The two Edwards clashed inconveniently, and now he doesn’t sign an Edward even by an initial; he has renounced the name, and is a Robert for evermore.  I am glad to tell you that although he is delicate and excitable there seems to me no tendency to disease of any kind.  Indeed, he is looking particularly well just now.  He is full of sensibility, both intellectually and morally, which is scarcely favorable to health and long life; but in the long run, if people can run, they get over such a disadvantage.  At this time he is about to publish a collection of poems.  I think highly of his capabilities; and he is a great favorite with both of us for various excellent reasons.  Did I tell you of his passing a fortnight with us at Lucca, and how sorry we were to lose him at last?  Sir Edward either has just brought out, or is bringing out, a volume of poems of his own, called ‘Cornflowers’ (referring to the harvest time of maturity in which he produces them), and chiefly of a metaphysical character.  His son, who has seen the manuscript, thinks them the best of his poems.  ‘My Novel’ is certainly excellent.  Did I tell you that I had seized and read it?

I shall get at Swedenborg in Rome, and get on with my readings.  There are deep truths in him, I cannot doubt, though I can’t receive everything, which may be my fault.  I would fain speak with a wise humility.  We will talk on these things and the spirits.  How that last subject attracts me!  It strikes me that we are on the verge of great developments of the spiritual nature, and that in a philosophical point of view (apart from ulterior ends) the facts are worthy of all admiration and meditation.  If a spiritual influx, it is mixed—­good and evil together.  The fact of there being a mixture of evil justifies Swedenborg’s philosophy (does it not?) without concluding against the movement generally.  We were at the Pergola the other night, and heard the ‘Trovatore,’ Verdi’s new work.  Very passionate and dramatic, surely.  The Storys are here on their way back to Rome.  Oh, I mean to convert you, Isa!  Is it true that the fever at Rome is still raging?  Give my love to your dear invalid, who must be comforting you so much with her improvement.  Penini is in a chronic state of packing up his desk to go to ‘Bome.’  Robert’s love with mine as ever.  I can’t write either legibly or otherwise than stupidly on this detestable paper, having never learnt to skate.  Are we giving you too much trouble, dearest, kind Isa?

Your affectionate friend
E.B.B.

* * * * *

After a few weeks only at Florence the Brownings moved on to Rome and there (at No. 43 Via Bocca di Leone) they passed the winter.  Both were now actively engaged on their new volumes of poetry—­Mr. Browning on his ‘Men and Women,’ Mrs. Browning on ‘Aurora Leigh,’ both of which were, however, still far from completion.