And from 'Asolo', at last, dear friend! So can dreams come _false_.--S., who has been writing at the opposite side of the table, has told you about our journey and adventures, such as they were: but she cannot tell you the feelings with which I revisit this--to me--memorable place after above forty years' absence,--such things have begun and ended with me in the interval! It was _too_ strange when we reached the ruined tower on the hill-top yesterday, and I said 'Let me try if the echo still exists which I discovered here,' (you can produce it from only _one_ particular spot on a remainder of brickwork--) and thereupon it answered me plainly as ever, after all the silence: for some children from the adjoining 'podere', happening to be outside, heard my voice and its result--and began trying to perform the feat--calling 'Yes, yes'--all in vain: so, perhaps, the mighty secret will die with me! We shall probably stay here a day or two longer,--the air is so pure, the country so attractive: but we must go soon to Venice, stay our allotted time there, and then go homeward: you will of course address letters to Venice, not this place: it is a pleasure I promise myself that, on arriving I shall certainly hear you speak in a letter which I count upon finding. The old inn here, to which I would fain have betaken myself, is gone--levelled to the ground: I remember it was much damaged by a recent earthquake, and the cracks and chasms may have threatened a downfall. This Stella d'Oro is, however, much such an unperverted 'locanda' as its predecessor--primitive indeed are the arrangements and unsophisticate the ways: but there is cleanliness, abundance of goodwill, and the sweet Italian smile at every mistake: we get on excellently. To be sure never was such a perfect fellow-traveller, for my purposes, as S., so that I have no subject of concern--if things suit me they suit her--and vice-versa. I daresay she will have told you how we trudged together, this morning to Possagno--through a lovely country: how we saw all the wonders--and a wonder of detestability is the paint-performance of the great man!--and how, on our return, we found the little town enjoying high market day, and its privilege of roaring and screaming over a bargain. It confuses me altogether,--but at Venice I may write more comfortably. You will till then, Dear Friend, remember me ever as yours affectionately, Robert Browning. If the tone of this does not express disappointment, it has none of the rapture which his last visit was to inspire. The charm which forty years of remembrance had cast around the little city on the hill was dispelled for, at all events, the time being. The hot weather and dust-covered landscape, with the more than primitive accommodation of which he spoke in a letter to another friend, may have contributed something to this result.