The "good, stupid and dirty" people of the village were seldom visible except on Sunday; there were solitary walks of miles to be had along the coast; fruit and milk, butter and eggs in abundance, and these were Browning's diet.

"I feel out of the very earth sometimes," he wrote, "as I sit here at the window....

Such a soft sea, and such a mournful wind!" But the lulling charm of the place which, though so different, brought back the old Siena mood, did not convert him into an idler.

The mornings, which began betimes, were given to work; in his way of desperate resolve to be well occupied he informs Miss Blagden (Aug.

18, 1863) that having yesterday written a poem of 120 lines, he means to keep writing whether he likes it or not.[89] "With the spring of 1863," writes Mr Gosse, "a great change came over Browning's habits.