“Mrs. Browning’s conversation was most interesting.  She never made an insignificant remark.  All that she said was always worth hearing; a greater compliment could not be paid her.  She was a most conscientious listener, giving you her mind and heart, as well as her magnetic eyes. Persons were never her theme, unless public characters were under discussion, or friends were to be praised.  One never dreamed of frivolities in Mrs. Browning’s presence, and gossip felt itself out of place.  Yourself, not herself, was always a pleasant subject to her, calling out all her best sympathies in joy, and yet more in sorrow.  Books and humanity, great deeds, and above all, politics, which include all the grand questions of the day, were foremost in her thoughts, and therefore oftenest on her lips.  I speak not of religion, for with her everything was religion.

“Thoughtful in the smallest things for others, she seemed to give little thought to herself.  The first to see merit, she was the last to censure faults, and gave the praise that she felt with a generous hand.  No one so heartily rejoiced at the success of others, no one was so modest in her own triumphs.  She loved all who offered her affection, and would solace and advise with any.  Mrs. Browning belonged to no particular country; the world was inscribed upon the banner under which she fought.  Wrong was her enemy; against this she wrestled, in whatever part of the globe it was to be found.”

Three years after her marriage her only son was born.  The Italians ever after called her “the mother of the beautiful child.”  And now some of her ablest and strongest work was done.  Her Casa Guidi Windows appeared in 1851.  It is the story of the struggle for Italian liberty.  In the same volume were published the Portuguese Sonnets, really her own love-life.  It would be difficult to find any thing more beautiful than these.

  “First time he kissed me he but only kissed
   The fingers of this hand wherewith I write,
   And ever since, it grew more clean and white,
   Slow to world-greetings, quick with its ‘Oh, list,’
   When the angels speak.  A ring of amethyst
   I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
   Than that first kiss.  The second passed in height
   The first, and sought the forehead, and half-missed
   Half falling on the hair.  O beyond meed! 
   That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown
   With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 
   The third upon my lips was folded down
   In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
   I have been proud and said, ‘My love, my own!’

* * * * *

   How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways,
   I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
   My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
   For the ends of being and ideal Grace. 
   I love thee to the level of every