ROBERT BROWNING IN HIS HOME.

URING the summer of 1889 I was the guest of an acquaintance in London who had been the lifelong friend of Robert Browning and his sister; and when she asked me who were the people I cared most to meet in England, I replied instantly, "Robert Browning and Mr. Gladstone."

The sister-in-law of my hostess (the Countess of Rothes) was the Miss Haworth to whom so many of the letters of Browning were written and first given to the public in Mrs. Sutherland Orr's "Life of Robert Browning." Miss Haworth's exquisite pen-and-ink illustrations of some of Mrs. Browning's poems were hung upon the walls of her sister's drawing-room, and were among her priceless art treasures. Miss Haworth died many years before Browning, and he spoke with tender regret of her loss. As I look back upon the summer of 1889 in London, two red-letter days appear in my calendar of enjoyment: one is that of the golden wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone; the other, that on which I first saw Robert Browning in his charming home, for it was indeed a great pleasure to see him there, so kindly was the cordial greeting, so genuine the hospitality. Miss Browning, his sister, who ever after the death of his wife presided over his household, bore a great resemblance to him, and was a most interesting person. It was through her kind invitation that I visited there. The home of the Brownings was in South Kensington, No. 29 De Vere Gardens. The house was a large one, and most artistically and attractively furnished. The library, with the collection of rare books and art treasures of the poet, was of the greatest interest. The drawing-room was spacious, and hanging upon the walls were soft-hued tapestries. Much of the furniture was of Venetian make and beautifully carved.

There were many

fine old pictures, and some by distinguished modern painters. Of several busts, that of Mrs. Browning, by William W. Story, was most noticeable; a bowl of rare china was always beside it, filled with flowers. The tables were covered with books, and calling my attention to them, Mr. Browning said: "I have many friends among the authors, and they kindly send me copies of their books; it keeps me very busy to read them all; however, I do all that I can in that direction. I wish they were all as good as this one of Wentworth Higginson's. Do you know him?" I replied that I had known him many years, and liked him and his writings exceedingly. Then he said, "When you go home, tell him I said he was not only a charming poet, but a charming fellow to know." He asked many questions about the people whom he knew in Boston, and spoke with warm interest of some of them, especially of Dr. Holmes, expressing profound sympathy for him in the crushing grief which had befallen him in the loss of his wife and daughter since his visit to England. "How desolate he must be!" he exclaimed; "Mrs. Sargent was so devoted to her father, and was such a cheery little woman!" He talked much of Longfellow, Emerson, and of Hawthorne and his wife. "What a remarkable person Mrs. Hawthorne was, and Una was almost a genius. After Mrs. Hawthorne's death I went. very often to see Una and Rose, to assist them in arranging their father's manuscript for publication." After relating some interesting incidents about the family, he added, "All those Hawthorne children had marked ability. How could it be otherwise, with such a parentage?"

He spoke most affectionately of James Russell Lowell, and of his delight in his writings. "The Commemoration Ode" he regarded as one of his best poems, "The Present Crisis" was another, and he repeated the line,

"Truth forever on the scaffold, wrong forever on the throne,

with great expression, adding, "That has the heroic ring: that line will live!" He warmly praised the " He warmly praised the "Biglow Papers" for their humor, and asked, "Are you familiar with the poem he wrote at the time of his first wife's death, called 'After the Burial'?" I replied that I knew every word of it. "Will you be kind enough to repeat

it, I cannot recall it all?” After I had done so, he was silent for a moment, and then with much feeling exclaimed, "That's a great poem; what a wail of despair, but how deep and true it is!" "Did you ever see Maria Lowell?" he asked. I told him I used to see her occasionally in the days of the anti-slavery warfare, that I had never forgotten her face, and added, “Its great beauty was that of expression." "So I have been told," he replied; "and speaking of beauty, I must show you a photograph of my son's wife." He then showed me photographs of his son and daughter-in-law. When I expressed my admiration of the latter, he gave them both to me, and said: “ If you show them to any of my friends in Boston, say that one does not get the faintest idea from the photograph of the beauty of her coloring or of the lovely tints of her hair. She is an American, and we are very proud of her. She is a descendant of Gov. Paddington, and has good blood in her veins."

I was, of course, delighted to have the photographs, but like Oliver Twist, I dared to ask for "more"! I ventured to inquire if he had a good picture of himself, and if I might see it. Miss Browning replied, "Yes, we have one just taken; it is the best one he has had

for years, and if you like it you shall have one." After looking at it I said, "It is the best I have ever seen, the eyes and the expression are wonderfully good." As Mr. Browning was writing his name and the date under it, he said, "If you show this to Dr. Holmes, tell him the old fellow looks like that now." The next week when I was there at five-o'clock tea he gave me another photograph, a much larger one, in profile; and although that is interesting, the smaller one is better as a likeness. In looking over my autograph album he made running comments on the poets as he read, Parsons, Whittier, Holmes, Aldrich, Mrs. Howe, Helen Hunt, Mrs. Deland, Howells, Boyle O'Reilly, and all the rest of them. "What verse of mine shall I write?" When I replied, I should like something from "Rabbi Ben Ezra," he

wrote:

"All that is at all

Lasts ever past recall:

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure."

He wrote this on the page opposite to that on which Longfellow had written a translation from the Italian :

"Che sembra mi alma, doves amor non stanza,

Casa di notte senza foco, o face."

Longfellow's translation runs :

"The soul, where love abideth not resembles

A house by night without or fire or torch."

The soul, where love abideth not, resembles

A house by night, without or fire

che sembra uni alma, dover amor non stange, Casa di notte, senza foco, o face.

Henry W. Longfollow

FACSIMILE OF LONGFELLOW'S COUPLET.

When he caught sight of Longfellow's lines, he exclaimed, "Longfellow didn't make the rhyme. I'll try my hand at it.” I'll try my hand at it."

And as quick

as thought wrote:

"What seems a soul where Love's outside the porch,
A house by night with neither fire nor torch.”

Saying gleefully, "I've done it: there's my rhyme!"

He asked me one day if I belonged to a Browning Club, and was greatly amused when I told him I belonged to two, one that met weekly, -a club of ladies, to read and study his poems, and another that met monthly at the Brunswick, having a membership of nearly two hundred, and of which his friend Col. T. W. Higginson was the affable and accomplished president. In reply to his questionings, I told him of some of the fine essays and readings we had listened to there, notably those from Mr. Hayes and Mr. Riddle. It was then he said,