s a monument to
him, by the side of a gloriously decorated tomb of the fourteenth century,
with an inscription to his memory that vividly recalls the work of one who
strove to revive the simple faith in God that has always, in all nations
and in all centuries, met every real need of life.

Mrs. Barrett, a sweet and gentle woman, without special force of
character, died when Elizabeth was but twenty years of age; and it was
some five years before her mother's death that Elizabeth met with the
accident, from the fall from her saddle when trying to mount her pony,
that caused her life-long delicacy of health. Her natural buoyancy of
spirits, however, never failed, and she was endowed with a certain
resistless energy which is quite at variance with the legendary traditions
that she was a nervous invalid.

Hardly less than Browning in his earliest youth, was Elizabeth Barrett
"full of an intensest life." Her Italian master one day told her that
there was an unpronounceable English word that expressed her exactly, but
which, as he could not give in English, he would express in his own
tongue,--_testa lunga_. Relating this to Mr. Browning in one of her
letters, she says: "Of course the signor meant headlong!--and now I have
had enough to tame me, and might be expected to stand still in my stall.
But you see I do not. Headlong I was at first, and headlong I
continue,--precipitately rushing forward through all manner of nettles and
briers instead of keeping the path; guessing at the meaning of unknown
words instead of looking into the dictionary,--tearing open letters, and
never untying a string,--and expecting everything to be done in a minute,
and the thunder to be as quick as the lightning."

Impetuous, vivacious, with an inimitable sense of humor, full of
impassioned vitality,--this was the real Elizabeth Barrett, whose
characteristics were in no wise changed during her entire life. Always was
she

"A creature of impetuous breath,"

full of vivacious surprises, and witty repartee.

Hope End was in the near vicinity of Eastnor Castle, a country seat of the
Somersets; it is to-day one of the present homes of Lady Henry Somerset,
and there are family records of long, sunny days that the young girl-poet
passed at the castle, walking on the terraces that lead down to the still
water, or lying idly in the boat as the ripples of the little lake lapped
against the reeds and rushes that grew on the banks. In the castle librar