the greatest of English poetesses, in the
maturity of her first poetic period, lying, like a fading flower, for
hours, for days continuously, in a darkened room in a London house. So
ill was Miss Elizabeth Barrett, early in the second half of the forties,
that few friends, herself even, could venture to hope for a single one
of those Springs which she previsioned so longingly. To us, looking back
at this period, in the light of what we know of a story of singular
beauty, there is an added pathos in the circumstance that, as the singer
of so many exquisite songs lay on her invalid's sofa, dreaming of things
which, as she thought, might never be, all that was loveliest in her
life was fast approaching--though, like all joy, not without an equally
unlooked-for sorrow. "I lived with visions for my company, instead of
men and women ... nor thought to know a sweeter music than they played
to me."

This is not the occasion, and if it were, there would still be
imperative need for extreme concision, whereon to dwell upon the early
life of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The particulars of it are familiar
to all who love English literature: for there is, in truth, not much to
tell--not much, at least, that can well be told. It must suffice, here,
that Miss Barrett was born on the 4th of March 1809, and so was the
senior, by three years, of Robert Browning.

By 1820, in remote Herefordshire, the not yet eleven-year-old poetess
had already "cried aloud on obsolete Muses from childish lips" in
various "nascent odes, epics, and didactics." At this time, she tells
us, the Greeks were her demi-gods, and she dreamt much of Agamemnon. In
the same year, in suburban Camberwell, a little boy was often wont to
listen eagerly to his father's narrative of the same hero, and to all
the moving tale of Troy. It is significant that these two children, so
far apart, both with the light of the future upon their brows, grew up
in familiarity with something of the antique beauty. It was a lifelong
joy to both, that "serene air of Greece." Many an hour of gloom was
charmed away by it for the poetess who translated the "Prometheus Bound"
of AEschylus, and wrote "The Dead Pan": many a happy day and memorable
night were spent in that "beloved environment" by the poet who wrote
"Balaustion's Adventure" and translated the "Agamemnon."

The chief sorrow of her life, however, occurred in her thirty-first
year. She never quite recovered from the shock of her w