some time kept absolutely private. From the first Mr.
Barrett had been jealous of his beloved daughter's new friend. He did
not care much for the man, he with all the prejudices and baneful
conservatism of the slave-owning planter, the other with ardent
democratic sentiments and a detestation of all forms of iniquity. Nor
did he understand the poet. He could read his daughter's flowing verse
with pleasure, but there was to his ear a mere jumble of sound and sense
in much of the work of the author of "The Tomb at St. Praxed's" and
"Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis." Of a selfishly genial but also of a
violent and often sullen nature, he resented more and more any
friendship which threatened to loosen the chain of affection and
association binding his daughter to himself.

Both the lovers believed that an immediate marriage would, from every
point of view, be best. It was not advisable that it should be long
delayed, if to happen at all, for the health of Miss Barrett was so poor
that another winter in London might, probably would, mean irretrievable
harm.

Some time before this she had become acquainted with Mrs. Jameson, the
eminent art-writer. The regard, which quickly developed to an
affectionate esteem, was mutual. One September morning Mrs. Jameson
called, and after having dwelt on the gloom and peril of another winter
in London, dwelt on the magic of Italy, and concluded by inviting Miss
Barrett to accompany her in her own imminent departure for abroad. The
poet was touched and grateful, but, pointing to her invalid sofa, and
gently emphasising her enfeebled health and other difficult
circumstances, excused herself from acceptance of Mrs. Jameson's
generous offer.

In the "Memoirs of Mrs. Jameson" that lady's niece, Mrs. Macpherson,
relates how on the eve of her and her aunt's departure, a little note of
farewell arrived from Miss Barrett, "deploring the writer's inability
to come in person and bid her friend good-bye, as she was 'forced to be
satisfied with the sofa and silence.'"

It is easy to understand, therefore, with what amazement Mrs. Jameson,
shortly after her arrival in Paris, received a letter from Robert
Browning to the effect that he _and his wife_ had just come from
London, on their way to Italy. "My aunt's surprise was something almost
comical," writes Mrs. Macpherson, "so startling and entirely unexpected
was the news." And duly married indeed the two poets had been!

From the moment the matter wa