_, September, 1861: "They who have been so favored can never
forget the square ante-room, with its great picture and piano-forte,
at which the boy Browning passed many an hour; the little dining room
covered with tapestry, and where hung medallions of Tennyson, Carlyle,
and Robert Browning; the long room filled with plaster casts and
studies, which was Mr. Browning's retreat; and, dearest of all, the
large drawing-room, where _she_ always sat. It opens upon a balcony
filled with plants, and looks out upon the old iron-gray church of
Santa Felice. There was something about this room that seemed to make
it a proper and especial haunt for poets. The dark shadows and
subdued light gave it a dreamy look, which was enhanced by the
tapestry-covered walls, and the old pictures of saints that looked
out sadly from their carved frames of black wood. Large bookcases,
constructed of specimens of Florentine carving selected by Mr.
Browning, were brimming over with wise-looking books. Tables were
covered with more gayly bound volumes, the gifts of brother authors.
Dante's grave profile, a cast of Keats' face and brow taken after
death, a pen-and-ink sketch of Tennyson, the genial face of John
Kenyon, Mrs. Browning's good friend and relative, little paintings of
the boy Browning, all attracted the eye in turn, and gave rise to a
thousand musings. But the glory of all, and that which sanctified all,
was seated in a low armchair near the door. A small table, strewn with
writing materials, books and newspapers, was always by her side."

Then Mr. Browning, in the London home, showed us the room where he
writes, containing his library and hers. The books are on simple
shelves, choice, and many very old and rare. Here are her books, many
in Greek and Hebrew. In the Greek, I saw her notes on the margin in
Hebrew, and in the Hebrew she had written her marginal notes in Greek.
Here also are the five volumes of her writings, in blue and gold.

The small table at which she wrote still stands beside the larger
where her husband composes. His table is covered with letters and
papers and books; hers stands there unused, because it is a constant
reminder of those companionable years, when they worked together.
Close by hangs a picture of the "young Florentine," Robert Barrett
Browning, now grown to manhood, an artist already famed. He has a
refined face, as he sits in artist garb, before his easel, sketching
in a peasant's house. The beloved poet w