Those who have known Casa Guidi as it was could hardly enter the loved rooms now and speak above a whisper.  They who have been so favored can never forget the square anteroom, 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 book-cases, 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’s 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.  A quaint mirror, easy-chairs and sofas, and a hundred nothings that always add an indescribable charm, were all massed in this room.  But the glory of all, and that which sanctified all, was seated in a low arm-chair near the door.  A small table, strewn with writing-materials, books, and newspapers, was always by her side.

To those who loved Mrs. Browning (and to know her was to love her) she was singularly attractive.  Hers was not the beauty of feature; it was the loftier beauty of expression.  Her slight figure seemed hardly large enough to contain the great heart that beat so fervently within, and the soul that expanded more and more as one year gave place to another.  It was difficult to believe that such a fairy hand could pen thoughts of such ponderous weight, or that such a “still small voice” could utter them with equal force.  But it was Mrs. Browning’s face upon which one loved to gaze,—­that face and head which almost lost themselves in the thick curls of her dark brown hair.  That jealous hair could not hide the broad, fair forehead, “royal with the truth,” as smooth as any girl’s, and

  “Too large for wreath of modern wont.”

Her large brown eyes were beautiful, and were in truth the windows of her soul.  They combined the confidingness of a child with the poet-passion of heart and of intellect; and in gazing into them it was easy to read why Mrs. Browning wrote.  God’s inspiration was her motive power, and in her eyes was the reflection of this higher light.