William was married and had taken a house of his own—­I don’t know where.  The rest of the household consisted of the widow, Mrs. Rossetti, Miss Charlotte Lydia Polidori, Maria and Christina—­and seven cats.  And so we find this family of five women living in peace and comfort, with their books and pictures and cats, at Thirty Torrington Square, in a drowsy, faded, ebb-tide mansion.  Maria was never strong; she fell into a decline and passed away.  The management of the household then devolved on Christina.  Her burdens must have been heavy in those days, or did she make them light by cheerful doing?  She gave up society, refused the thought of marriage, and joined that unorganized sisterhood of mercy—­the women who toil that others may live.  But she sang at her work, as the womanly woman ever does.  For although a woman may hold no babe in her arms, the lullaby leaps to her tongue, and at eventide she sings songs to the children of her brain—­sweet idealization of the principle of mother-love.

Christina Rossetti comes to us as one of those splendid stars that are so far away they are seen only at rare intervals.  She never posed as a “literary person”—­reading her productions at four-o’clocks, and winning high praise from the unbonneted and the discerning society editor.  She never even sought a publisher.  Her first volume of verses was issued by her grandfather Polidori unknown to her—­printed by his own labor when she was seventeen and presented to her.  What a surprise it must have been to this gentle girl to have one of her own books placed in her hands!  There seems to have been an almost holy love in this proud man’s heart for his granddaughter.  His love was blind, or near-sighted at least, as love is apt to be (and I am glad!), for some of the poems in this little volume are sorry stuff.  Later, her brothers issued her work and found market for it; and once we find Dante Gabriel almost quarreling with that worthy Manxman, Hall Caine, because the Manxman was compiling a volume of the best English sonnets and threatening to leave Christina Rossetti out.

Christina had the faculty of seizing beautiful moments, exalted feelings, sublime emotions, and working them up into limpid song that comes echoing to us as from across soft seas.  In all her lines there is a half-sobbing undertone—­the sweet minor chord that is ever present in the songs of the Choir Invisible, whose music is the gladness as well as the sadness of the world.

I have a dear friend who is an amateur photographic artist, which be it known is quite a different thing from a kodak fiend.  The latter is continually snapping a machine at incongruous things; he delights in catching people in absurd postures; he pictures the foolish, the irrelevant, the transient and the needless.  But what does my friend picture?  I’ll tell you.  He catches pictures only of beautiful objects:  swaying stalks of goldenrod, flights of thistle-down, lichen on old stone walls,