Herself one whose happiest experiences were in dreamland, Miss Barrett was keenly susceptible to the strong humanity of Browning’s song, nor less keenly attracted by his strenuous and fearless outlook, his poetic practicality, and even by his bluntness of insight in certain matters.  It was no slight thing to her that she could, in Mr. Lowell’s words, say of herself and of him—­

     “We, who believe life’s bases rest
      Beyond the probe of chemic test.”

She rejoiced, despite her own love for remote imaginings, to know that he was of those who (to quote again from the same fine poet)

“... wasted not their breath in schemes Of what man might be in some bubble-sphere, As if he must be other than he seems Because he was not what he should be here, Postponing Time’s slow proof to petulant dreams;”

that, in a word, while ‘he could believe the promise of to-morrow,’ he was at the same time supremely conscious of ’the wondrous meaning of to-day.’

Both, from their youth onward, had travelled ’on trails divine of unimagined laws.’  It was sufficient for her that he kept his eyes fixed on the goal beyond the way he followed:  it did not matter that he was blind to the dim adumbrations of novel byways, of strange Calvarys by the wayside, so often visible to her.

Their first meeting was speedily followed by a second—­by a third—­and then?  When we know not, but ere long, each found that happiness was in the bestowal of the other.

The secret was for 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.