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Sweet Joy came singing
’Long my way,
A bird-like carol
Light and gay.
I cried, exulting:
“Here am I!”
But Joy, not pausing,
Passed me by.
Next Fame came towards me,
Fair and calm,
With crown of laurel,
Branch of palm.
“Lo, I have striven —
Here, am I!”
But Fame, unhearing,
Passed me by.
The Wedded Poets.
Interest in the wedded poets, Robert
Browning and his wife, Elizabeth Bar
rett Browning, can never die, both be
cause they were true poets, though of
widely different types, t and because
their wedded life was full of love and
tenderness and touched with romance.
In Neale’s Magazine there is an in
tensely interesting sketch of the life
of the Brownings, in Florence, by their
intimate friend, Mrs. Elizabeth Sted
man Kinney —mother of Edmund Clar
ence Stedman, the poet and wife of
William Burtnet Kinney, editor of The
Daily Advertiser and later our Ameri
can minister to the Court of King
Emanuel of Italy.
It was while she was resident in
Florence that the wife of the Ameri
can minister came to know the
Brownings. Their picturesque Flor
etine home —Casa Guidi —was within
five minutes’ walk of the residence of
the minister, and Mrs. Kinney was
surprised and pleased to have them
call at once upon her.
She describes Mrs. Browning as
slender, thin and fragile, inclined to
stoop, because of a life-long spinal
affection, and looking unusual and old
er than her age—forty-four—because
of the peculiar way she wore her abun
dant black hair, straight down from
the crown of her head, veiling her fine
brow, and her cheeks. Her mouth
was large, but ‘one’s glance would
be attracted only to her large lustrous
dark eyes, shaded by long black lashes
and arched by black brows. This
mode of wearing her hair, together
with her frail health, (she had then
only one lung), made her appear more
than five years the senior of her ro
bust, broad-shouldered husband.
Robert Browning’s hair was also
black, peppered with gray, though he
was only thirty-nine. He had gray
eyes, a mouth sometimes humorous,
sometimes satirical. In tempera
ment he was impulsive, and vivacious,
a splendid conversationalist, full of
anecdote and wit, sometimes the wit
was touched with ridicule and harsh
criticism, for he was candid and sin
cere to a fault —a hearty good fellow,
noble and generous, giving one the
impression of an overgrown boy.
He was all tenderness to his gifted,
fragile wife. Once when her person
al books had been ridiculed in a cruel
letter, published by the New York
Home Journal, Mrs. Kinney found
Robert Browning furiously enraged.
Elizabeth’s great eyes were full of
tears, but she said only, “It would be
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression For Those Who Feel and Think.
Life’s Gift To Me
By MARGARET A, RICHARD.
CHA T
Then Love looked on me
With eyes sweet,
The flowers upspringing
Round his feet.
‘‘Oh, Love —Life’s sweetest,
Here am I!”
But Love, still smiling,
Passed me by.
Last, Pain came gliding
Silently,
So darkly clothed, speech
Died in me.
She hoarsely whispered:
“Here am I,
To clasp and hold thee
Till we die!”
better that scribblers for newspapers
should leave picking one’s bones until
one is dead and buried.”
Married Life of People of Genius.
It has often been said that a special
ly gifted man or woman, an artist in
literature, painting or scultpiire, is
never a good matrimonial mate.
Bulwer’s wife declared that to live
with a genius was purgatory and the
unhappy married lives of Byron, Scott
and others, seem to bear this out. But
no domestic life was happier than
Hawthorn’s, Longfellow’s, Southey’s,
and many others.
The wedded life of the Browing’s
was fully known to Mrs. Kinney. There
was no concealment about this pair.
They did not agree on all matters of
literature and art, and their petty
disputes were before whomsoever hap
pened to be present and, like children,
they made up quickly.
He always called her Bat —a pet
name he took from her maiden name
Barrett, and she called him Rob —or
Robert before strangers.
They were not jealous of each oth
er’s genius or fame. Mrs. Kinney
says: Never was Elizabeth happier
than when her husband received due
praise, and when her grand novel in
verse —Aurora Leigh—came out with
such applause, “Robert Browning”
says Mrs. Kinney, ran over with de
light. Yet, he did say to me that
“he should never be anything beside
such a queen of song as his wife.”
He fell in love with her from read
ing her beautiful imaginative poems,
before he ever saw her. He determ
ined he would see her, though it was
well known that she was an invalid,
self-secluded from the world and far
ther guarded by an eccentric dragon of
a father, who determined she should
never marry.
But Robert Browning braved the
dragon, and went to see the poet, who
had won his heart. He was even
then well known for his own poems,
great, though obscure in their mean
ing, and Elizabeth admired intensely
his strong, masculine verse. But she
refused his request for an interview.
A second letter, however, brought con
sent, and he was admitted to the pres
ence of the pale, young muse, who re
ceived him on her couch, from which
indeed she scarcely ever rose. He
was almost the first man she had
ever spoken to and his impetuous man
ner bewildered her. He declared his
love at first sight, so he acknowledged
when one day the Kinneys and Brown-
The Golden Age for January 23, 1913.
ings had dined —picnic fashion —in the
beautiful gardens of Tretolino.
She resented his offer of marriage.
It seemed to mock her helpless state.
So he' left her under frown, but he
sent back to her a volume of poems
and an impassioned letter.
While she read and mused, the fire
glowed which he had kindled in her
heart. She believed he was true, and
she again received him. At last he
won her entire love. She had given
to the world the gradual unfolding of
that long close-shut heart, in the se
ries of exquisite poems which she
called “Sonnets from The Portuguese,”
in order to veil them as her personal
experience.
Browning asked her father’s con
sent, and was premptorily refused. So
with her consent, he took her in his
arms, put her in a carriage and took
her to a parson who promptly married
the pair of poets! Until she stood
up to be married, he did not even
know that she could stand on her
feet. He bore her tenderly to Italy,
where love and a milder climate re
vived at once her drooping frame.
In a year she gave birth to their
spirit-eyed boy, whose poetic beauty
failed to touch the hard heart of the
unforgiving father of Elizabeth, whom
Mrs. Kinney calls a rich old repro
bate. Badly as he had treated his
daughter, the news of his death pros
trated her, and for twelve hours she
was unconscious.
Os the domestic life of the Brown
ings Mrs. Kenney says: It was full
of love, but also there was no lack
of montonoy. Each had decided
views. Two extremes met in their
character and the wife was five years
older than her husband, but to him
she lacked nothing of youth or beauty
—and he greatly admired her genius
and her loyalty to her own ideas. She
was half Swedenborgian; he a staunch
Presbyterian, who believed spiritual
ism was a humbug. They had lively
discussions, but they loved each other
in the truest sense.
Next week I will tell you of a sur
prising and amusing episode in which
the Brownings figured, together with
the famous American sculptress, Har
riet Hosmer, who lived neighbor to
them in Florence. Now, I must not
forget to let you know the price of
our own poet’s—Arthur Goodenough
—little volume of poems. It is twen
ty-five cents, and I do hope many of
his friends will write to him at his
home, Brattleboro, Vermont, and ob
tain his book as a memento of the
poet who for years has delighted us
with his various verse.
IRUttb ®ur Correspon&ents
SOME OBJECTIONS TO FLESH AS
A FOOD FOR FOLKS.
1. It violates the original divine
plan of feeding. See Gen. 1:29-30.
Even if one does not believe the Eden
story, divine, he can find no fault
with the plan of life which was there
proposed. It was rational and philo
sophic, and it had in it no flesh; it
was a bloodless and deathless diet.
2. It violates that command which
says, “Thou shalt not kill.” Put the
act of killing the animal up to those
who eat the flesh, and many of us
would desist. Many mothers prepare
flesh for food daily who, if called on
to kill the animal would decline. It
is no light matter to take animal life.
But please remember no flesh can
come on our tables without some one
kills.
3. It is unclean. Wash it, cleanse
it, disguise it, treat it as you please,
and the flesh of a dead animal is un
clean. Life itself is a process of de
cay and that decay is hastened by
death. So, at its best, flesh is un
clean, but how little of it comes to
us at its best. Too much of it is at
its worst, in a state of most unattract
ive uncleanness. To prove this, sniff
the air from any meat market.
4. It costs too much. The high
cost of living in America might be cut
considerably if we were willing to
leave off our flesh diet.
One pound of wheat costing 2 cents
is the equal in food value to five
pounds of flesh costing 50 cents to ?1.
Figure on this awhile, you who are
pressed by “high cost of living.” Com
pare your flesh diet with others, and
see the unnecessary expense.
G. T. HOWERTON.
4* 4*
WE ALL HAVE OUR MISSION.
Dear Old Woman:
I surely enjoy your letters and ad
mire your fine love of nature and beau
tiful scenery. I would like to stand
with you on the bank of one of those
wild, picturesque streams you write
about, and gaze from the rushing
water to the rugged cliffs and tower
ing trees of the opposite bank, and to
the grand mountains in their blue,
dreamy distance.
How can any one who looks upon
the beautiful, sublime world of Na
ture doubt the existence of its mighty
creator? I do not believe any one
can doubt it in his heart.
God is not only our Creator, but He
is our guide, comforter and sustainer.
How could such afflicted, helpless
ones as our dear Tom Lockhart and
Mattie Beverage endure their trials
were it not for the sustaining power
of faith? My heart goes out in sym
pathy to these brave, enduring suf
ferers, and also to Mizpah, who lost
her mother in such a tragic and sud
den way.
Do not let yourself feel that your
mother is lost to you forever, dear
girl. I, too, have seen a dear mother
laid to rest in a bed of earth, but I
felt amid my grief that it was only
her mortal chrysalis that was covered
with sods. Her sweet soul had passed
through the gates of death into the
land of immortal life, where, I hope,
through God’s grace, to meet her
when my earthly mission is ended.
This mission sometimes seems small
and insignificant to me. I long to
do something widely useful —to be an
evangelist, gifted with power and elo
quence, that I might carry Christ’s
gospel of love and mercy to the utter
most parts of the earth. But such
great work was never meant for me,
and I must be content to my humble
part in the vast plan of the Universe.
Each of us has his or her part in
that great plan, and if we act it
rightly we fulfill our destiny.
With love to Mrs. Bryan and the
other editors of the The Golden Age
and heartfelt wishes for the welfare
through the New Year and for the
prosperity of paper, I sign myself.
IOLA.
Royston, Ga.
4- 4*
GATHERING FLOWERS IN JAN
UARY.
Dear Mother Meb and Householders:
I have just finished my morn
ing duties, and after tidying my room,
I went out to gather flowers for my
to