“I was a good child on the whole, A meek and manageable child. Why not? I did not live to have the faults of life. There seemed more true life in my father’s grave Than in all England. . . . . . At first I felt no life which was not patience; Did the thing she bade me, without heed To a thing beyond it; sat in just the chair she placed With back against the window, to exclude The sight of the great lime-tree on the lawn, Which seemed to have come on purpose from the woods To bring the house a message.” So quiet was she, and pale, and sad, that her aunt’s friends visiting there, whispered about her that “the child from Florence looked ill, and would not live long.” This made her glad, for she was homesick for her father’s grave. But her cousin, Romney Leigh, a boy somewhat older than herself, took her to task for this. He said to her: “You’re wicked now. You wish to die, And leave the world a-dusk for others, With your naughty light blown out.” Well, she did not die, but lived to be a sweet, proud, brave, foolish, sorrowful, glad, happy woman! You think my words contradict one another? No; they may belong to one life, and often do. I do not mean that you will be interested in all her story—hers and “Cousin Romney’s”—not yet awhile. Some day you will read it, study it, I hope, for the beauty of the language, and for the moral power there is in it. Just now, my main object is to introduce you, so that when you hear the name “Aurora Leigh,” you may be able to say: “I know her; she is one of Mrs. Browning’s characters—a little girl from Florence, who lived with an aunt in England.” Or when you hear Mrs. Browning’s name, you will say, or think: “She wrote a long poem once, named Aurora Leigh.” Why should you care to know that? Because, my dear, it is a little crumb of knowledge about English Literature, a study which I am hoping you are going to greatly enjoy by and by. Oh! Mrs. Browning wrote many other poems, though the one about which we have been talking is perhaps considered her greatest. There are some which I think you must know and love. For instance: “Little Ellie sits alone ’Mid the beeches of a meadow, By a stream-side on the grass; And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow, On her shining hair and face. “She has thrown her bonnet by, And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water’s flow; Now she holds them nakedly In her hands, all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro. “Little Ellie sits alone, And the smile she softly uses Fills the silence like a speech; While she thinks what shall be done— And the sweetest pleasure chooses For her future within reach.” There are seventeen verses; of course I have not room for them, but you will like to find the poem and read for yourselves. It is entitled “The Romance of the Swan’s Nest.”