shmead-Bartlett, had assisted her in dispensing her charities, and
in other financial matters. At one time he went to Turkey, at her
request, using wisely the funds committed to his trust. Baroness
Coutts had refused many offers of marriage, but she finally desired
to bestow her hand upon this young but congenial man. On February 12,
1881, they were wedded in Christ Church, Piccadilly. Her husband
took the name of Mr. Burdett-Coutts Bartlett, and has since become a
capable member of Parliament. The marriage proved a happy one.

The final years of the Baroness' long, useful life were rather
secluded, being spent at her London residence, or at her delightful
country place near Highgate, where she formerly entertained largely.

On Christmas Eve, in 1906, she became ill of bronchitis, and though
her wonderful vitality led her to revive somewhat, she finally
succumbed on December 30, at the age of ninety-two. She was greatly
beloved from the highest to the humblest citizens. Queen Alexandra
sent repeated inquiries and messages. King Edward once said that he
regarded the Baroness, after his mother, as the most remarkable woman
in England. Her life was a link with the past, as it began during the
reign of Emperor Napoleon I, and witnessed the reigns of five British
sovereigns. Throughout it was spent in doing good.

JEAN INGELOW.

[Illustration: JEAN INGELOW.]

The same friend who had given me Mrs. Browning's five volumes in blue
and gold, came one day with a dainty volume just published by Roberts
Brothers, of Boston. They had found a new poet, and one possessing a
beautiful name. Possibly it was a _nom de plume_, for who had heard
any real name so musical as that of Jean Ingelow?

I took the volume down by the quiet stream that flows below Amherst
College, and day after day, under a grand old tree, read some of
the most musical words, wedded to as pure thought as our century has
produced.

The world was just beginning to know _The High Tide on the Coast of
Lincolnshire_. Eyes were dimming as they read,--

"I looked without, and lo! my sonne
Came riding downe with might and main:
He raised a shout as he drew on,
Till all the welkin rang again,
'Elizabeth! Elizabeth!'
(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife Elizabeth.)

"'The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe,
The rising tide comes on apace,
And boats adrift in yonder towne
Go sailing uppe the mark