ear."

Throughout the poem there is no disclosure, but, so sure is her art,
that there is no sense of loss or wonder. But the pitiless searchlight
of the century is turned upon the Browning love letters, and thus we
learn that Mrs. Browning's pet name was _Ba_!

Pretty enough, perhaps, when spoken by a lover and a poet, or in shaded
nooks, to the music of Italian streams, but quite unsuited to the
present, even though it were to be read only by lovers equally fond.

"Though I write books, it will be read
Upon the page of none--"

Poor Mrs. Browning! Little did she know!

[Sidenote: With the Future in View]

There have been some, no doubt, who have written with the future in
view, though Abelard, who broke a woman's heart, could not have foreseen
that his only claims to distinction would rest upon his letters to
loving, faithful Heloise. The life which was to be too great for her to
share is remembered now only because of her. Mocking Fate has brought
the wronged woman an exquisite revenge.

That delightful spendthrift and scapegrace, Richard Steele, has left a
large number of whimsical letters, addressed to the lady he married. She
might possibly object to their publication, but not Steele! Indeed, she
was a foolish woman to keep this letter:

"Dear Prue:

"The afternoon coach will bring you ten pounds. Your letter shows that
you are passionately in love with me. But we must take our portion of
life without repining and I consider that good nature, added to the
beautiful form God has given you, would make our happiness too great for
human life. Your most obliged husband and most humble servant,

Rich. Steele."

Alexander Pope was another who wrote for posterity. In spite of his
deformity, he appears to have been touched to the heart by women, but
vanity and selfishness tinged all of his letters.

[Sidenote: Systematic Lovers]

Robert Burns was a systematic lover of anything in petticoats, and has
left such a mass of amatory correspondence that his biographer was
sorely perplexed. There could not have been a pretty maid in the British
Isles, to whom chance had been kind, who had not somewhere the usual
packet of love letters from "Bobby" Burns.

Laurence Sterne was no less generous with his affection, if the stories
are true. At twenty, he fell in love with Elizabeth Lumley, and from his
letters to her, one might easily fancy that love was a devastating and
hopeless disease. There was a pr