The winds of discord howl around,
Wild disputers throw up foam,
From high to low she's beat about;
Frighten'd some who love her roam.

I do not know if the last word is intended for a pun, but I scarcely
think it is likely.

I would like to reconstruct Mrs. Farrer's home, with its stiff Victorian
chairs, its threaded antimacassars, its pictorial paper-weights, its wax
flowers under glass shades, and the charming household porcelain from the
Derby and Worcester furnaces. There must have been a sabbatic air of
comfort about the dining-room which was soothing. I can see the
engravings after Landseer: 'The Stag at Bay,' 'Dignity and Impudence'; or
those after Martin: 'The Plains of Heaven,' and 'The Great Day of His
Wrath'; and 'Blucher meeting Wellington,' after Maclise. I can see on
each side of the mirror examples of the art of Daguerre, which have
already begun to produce in us the same sentiment that we get from the
early Tuscans; and on the mantelpiece a photograph of Harriet in a plush
frame, the one touch of modernity in a room which was otherwise severely
1845. Then, on a bookshelf which hung above the old tea-caddy and cut-
glass sugar-bowl, Georgiana's library--'Line upon Line,' 'Precept upon
Precept,' 'Jane the Cottager,' 'Pinnock's Scripture History,' and a few
costly works bound in the style of the Albert Memorial. The
drawing-room, just a trifle damp, must have contained Mr. Hunt's 'Light
of the World,' which Mrs. Farrer never quite learned to love, though it
was a present from a missionary, and rendered fire and artificial light
unnecessary during the winter months. Would that Mrs. Farrer's home-life
had come under the magic lens of Mr. Edmund Gosse, for it would now be