this side, on that, weaving
magic circles, now with gesticulating arms thrown high, now groveling on
the floor to find some reference in a folio, talking all the while, a
redundant turmoil of thoughts, fancies, and reminiscences flowing from
those generous lips."

Elsewhere Mr. Gosse summed up his personal impressions of Mr. Browning,
as follows:

"I am bound to tell you that I saw a different Browning from the hero
of all the handbooks and 'gospels' which are now in vogue. People are
beginning to treat this vehement and honest poet as if he were a sort of
Marcus Aurelius and John the Baptist rolled into one. I have just seen a
book in which it is proposed that Browning should supersede the Bible,
in which it is asserted that a set of his volumes will teach religion
better than all the theologies in the world. Well, I did not know that
holy monster.... What I saw was an unostentatious, keen, active man of
the world, one who never failed to give good practical advice in matters
of business and conduct, one who loved his friends and certainly hated
his enemies; a man alive in every eager passionate nerve of him; a man
who loved to discuss people and affairs, and a bit of a gossip; a bit of
a partisan, too, and not without his humorous prejudices. He was simple
to a high degree, simple in his scrupulous dress, his loud, happy voice,
his insatiable curiosity."

Browning's London life was varied by many summer journeyings to French
sea-coast towns, to Wales, and to Scotland. But it was seventeen years
after the death of his wife before he could bring himself to revisit
Italy. Even then he avoided Florence. He took his sister to Northern
Italy; and Asolo and Venice became the towns around which their
affections centered. Two American friends, Mrs. Bloomfield-Moore, and
Mrs. Arthur Bronson,[6] contributed to the happiness of these Italian
sojourns. In 1888 Browning's son, who had married an American girl,
bought the Palazzo Rezzonico in Venice, so that Browning had an
additional personal reason for his trip to Venice in 1889. He was well,
and he took great pleasure in his son's admirably planned restoration of
the old Venetian palace. He worked, walked, talked with nearly normal
vigor. But a bronchial attack proved more than his weakened heart could
withstand, and he died peacefully, almost painlessly, in his son's home
on December 12, 1889. On the day of his death his last book, _Asolando_,
was published, so that his brave