s of his table-talk would probably have taken
their place with the best recollections of English conversation. His
admirers can only regret that gifts so rich and so rare should have been
buried in judicial dining-rooms or squandered on the dismal orgies of
the Cosmopolitan Club, where dull men sit round a meagre fire, in a
large, draughty, and half-lit room, drinking lemon-squash and talking
for talking's sake--the most melancholy of occupations.

The society of London between 1870 and 1890 contained no more striking
or interesting figure than that of Robert Browning. No one meeting him
for the first time and unfurnished with a clue would have guessed his
vocation. He might have been a diplomatist, a statesman, a discoverer,
or a man of science. But whatever was his calling, one felt sure that it
must be something essentially practical. Of the disordered appearance,
the unconventional demeanour, the rapt and mystic air which we assume to
be characteristic of the poet he had absolutely none. And his
conversation corresponded to his appearance. It abounded in vigour, in
fire, in vivacity. It was genuinely interesting, and often strikingly
eloquent, yet all the time it was entirely free from mystery, vagueness,
and jargon. It was the crisp, emphatic, and powerful discourse of a man
of the world who was incomparably better informed than the mass of his
congeners. Mr. Browning was the readiest, the blithest, and the most
forcible of talkers, and when he dealt in criticism the edge of his
sword was mercilessly whetted against pretension and vanity. The
inflection of his voice, the flash of his eye, the pose of his head, the
action of his hand, all lent their special emphasis to the condemnation.
"I like religion to be treated seriously," he exclaimed with reference
to a theological novel of great renown, "and I don't want to know what
this curate or that curate thought about it. _No, I don't._" Surely the
secret thoughts of many hearts found utterance in that emphatic cry.

Here I must venture to insert a personal reminiscence. Mr. Browning had
honoured me with his company at dinner, and an unduly fervent admirer
had button-holed him throughout a long evening, plying him with
questions about what he meant by this line, and whom he intended by that
character. It was more than flesh and blood could stand, and at last
the master extricated himself from the grasp of the disciple, exclaiming
with the most airy grace, "But, my dea