the table, and at first I thought
the room otherwise unoccupied. But suddenly a dapper little figure
emerged from a huge armchair by the fire, and stepped briskly across
the room. For a moment I was bewildered. The poet's face was familiar
in photographs, but I had somehow imagined him a tall, gaunt man. I
recovered myself to find him standing before me, holding both my hands
and saying, 'Now this is really very kind of you, to come so far just
to see an old man like me.' Then he dragged up a companion chair and
forced me into it, standing for some moments by my side, with his hand
on my shoulder. Then he sat down and said, 'Well, tell me all about
yourself. Have you not brought some of your poems to show me?' Of
course I had not. I wanted to see him and talk of his work. But for a
while he would not let me do so. 'We'll talk about me later, if you
like, though I'm rather tired of the subject,' he said, and proceeded
to question me pretty closely about my aim and work. Then he sat and
thought awhile, then came across to me and said, 'Do you know that I
was nearly fifty before I made any money out of my writings? That's
the truth, and you will understand my reluctance to advise any one to
embark on such a cruel career. But--if you really mean to go in for
it--I would do anything I could to shorten your time of waiting. So
you must just send me some of your work, that I may give you my candid
opinion, if you think it's worth having. And now come and see my
books.'

... "We went down to lunch, and I was introduced to the poet's sister,
who is, I was instantly ready to aver, the most charming little lady
in the world. I don't remember much of the talk at lunch--except that
it turned on Ruskin and his art views, with which latter, it seemed to
me, Browning had not much sympathy. He told me two anecdotes designed
to prove Ruskin's technical inaccuracy; one relating to Michael
Angelo, the other to Browning's own exquisite poem, _Andrea del
Sarto_. 'But never mind,' said Browning, 'he writes like an angel.'

"Lunch was finished, and my host apologized for having to turn me out,
as he was obliged to attend some 'preposterous meeting,' he said. I
was standing in the hall, saying good-by, when suddenly he turned and
ran up-stairs. Presently he returned, bringing with him a copy of his
wife's poems. 'Will you take this as a record of what I hope is only
the first of many meetings?' he said. 'I can't find any of my own in
that mud