owers.

The little literary world of London knew Browning and respected him. He
was earnest and sincere and his personality carried weight. His face was
not handsome, but his manner was one of poise and purpose; and to come
within his aura and look into his calm eyes was to respect the man and
make obeisance to the intellect that you felt lay behind.

A few editors had gone out of their way to "discover" him to the world,
but their lavish reviews fell flat. Buyers would not buy--no one seemed to
want the wares of Robert Browning. He was hard to read, difficult,
obscure--or else there wasn't anything in it at all--they didn't know
which.

Fox, editor of the "Repository," had met Browning at the Flowers' and
liked him. He tried to make his verse go, but couldn't. Yet he did what he
could and insisted that Browning should go with him to the "Sunday
evenings" at Barry Cornwall's. There Browning met Leigh Hunt, Monckton
Milnes and Dickens. Then there were dinner-parties at Sergeant Talfourd's,
where he got acquainted with Wordsworth, Walter Savage Landor and
Macready.

Macready impressed him greatly and he impressed Macready. He gave the
actor a copy of "Paracelsus" (one of the pile in the garret) and Macready
suggested he write a play. "Strafford" was the result, and we know it was
stillborn, and caused a very frosty feeling to exist for many a year
between the author and the actor. When a play fails, the author blames the
actor and the actor damns the author. These men were human. Of course
Browning's kinsmen all considered him a failure, and when the father paid
over the weekly allowance he often rubbed it in a bit. Lizzie Flower had
modified her prophecy as to the Laureateship, but was still loyal. They
had tiffed occasionally, and broken off the friendship, and once I believe
returned letters. To marry was out of the question--he couldn't support
himself--and besides that, they were old, demnition old; he was past
thirty and she was forty--Gramercy!

They tiffed.

Then they made up.

In the meantime Browning had formed a friendship, very firm and frank, but
strictly Platonic, of course, for Fanny Haworth. Miss Haworth had seen
more of the world than Miss Flower--she was an artist, a writer, and moved
in the best society. Browning and Miss Haworth wrote letters to each other
for a while most every day, and he called on her every Wednesday and
Saturday evening.

Miss Haworth bought and gave away many copies of "