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And, indeed, I have no doubt whatever that, some centuries hence, the students of folk-lore will refuse altogether to believe that Elizabeth Barrett eloped with Robert Browning, and will prove their point up to the hilt by the unquestionable fact that the whole fiction of the period was full of such elopements from end to end.
BROWNING. Powder four ounces of double-refined sugar, put it into a very nice iron fryingpan, with one ounce of fresh butter. Mix it well over a clear fire; and when it begins to froth, hold it up higher: when of a very fine dark brown, pour in a small quantity of a pint of port, and the whole by very slow degrees, stirring it all the time.
"Browning is in a blue funk whenever he thinks of stacking up against the freshman," one sophomore confidentially told another. "I believe he has lost his nerve." "It looks that way," admitted the other. Thus it came about that Bruce's appearance led his former admirers to misjudge him, and he saw a growing coolness toward him.
Inspiration could not save Keats from his Cockney rhymes nor Mrs. Browning from her rhymeless rhymes. I met a poet in a London suburb it seemed odd to see one out of Fleet Street but after a few bewildered instants I recognised him. There was on his brow the burden of a brooding sorrow.
Browning, about whose ancestry and parentage a good deal of mostly superfluous ink has been shed, was born, the son of a city man, on 7th May 1812, in the, according to the elder Mr. Weller, exceptional district of Camberwell. He was himself exceptional enough in more ways than one.
Got a new department store, with a restaurant and a basement in the very spot where it used to be. Look sharp now, we're coming to a hospital. That belongs to Dr. Browning. You don't remember Dr. Browning. After your day, I reckon. He's a young chap, but he's got his hospital like all the rest, and every bed filled he told me so yesterday. But they've all got their hospitals.
We also talked of Miss Bacon; and I developed something of that lady's theory respecting Shakespeare, greatly to the horror of Mrs. Browning, and that of her next neighbor, a nobleman, whose name I did not hear. On the whole, I like her the better for loving the man Shakespeare with a personal love.
How shall an American, coming to you out of his long, flat, literary desert, dare to say it?... Here, where Shakespeare played mightily, and like a great boy with the world; where Milton, Keats, Wordsworth, Browning, Shelley, and even Dickens flooded the lives and refreshed the hearts of the people; here, in these selfsame streets, going past these same old, gentle, smoky temples where Charles Lamb walked and loved a world, and laughed at a world, and even made one lifted over his London forever into the hearts of men....
Bridell-Fox, who thus describes her first meeting with him: 'I remember . . . when Mr. Browning entered the drawing-room, with a quick light step; and on hearing from me that my father was out, and in fact that nobody was at home but myself, he said: "It's my birthday to-day; I'll wait till they come in," and sitting down to the piano, he added: "If it won't disturb you, I'll play till they do."
This was a staggerer, but I suggested: "What about Kipling?" "Too slangy and Coarse!" "Austin?" "Don't ask me." "What of Wordsworth, Tennyson and Browning?" "Well, Wordsworth is too prosy, you have to read such a lot to get a little; Tennyson is a bit sickly and too sentimental, I mean with washy sentiment; Browning I cannot understand, he is too hard for me."
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