complished. I
have already mentioned Lord Houghton, poet, essayist, pamphleteer,
book-lover, and book-collector, who was equally at home in the world of
society and the world of literature. Nothing that was good in books,
whether ancient or modern, escaped his curious scrutiny, and at his
hospitable table, which might truly be called a "Festive Board,"
authors great and small rubbed shoulders with dandies and diplomats and
statesmen. On the 16th of June, 1863, Matthew Arnold wrote--"On Sunday I
dined with Monckton Milnes,[51] and met all the advanced Liberals in
religion and politics, and a Cingalese in full costume.... The
philosophers were fearful! George Lewes, Herbert Spencer, a sort of
pseudo-Shelley called Swinburne, and so on. Froude, however, was there,
and Browning, and Ruskin."

The mention of Matthew Arnold reminds me that, though I had admired and
liked him in a reverent sort of way, when I was a Harrow boy and he was
a man, I found him even more fascinating when I met him on the more even
terms of social life in London. He was indeed the most delightful of
companions; a man of the world entirely free from worldliness, and a man
of letters without the faintest trace of pedantry. He walked through the
world enjoying it and loving it; and yet all the time one felt that his
"eyes were on the higher loadstars" of the intellect and the spirit. In
those days I used to say that, if one could fashion oneself, I should
wish to be like Matthew Arnold; and the lapse of years has not altered
my desire.

Of Robert Browning, as he appeared in society, I have already spoken;
but here let me add an instance which well illustrates his tact and
readiness. He once did me the honour of dining with me, and I had
collected a group of eager disciples to meet him. As soon as dinner was
over, one of these enthusiasts led the great man into a corner, and
began cross-examining him about the identity of _The Lost Leader_ and
the meaning of _Sordello_. For a space Browning bore the catechism with
admirable patience; and then, laying his hand on the questioner's
shoulder, he exclaimed, "But, my dear fellow, this is too bad. _I_ am
monopolizing _you_," and skipped out of the corner.

Lord Tennyson was scarcely ever to be encountered in society; but I was
presented to him at a garden-party by Mr. James Knowles, of the
_Nineteenth Century_. He was, is, and always will be, one of the chief
divinities of my poetical heaven; but he was more