gest
of the poets of England--"Mr. Robert Browning, the author of
'Paracelsus.'" It was a very proud moment for Browning, singled out
among that brilliant company: and it is pleasant to know, on the
authority of Miss Mitford, who was present, that "he performed his task
with grace and modesty," looking, the amiable lady adds, even younger
than he was. Perhaps, however, he was prouder still when Wordsworth
leaned across the table, and with stately affability said, "I am proud
to drink your health, Mr. Browning:" when Landor, also, with a superbly
indifferent and yet kindly smile, also raised his glass to his lips in
courteous greeting.

Of Wordsworth Browning saw not a little in the ensuing few years, for on
the rare visits the elderly poet paid to London, Talfourd never failed
to ask the author of "Paracelsus," for whom he had a sincere admiration,
to meet the great man. It was not in the nature of things that the two
poets could become friends, but though the younger was sometimes annoyed
by the elder's pooh-poohing his republican sympathies, and
contemptuously waiving aside as a mere nobody no less an individual than
Shelley, he never failed of respect and even reverence. With what
tenderness and dignity he has commemorated the great poet's falling away
from his early ideals, may be seen in "The Lost Leader," one of the most
popular of Browning's short poems, and likely to remain so. For several
reasons, however, it is best as well as right that Wordsworth should not
be more than merely nominally identified with the Lost Leader. Browning
was always imperative upon this point.

Towards Landor, on the other hand, he entertained a sentiment of genuine
affection, coupled with a profound sympathy and admiration: a sentiment
duly reciprocated. The care of the younger for the elder, in the old
age of the latter, is one of the most beautiful incidents in a
beautiful life.

But the evening was not to pass without another memorable incident, one
to which we owe "Strafford," and probably "A Blot on the 'Scutcheon."
Just as the young poet, flushed with the triumphant pleasure of the
evening, was about to leave, Macready arrested him by a friendly grip of
the arm. In unmistakable earnestness he asked Browning to write him a
play. With a simplicity equal to the occasion, the poet contented
himself with replying, "Shall it be historical and English? What do you
say to a drama on Strafford?"

Macready was pleased with the idea,