e, in 1881 (_vide
The Academy_, April 2nd), "There is no sort of historical foundation
about [this poem]. I wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel off the
African coast, after I had been at it long enough to appreciate even the
fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse, 'York,' then in
my stable at home. It was written in pencil on the fly-leaf of Bartoli's
_Simboli_, I remember."]

His look was a continual and serene gleam. Lamartine, who remarks this
of Bossuet in his youth, adds a phrase which, as observant acquaintances
of the poet will agree, might be written of Browning--"His lips quivered
often without utterance, as if with the wind of an internal speech."

Except for the touching and beautiful letter which he wrote from Asolo
about two months before his death, to Mr. Wilfrid Meynell, about a young
writer to whom the latter wished to draw the poet's kindly attention--a
letter which has a peculiar pathos in the words, "I shall soon depart
for Venice, on my way homeward"--except for this letter there is none so
well worth repetition here as his last word to the Poet-Laureate. The
friendship between these two great poets has in itself the fragrance of
genius. The letter was written just before Browning left London.

29 De Vere Gardens, W.,
_August 5th_, 1889.

MY DEAR TENNYSON,--To-morrow is your birthday--indeed, a memorable
one. Let me say I associate myself with the universal pride of our
country in your glory, and in its hope that for many and many a
year we may have your very self among us--secure that your poetry
will be a wonder and delight to all those appointed to come after.
And for my own part, let me further say, I have loved you dearly.
May God bless you and yours.

At no moment from first to last of my acquaintance with your
works, or friendship with yourself, have I had any other feeling,
expressed or kept silent, than this which an opportunity allows me
to utter--that I am and ever shall be, my dear Tennyson,
admiringly and affectionately yours,

ROBERT BROWNING.

Shortly after this he was at Asolo once more, the little hill-town in
the Veneto, which he had visited in his youth, and where he heard again
the echo of Pippa's song--

"God's in His heaven,
All's right with the world!"

Mr. W.W. Story writes to me that he spent three days with the poet at
this time, and that the l