er was delighted; his father gave reluctant consent, declaring
that any course in life was better than vacillation; and Miss Flower, who
probably had sown the dragon's teeth, assumed a look of surprise, but gave
it as her opinion that Robert Browning would yet be Poet Laureate of
England.

* * * * *

Robert Browning awoke one morning with a start--it was the morning of his
thirtieth birthday. One's thirtieth birthday and one's seventieth are days
that press their message home with iron hand. With his seventieth
milestone past, a man feels that his work is done, and dim voices call to
him from across the Unseen. His work is done, and so illy, compared with
what he had wished and expected! But the impressions made upon his heart
by the day are no deeper than those his thirtieth birthday inspires. At
thirty, youth, with all it palliates and excuses, is gone forever. The
time for mere fooling is past; the young avoid you, or else look up to you
as a Nestor and tempt you to grow reminiscent. You are a man and must give
an account of yourself.

Out of the stillness came a Voice to Robert Browning saying, "What hast
thou done with the talent I gave thee?"

What had he done? It seemed to him at the moment as if he had done
nothing. He arose and looked into the mirror. A few gray hairs were mixed
in his beard; there were crow's feet on his forehead; and the first joyous
flush of youth had gone from his face forever. He was a bachelor, inwardly
at war with his environment, but making a bold front with his tuppence
worth of philosophy to conceal the unrest within.

A bachelor of thirty, strong in limb, clear in brain and yet a dependent!
No one but himself to support, and couldn't even do that! Gadzooks! Fie
upon all poetry and a plague upon this dumb, dense, shopkeeping,
beer-drinking nation upon which the sun never sets!

The father of Robert Browning had done everything a father could. He had
supplied board and books, and given his son an allowance of a pound a week
for ten years. He had sent him on a journey to Italy, and published
several volumes of the young man's verse at his own expense. And these
books were piled high in the garret, save a few that had been bought by
charitable friends or given away.

Robert Browning was not discouraged--oh no, not that!--only the world
seemed to stretch out in a dull, monotonous gray, where once it was green,
the color of hope, and all decked with fl