a liar might be high-minded.  In all his life, it must constantly be remembered, he tried always the most difficult things.  Just as he tried the queerest metres and attempted to manage them, so he tried the queerest human souls and attempted to stand in their place.  Charity was his basic philosophy; but it was, as it were, a fierce charity, a charity that went man-hunting.  He was a kind of cosmic detective who walked into the foulest of thieves’ kitchens and accused men publicly of virtue.  The character of Djabal in The Return of the Druses is the first of this long series of forlorn hopes for the relief of long surrendered castles of misconduct.  As we shall see, even realising the humanity of a noble impostor like Djabal did not content his erratic hunger for goodness.  He went further again, and realised the humanity of a mean impostor like Sludge.  But in all things he retained this essential characteristic, that he was not content with seeking sinners—­he sought the sinners whom even sinners cast out.

Browning’s feeling of ambition in the matter of the drama continued to grow at this time.  It must be remembered that he had every natural tendency to be theatrical, though he lacked the essential lucidity.  He was not, as a matter of fact, a particularly unsuccessful dramatist; but in the world of abstract temperaments he was by nature an unsuccessful dramatist.  He was, that is to say, a man who loved above all things plain and sensational words, open catastrophes, a clear and ringing conclusion to everything.  But it so happened, unfortunately, that his own words were not plain; that his catastrophes came with a crashing and sudden unintelligibleness which left men in doubt whether the thing were a catastrophe or a great stroke of good luck; that his conclusion, though it rang like a trumpet to the four corners of heaven, was in its actual message quite inaudible.  We are bound to admit, on the authority of all his best critics and admirers, that his plays were not failures, but we can all feel that they should have been.  He was, as it were, by nature a neglected dramatist.  He was one of those who achieve the reputation, in the literal sense, of eccentricity by their frantic efforts to reach the centre.

A Blot on the ’Scutcheon followed The Return of the Druses.  In connection with the performance of this very fine play a quarrel arose which would not be worth mentioning if it did not happen to illustrate the curious energetic simplicity of Browning’s character.  Macready, who was in desperately low financial circumstances at this time, tried by every means conceivable to avoid playing the part; he dodged, he shuffled, he tried every evasion that occurred to him, but it never occurred to Browning to see what he meant.  He pushed off the part upon Phelps, and Browning was contented; he resumed it, and Browning was only discontented on behalf of Phelps.  The two had a quarrel; they were both headstrong,