Macready impressed him greatly and he impressed Macready.  He gave the actor a copy of “Paracelsus” (one of the pile in the garret) and Macready suggested he write a play.  “Strafford” was the result, and we know it was stillborn, and caused a very frosty feeling to exist for many a year between the author and the actor.  When a play fails, the author blames the actor and the actor damns the author.  These men were human.  Of course Browning’s kinsmen all considered him a failure, and when the father paid over the weekly allowance he often rubbed it in a bit.  Lizzie Flower had modified her prophecy as to the Laureateship, but was still loyal.  They had tiffed occasionally, and broken off the friendship, and once I believe returned letters.  To marry was out of the question—­he couldn’t support himself—­and besides that, they were old, demnition old; he was past thirty and she was forty—­Gramercy!

They tiffed.

Then they made up.

In the meantime Browning had formed a friendship, very firm and frank, but strictly Platonic, of course, for Fanny Haworth.  Miss Haworth had seen more of the world than Miss Flower—­she was an artist, a writer, and moved in the best society.  Browning and Miss Haworth wrote letters to each other for a while most every day, and he called on her every Wednesday and Saturday evening.

Miss Haworth bought and gave away many copies of “Pauline,” “Sordello” and “Paracelsus”; and informed her friends that “Pippa Passes” and “Two in a Gondola” were great quality.

About this time we find Edward Moxon, the publisher (who married the adopted daughter of Charles and Mary Lamb), saying to Browning:  “Your verse is all right, Browning, but a book of it is too much:  people are appalled; they can not digest it.  And when it goes into a magazine it is lost in the mass.  Now just let me get out your work in little monthly instalments, in booklet form, and I think it will go.”

Browning jumped at the idea.

The booklets were gotten out in paper covers and offered at a moderate price.

They sold, and sold well.  The literary elite bought them by the dozen to give away.

People began to talk about Browning—­he was getting a foothold.  His royalties now amounted to as much as the weekly allowance from his father, and Pater was talking of cutting off the stipend entirely.  Finances being easy, Browning thought it a good time to take another look at Italy.  Some of the best things he had written had been inspired by Venice and Asolo—­he would go again.  And so he engaged passage on a sailing-ship for Naples.

* * * * *

Shortly after Browning’s return to London, in Eighteen Hundred Forty-four, he dined at Sergeant Talfourd’s.  After the dinner a well-dressed and sprightly old gentleman introduced himself and begged that Browning would inscribe a copy of “Bells and Pomegranates,” that he had gotten specially bound.  There is an ancient myth about writers being harassed by autograph-fiends and all that; but the simple fact is, nothing so warms the cockles of an author’s heart as to be asked for his autograph.  Of course Browning graciously complied with the gentleman’s request, and in order that he might insert the owner’s name in the inscription, asked: