SD2893. Charles F. Daniels to Recollections
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 32, 361–363.
[London]
[May 1867]
On a lovely afternoon in May, 1867, I took one of those convenient “hansoms,” and rattled away at a London cab-driver’s habitual break-neck pace toward Westbourne Grove, which is one of the fashionable suburbs of that city. After dismissing “cabby” I found my way, after much tribulation, to No. 19 Warwick Crescent, where in an unpretentious two-story cottage, lives, or rather did live, the greatest of modern poets, Robert Browning.
Having ascertained from the servant that Mr. Browning was not at home, and having been requested to await his return, I was ushered into the library and left to my own devices for amusement or entertainment.
With the curiosity natural to the American (and Yankee) mind, I made a careful survey of the apartment and its belongings. The room was plainly furnished, and everything had a quaint, old-fashioned appearance. Across one end of this singular place hung an immense sweep of ancient tapestry, and immediately beneath stood an antique sideboard, upon which I noticed a very modern-looking claret bottle. Against the opposite wall stood a case of books, all of which were plainly, and in some instances, shabbily bound.
There were volumes of essays, and some historical works, but the poets seemed decidedly to predominate; among the latter I noticed Longfellow, Bayard Taylor and Lowell, and one volume, I regret to say, of Tuckerman’s. Just above the door sat perched an owl of medium size, which winked and blinked at one in a very slow, sleepy and Varden-ish style, and strongly suggested to me Poe’s mythical raven, which, as you may have heard, refused to quit, although requested several times (in excellent verse) to do so.
Upon the mantel-piece were several small busts, some pen-and-ink sketches, and one or two plaster casts. One of the sketches interested me exceedingly—a half-length figure of a man, with most despairful face, and in the margin this line:
Shake [sic, for I hate] the dreadful hollow behind the [little] wood.
I suppose this to have been given by Mr. Tennyson, although I looked in vain for the laureate’s scratchy and most peculiar signature.
I may here mention that Mr. Browning writes a firm, clear, and even script hand, which I have never experienced any difficulty in reading, whereas the few lines which I have received from Mr. Tennyson are a marvel of ink-snarls and hieroglyphics.
I had already been waiting nearly half an hour when I heard a quick double knock at the outer door, and immediately afterward Mr. Browning entered the apartment. Of medium height, in figure firm and well knit, Robert Browning is certainly the most magnificent specimen of mankind that I ever saw. His hair is nearly white, and his beard, which is very full, entirely so. His step is springy, and his eyes are as keen as those of an eagle. His whole appearance is grand; no other word will express my meaning.
He greeted me with great cordiality and the most kindly courtesy, and I soon felt my natural embarrassment rapidly disappearing before the influence of his genial and hearty manner.
I must here say, in justice to myself, that I had business of importance with Mr. Browning. Of course distinguished and celebrated men (and women) are every day sought out by “lion” hunters who have no imaginable purpose in the seeking except a rude and vulgar curiosity. Knowing as I do that this is an error only too common among our own countrymen, I take pleasure in recording the fact that certain matters pertaining to my visit to the Old World rendered it necessary that I should meet Mr. Browning in person, and I can safely say that I felt and do feel the liveliest satisfaction that I was thus compelled.
To return: He asked me multitudinous questions with regard to the United States, the interests of literature in this country, &c., and expressed a most ardent desire to visit the New World; he considered it improbable, however, that he should ever do so. Mr. B. has lived so many years out of his own country that his remaining years—may they be many—will undoubtedly be passed in England.
With regard to the business which had been my object in obtaining a personal interview, I found him most obliging and liberal, and I was greatly gratified with his evident willingness to favor me in every possible way.
In the course of our conversation I took the liberty of assuring him of his increasing popularity in the United States. This I did with the greatest pleasure, for the reason that he has latterly had but little opportunity of meeting our countrymen, and very few of our periodicals which lay any claim to ability in criticism, find their way to London.
On my taking my leave he shook my hand most heartily and in such a thoroughly un-English manner that I left the little cottage in Warwick Crescent with a deep feeling of personal regard and respect superadded to the admiration which I have always felt for the writings of this most remarkable and—as a matter of course—least appreciated of modern poets.
C. F. D.
Text: The Chicago Daily Tribune, 20 April 1868, p. 2 (reprinted from the New York Mail).
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