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 flowers.

The little literary world of London knew Browning and respected him. He
was earnest and sincere and his personality carried weight. His face was
not handsome, but his manner was one of poise and purpose; and to come
within his aura and look into his calm eyes was to respect the man and
make obeisance to the intellect that you felt lay behind.