The vivacity and mischievous humor with which Swinburne gave his account of this projected play exhibited a side of his character which I have never even seen mentioned, and the appreciation and surprise of his audience were obviously a great delight to him. He lay back in his chair, tossed off a glass of port, and presently his mood changed. Somehow or other he got to his own serious poems; and before we knew where we were he was pouring out an account of _Poems and Ballads_, and explaining their relation to the secrets of his own experiences. There were three poems, he said, which beyond all the rest were biographical: "The Triumph of Time," "Dolores," and "The Garden of Proserpine." "The Triumph of Time" was a monument to the sole real love of his life--a love which had been the tragic destruction of all his faith in woman. "Dolores" expressed the passion with which he had sought relief, in the madnesses of the fleshly Venus, from his ruined dreams of the heavenly. "The Garden of Proserpine" expressed his revolt against the flesh and its fevers, and his longing to find a refuge from them in a haven of undisturbed rest. His audience, who knew these three poems by heart, held their breaths as they listened to the poet's own voice, imparting its living tones to passages such as the following-- This is from "The Triumph of Time": "I will say no word that a man may say, Whose whole life's love goes down in a day; For this could never have been, and never, Though the gods and the years relent, shall be." This is from "Dolores": "Oh, garment not golden but gilded, Oh, garden where all men may dwell, Oh, tower not of ivory, but builded By hands that reach heaven out of hell." This is from "The Garden of Proserpine": "From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free; We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever, That dead men rise up never, That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea." Then, like a man waking up from a dream, Swinburne turned to our host and said, nervously, "Can you give me another glass of port?" His glass was filled, he emptied it at a single draught, and then lay back in his chair like a child who had gone to sleep, the actual fact being, as his host soon recognized, that, in homely language, he was drunk.