The second of the party was also of a certain age； a quiet， well-mannered， singularly agreeable gentleman of the literary class. When Milnes showed Adams to his room to dress for dinner， he stayed a moment to say a word about this guest， whom he called Stirling of Keir. His sketch closed with the hint that Stirling was violent only on one point -- hatred of Napoleon III. On that point， Adams was himself sensitive， which led him to wonder how bad the Scotch gentleman might be. The third was a man of thirty or thereabouts， whom Adams had already met at Lady Palmerston's carrying his arm in a sling. His figure and bearing were sympathetic -- almost pathetic -- with a certain grave and gentle charm， a pleasant smile， and an interesting story. He was Lawrence Oliphant， just from Japan， where he had been wounded in the fanatics' attack on the British Legation. He seemed exceptionally sane and peculiarly suited for country houses， where every man would enjoy his company， and every woman would adore him. He had not then published "Piccadilly"； perhaps he was writing it； while， like all the young men about the Foreign Office， he contributed to The Owl .
The fourth was a boy， or had the look of one， though in fact a year older than Adams himself. He resembled in action -- and in this trait， was remotely followed， a generation later， by another famous young man， Robert Louis Stevenson -- a tropical bird， high-crested， long-beaked， quick-moving， with rapid utterance and screams of humor， quite unlike any English lark or nightingale. One could hardly call him a crimson macaw among owls， and yet no ordinary contrast availed. Milnes introduced him as Mr. Algernon Swinburne. The name suggested nothing. Milnes was always unearthing new coins and trying to give them currency. He had unearthed Henry Adams who knew himself to be worthless and not current. When Milnes lingered a moment in Adams's room to add that Swinburne had written some poetry， not yet published， of really extraordinary merit， Adams only wondered what more Milnes would discover， and whether by chance he could discover merit in a private secretary. He was capable of it.
In due course this party of five men sat down to dinner with the usual club manners of ladyless dinner-tables， easy and formal at the same time.
Conversation ran first to Oliphant who told his dramatic story simply， and from him the talk drifted off into other channels， until Milnes thought it time to bring Swinburne out. Then， at last， if never before， Adams acquired education. What he had sought so long， he found； but he was none the wiser； only the more astonished. For once， too， he felt at ease， for the others were no less astonished than himself， and their astonishment grew apace.
For the rest of the evening Swinburne figured alone； the end of dinner made the monologue only freer， for in 1862， even when ladies were not in the house， smoking was forbidden， and guests usually smoked in the stables or the kitchen； but Monckton Milnes was a licensed libertine who let his guests smoke in Adams's bedroom， since Adams was an American-German barbarian ignorant of manners； and there after dinner all sat -- or lay -- till far into the night， listening to the rush of Swinburne's talk. In a long experience， before or after， no one ever approached it； yet one had heard accounts of the best talking of the time， and read accounts of talkers in all time， among the rest， of Voltaire， who seemed to approach nearest the pattern.
That Swinburne was altogether new to the three types of men-of-the-world before him； that he seemed to them quite original， wildly eccentric， astonishingly gifted， and convulsingly droll， Adams could see； but what more he was， even Milnes hardly dared say. They could not believe his incredible memory and knowledge of literature， classic， mediæ；val， and modern； his faculty of reciting a play of Sophocles or a play of Shakespeare， forward or backward， from end to beginning； or Dante， or Villon， or Victor Hugo. They knew not what to make of his rhetorical recitation of his own unpublished ballads -- "Faustine"； the "Four Boards of the Coffin Lid"； the "Ballad of Burdens"
-- which he declaimed as though they were books of the Iliad. It was singular that his most appreciative listener should have been the author only of pretty verses like "We wandered by the brook-side，" and "She seemed to those that saw them meet"； and who never cared to write in any other tone； but Milnes took everything into his sympathies， including Americans like young Adams whose standards were stiffest of all， while Swinburne， though millions of ages far from them， united them by his humor even more than by his poetry. The story of his first day as a member of Professor Stubbs's household was professionally clever farce， if not high comedy， in a young man who could write a Greek ode or a Proven嘺l chanson as easily as an English quatrain.
Late at night when the symposium broke up， Stirling of Keir wanted to take with him to his chamber a copy of "Queen Rosamund，" the only volume Swinburne had then published， which was on the library table， and Adams offered to light him down with his solitary bedroom candle. All the way， Stirling was ejaculating explosions of wonder， until at length， at the foot of the stairs and at the climax of his imagination， he paused， and burst out： "He's a cross between the devil and the Duke of Argyll！"
To appreciate the full merit of this description， a judicious critic should have known both， and Henry Adams knew only one -- at least in person -- but he understood that to a Scotchman the likeness meant something quite portentous， beyond English experience， supernatural， and what the French call moyenâ；geux， or mediæ；val with a grotesque turn.