mass 9R4>^ Cs? Book ^'M3 Copyright N" COPYRIGHT DEPOSIK ^^" Slips for Librarians to paste on Catalogue Cards. N. B. — Take out carefully, leaving about quarter of an inch at the back. To do otherwise would, in some cases, release other leaves. BROWNING, ROBERT. Lyrical and Dra- matic Poems. Selected from the works of Robert .^Browning. With an extract from Stedman's "Victorian Poets." Edited by Edward T. Mason. New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1883. i2mo., pp. xviii, 275. LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC POEMS. Se- lected from the works of Robert Browning. With an extract from Stedman's " Victorian Poets." Edited by Edward T. Mason. New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1883. i2mo, pp. xviii, 275. POETRY. Lyrical and Dramatic Poems. Se- lected from the works of Robert Browning. With an extract from Stedman's " Victorian Poets." Edited by Edward T. Mason. New York : Henry Holt & Co., 1883. i2mo, pp. xviii, 275. LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC POEMS SELECTED FROM THE WORKS OF ROBERT BROWNING with an extract from stedman's ''victorian poets:' EDITED BY EDWARD T. MASON . ( i^^' 2S-1B80 NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1883 1^-^^ Copyright, 1883, BY HENRY HOLT & CO. U. CdPY SU^PUE» FROM COfYHIQHT FILES JANUARY, 1911. CONTENTS. PAGE Preface .......... v An Extract from E. C. Stedman's "Victorian Poets" i Cavalier Tunes:— Marching Along: Give a Rouse: Boot and Saddle 78 " How they Brought the Good News from Ghent TO Aix " 83 Muleykeh 88 Incident of the French Camp 100 Herve Riel 103 h albert and hob 112 Martin Relph 119 The Lost Leader 135 The Pied Piper of Hamelin 137 Holy-Cross Day 153 Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister . . . .161 The Laboratory 165 A Forgiveness 169 Contents. PAGE Meeting AT Night, — Parting at Morning . . 190 The Italian in England 192 Up at a Villa — Down in the City .... 200 The Englishman in Italy 207 Home-Thoughts from Abroad 221 The Guardian An gkl 223 Song 227 Evelyn Hope 228 AbtVogler 232 Saul , . . 242 Prospice 274 PREFACE The object of this book is to excite a wider interest in the works of Robert Browning. Its contents have been selected with special reference to the large number of readers who can enjoy those portions of his poetry which are clear and melodious, and do not enjoy those which tax the ingenuity and fail to please the ear. The fame of this poet is world-wide. He has inspired enthusiastic devotion in minds of the highest order ; yet he is little read. Why is this ? The fault is in the poet : not in the public. Let us first take a fair view of the ugly side of this subject. It must be confessed that Browning often fails to make himself understood, and that, where his mean- VI. Preface, ing is plain, it is often expressed in harsh and jagged lines. One cause of his obscurity is his fondness for out-of-the-way themes, which he treats with entire indifference to the fact that they are not so familiar to his readers as to himself ; another cause is the peculiarity of his style ; his habit of contraction, and his use of idiomatic forms hitherto unknown to the English language. His devotees have excused — even justified and commended — his obscurity, and their loyalty has sometimes betrayed them into utterances which come dangerously near being nonsense. It has been said that he cares so much for the spirit of his work, that he is quite regardless of its form ; that he has such reverence for his thought that he chooses to present it in its naked simplicity. The essential fallacy of such criticism is, that it ignores the fact that poetry is always dependent upon form, that the excellence of verse depends upon perfection of structure. It is needless to enlarge upon so elementary a principle of the poetic art. Mr. Nettleship, in the course of an essay upon So?-dello, published in 1868, says : — Preface. vii. " It seems to me that we may find good reasons for the existence of these defects, so-called. He evi- dently considers that his first duty as a poet is to give us direct from the fountain-head, either his percep- tions, so far as they can be expressed in language, or his thoughts : that his toil should be spent in digging out straight from its hiding-place the pure unalloyed perception or thought for men to see. Thus his argument would be, either that so long as. the true worth of the metal is seen, any labor spent in improving or making smooth its actual visible shape is a waste of power, or that such labor if bestowed has only the effect of lessening the bulk and tarnishing the brilliancy of the untouched con- ception. " In view of the facts of the case, ordinary, uninspired common sense revolts against this. What if the mass quarried out comes " in such a ques- tionable shape" — is so chaotic and mysterious, that men not only doubt if it be gold, but cannot even decide whether it be mineral, animal, or veget- able ? Fitz Hugh Ludlow, one of the most genial and acute of critics, one, too, who loved to "pluck viii. Preface. out the heart of a mystery, " himself a warm ad- mirer of Browning — once said of this same Sordello, — " He might as well have shuffled the words to- gether in a hat, and tumbled them out, pell mell, upon the table. " There is an old story, in the same connection, which is so good and suggestive that it will bear re-telling. Douglas Jerrold, was recovering from a severe illness ; while he was still confined to his bed, SordellOy then newly published, was brought to him. In a few moments he called eagerly to his wife, who came from an adjoining room, and found the invalid sitting upright in bed, with an expression of grave anxiety and apprehen- sion upon his face. " Take this ! read that page !" She obeyed, Jerrold watching her the while with intense earnestness. "Well? well?" he exclaimed, when she looked up from the volume, " Do you understand it? — Does it convey any idea to your mind? " "No, indeed ! Not the slightest ! " "Thank God ! " said Jerrold, sinking back upon his pillow, " Thank God ! I thought I had lost my reasoning powers ! " Preface. ix. Present to any chance company of twenty fairly well educated people, such lines as these : — "O call him not culorit, this Pontiff ! Be hard on this Kaiser ye won't if Ye take into con-si-de ration What dangers attend elevation ! " — or these : — "They turned on him. Dumb menace in that mouth, Malice in that unstridulosity ! He cannot but intend some stroke of state Shall signalize his passage into peace Out of the creaking ; hinder transference O' the Hohenstielers - Schwanganese to King, Pope, autocrat, or sf~>cialist republic ! That's Exact the cause his lips unlocked would cry." — Can there be any doubt what the general verdict would be ? If poetry is indeed an art, and if the office of that art is to present worthy themes in an especially clear and attractive manner — how shall we find excuse for such work as this ? The reader may think that all this is foreign to my purpose, and it does seem an odd way to recom- mend an author ; yet, uncourteous and uncalled- X. Preface. for as these observations may appear, in the present instance there are good reasons for them. Pro- foundly impressed by the greatness of Browning's genius, recognizing his rare qualities, believing him to be in some respects the greatest poet of his age — I am yet convinced that no attempt to show his claims to popular regard can be consistent or suc- cessful, which does not proceed upon a frank ad- mission of his many and glaring faults. Some of his admirers have labored to prove him great in virtue of his defects ; may it not be wiser to show that he is great in spite of those defects ? Let us try to see, then, why it is that this poet, from whom the majority of intelligent readers turn away, des- pairing, if not disgusted, is hailed as master by some singers of well assured fame, and is applauded by critics whose judgment commands respect. He is a master of the technicalities of his art, and is endowed with a genuine gift of song. Few poets have held so easy and so assured a mastery over many and widely varied rhythmical forms. The prevailing tendency of his verse is toward vigor Preface, xi. rather than beauty ; yet he has written lines which place him in the foremost rank of rhytliniical melo- dists ; lines filled with the spirit of music, gracious, serenely beautiful, challenging comparison with the verse of Spenser or of Keats : — * * And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, So docile they come to the pen door, till folding be done. They are white and untorn by the bushes, for ]o, they have fed "Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed ; And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star Into eve and the blue far above us — so blue and so far ! " — Lines such as these will linger in the memory for many a year ! Some of his poems are lyrical in the strictest sense, suggesting, claiming the accompani- ment of song — and well fitted to be sung. For in- stance, nothing could be better in their way than the Cavalier Tuties, especially the first, Marching Along. This is a true song. Silks rustle, plumes wave, swords flash, as the gallants start from their carouse ; we hear the rollicking voices of the mad- cap band as they lustily troll out their defiant battle- song, and we would fain join in the ringing chorus. xii. Preface. lie is eminently successful in narrative poetry, and knows thoroughly well how to tell a story, be it grave or gay. He can seize the essential features of a great action or a strange experience, and, with a few bold strokes, present a picture all aglow with color and instinct with life, leaving on the mind an impression bright as a diamond. Who can ever forget the wild gallop from Ghent to Aix, or that heroic boy who fell dead at Napoleon's feet — the smile upon his lips ? On the other hand, he can take some odd legend, like that of the Pied Pipcr^ and sustain our interest in it through page after page ; wandering on from sheer love of story- telling, adding fresh incidents, inventing new sur- prises, weaving in quaint details, while we follow him as eagerly as ever the children of Hamelin ran after the fascinating piper. Humor forms a prominent element in his work ; and the quality of his humor is very remarkable, both for its strength and variety ; his range extends from easy pleasantry and good-natured banter, to giotesqueness as grim as Holbein's Dance of Death. Preface, xiii. He does not often give us descriptions of nature, but scattered throughout his works there are passa- ges which show that he is not insensible to nature's charm ; passages of simple and quiet loveliness, which sink deep into the heart, without bewildering the braiii. Such are to be found in Saul^ and in the pictures(iiiely descriptive EngHsh?nan in Italy ; but the finest example of his power to portray nature, is the exquisite lyric, Houie-thoiights from Abroad j here there is absolutely no suggestion of the " smell of the lamp " ; all is fresh and bright and sweet — the very breath of an English spring-time caught, and stored away for us in a book ! Having thus glanced at some aspects of his verse which invite comparison with the work of other men, we may consider the poet's peculiar and characteristic excellence. Human nature jsjhe^ theme and inspiration of the greater portion of Browning's poetr}-. Always a close observer and a keen analyst, in this field of study his observation becomes most close, his analysis most searching and subtle. Human nature xiv. Preface. attracts and absorbs him beyond all else, leading him to scan with eager eyes alike the past and the present, to mingle with men of every race and every station. Perhaps the difficulty of his task may suggest some explanation of his frequent obscurity. The primary object of his work is the portrayal of character ; he would show what men are, not what they do ; incident and action are valued by him only in so far as they illustrate the inner life. To this end he subordinates everything, all the fruits of his scholarship, all the resources of his art, and in the pursuit of this object he has achieved his highest success, and made for himself a unique place among the poets of the world. It is his highest praise, that while his chief study is humanity, the revelation of man's " heart of heart, " his song is cheerful and inspiring, de- claring hopes, not fears, certainties, not doubts ; passing by apparent failure in the present, to dwell upon final success. In an age of negation and querulous doubt, negation finds but little room in Browning's philosophy — pessimism, none. He Preface. xv. is a poet of active fciith, and, therefore, of strength and comfort. He utters no wail over the destiny of mankind. Though he clearly recognizes the existence of *' the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to ; " though he sees pain and sorrow with widely and deeply sympathetic vision, he is yet able to look forward toward the consummation of all things, with a serene assurance of ultimate triumph for the race. This spirit constantly manifests itself in his work ; it animates the dreamily tender sentiment of Evelyn Hope^ it may be traced more clearly in the passion- ate cry of Abt Vogler^ and it rises to still nobler heights in Prospice^ and in the rapt ecstasy of the shepherd-boy, the inspired bard and seer, who pro- claims deliverance to Saul. With two exceptions — Abt Vog/er 3.nd Saul — no poem in this volume can be for a moment regarded as obscure. The aim has been to show the poet at his best ; but the principle of selection has made it necessary to exclude many poems of rare*, beauty and excellence. No extracts have been made trom xvi. Preface. the longer poems, although they contain much that is clear and admirable ; such fragments can seldom produce a satisfactory impression, or do any justice to their author. Despite their occasional obscurity, it was found impossible to exclude Abt Vogler and Saul, for both of these poems are among the best illustrations of the optimism which is so important an element of Browning's genius ; and, among his shorter poems, Saul is, perhaps, the one which most conspicuously manifests that creative imagination, which is the highest faculty that a poet can possess. I am indebted to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. for permission to make use of the ninth chapter of Mr. Stedman's Victorian Poets, which is here re- printed. This is an especially valuable introduction to the study of Browning ; being a comprehensive and judicial estimate of the poet's merits and de- merits, by a not unfriendly critic. ROBERT BROWNING.* In a study of Browning, the most original and unequal of living poets, three features obviously- present themselves. His dramatic gift, so rare in these times, calls for recognition and analysis ; his method — the eccentric quality of his expression — constantly intrudes upon the reader ; lastly, the moral of his verse warrants a closer examination than we give to the sentiments of a more conven- tional poet My own perception of the spirit which his poetry, despite his assumption of a purely dramatic purpose, has breathed from the outset, is one which I shall endeavor to convey in simple and direct terms. Various other examples have served to illustrate the phases of a poet's life, but Browning arouses * Reprinted from E. C. Stedman's Victorian Poets, by permission of ^^essrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. 2 Robert Bt'owning. discussion with respect to the elements of poetry as an art. Hitherto I have given some account of an author's career and writings before proffering a critical estimate of the latter. But this man's genius is so peculiar, and he has been so isolated in style and purpose, that I know not how to speak of his works without first seeking a key to their interpreta- tion, and hence must partially reverse the order hitherto pursued. It is customary to call Browning a dramatist, and without doubt he represents the dramatic element, such as it is, of the recent English school. He counts among his admirers many intellectual persons, some of whom pronounce him the greatest dramatic poet since Shakespeare, and one has said that " it is to him we must pay homage for whatever is good, and great, and profound, in the second period of the Poetic Drama of England." This may be true ; nevertheless, it also should be declared, with certain modifications, that Robert Robert Broivning. 3 Browning, in the original sense of the term, is not a dramatic poet at all. Procter, in the preface to a collection of his own songs, remarks with precision and truth : " It is, in fact, this power of forgetting himself, and of imagining and fashioning characters different from his own, which constitutes the dramatic quality. A man who can set aside his own idiosyncrasy is half a dramatist." Although Browning's earlier poems were in the form of plays, and have a dramatic pur- pose, they are at the opposite remove, in spirit and method, from the models of the true histrionic era, — the work of Fletcher, Webster, and Shakespeare. They have the sacred lage and fire, but the flame is that of Browning, and not of the separate creations which he strives to inform. The early drama was the mouthpiece of a pas- sionate and adventurous era. The stage bore to the period the relations of the modern novel and news- paper to our own, not only holding the mirror up to nature, but showing the " very age and body of the time." It was a vital growth, sprung from the peo- 4 Robert Browning, pie, and having a reflex action upon their imagina- tion and conduct. Even in Queen Anne's day the theatre was the meeting-place of wits, and, if the plays were meaner, it was because they copied the manners of an artificial world. But, in either case, the playwrights were in no more hazard of repre- senting their own natures, in one role after another, than are the leader-writers in their versatile articles upon topics of our day. They invented a score of characters, or took them from real life, grouped them with consummate effect, placed them in dramatic situations, lightened tragedy with mirth, mellowed comedy with pathos, and produced a healthful and objective dramatic literature. They looked outward, not inward : their imagination was the richer for it, and of a more varied kind. The stage still has its office, but one more sub- sidiary than of old. Our own age is no less stirring than was the true dramatic period, and is far more subtile in thought. But the poets fail to represent it objectively, and the drama does not act as a safety-valve for the escape of surplus passion and Robert Browning. ^ desire. That office the novelists have undertaken, while the press brings its dramas to every fireside. Yet the form of the play still seems to a poet the most comprehensive mould in which to cast a mas- terpiece. It is a combination of scenic and plastic art ; it includes monologue, dialogue, and song, — action and meditation, — man and woman, the lover, the soldier, and the thinker, — all vivified by the imagination, and each essential to the completeness of the whole. Everi to poets like Byron, who have no perception of natures differing from their own, it has a fascination as a vehicle of expression, and the result is seen in '' Sardanapalus " and " Cain." Hence the closet-drama ; and although praise- worthy efforts, as in '' Virginius " and '' Ion," have been made to revive the early method, these modern stage-plays often are unpoetical and tame. Most of what is excellent in our dramatic verse is to be found in plays that could not be successfully en- acted. While Browning's earlier poems are in the dramatic form, his own personality is manifest in 6 Robert Browning. the speech and movement of almost every character of each piece. His spirit is infused, as if by metempsychosis, within them all, and forces each to assume a strange Pentecostal tone, which we dis- cover to be that of the poet himself. Bass, treble, or recitative, — whether in pleading, invective, or banter, — the voice still is there. But while his characters have a common manner and diction, we become so wonted to the latter that it seems like a new dialect which we have mastered for the sake of its literature. This feeling is acquired after some acquaintance with his poems, and not upon a first or casual reading of them. The brief, separate pieces, which he terms "dramatic lyrics," are just as properly dramas as are many of his five-act plays. Several of the latter were intended for stage-production. In these we feel that the author's special genius is hampered, so that the student of Browning deems them less rich and rare than his strictly characteristic essays. Even in the most conventional, this poet cannot refrain from the long monologues, stilted action. Robert Browning. 7 and metaphysical discursion, which mark the closet- drama and unfit a composition for the stage. His chief success is in the portrayal of single characters and specific moods. I would not be understood to praise his originality at the expense of his greatness. His mission has been that of exploring those secret regions which gene- rate the forces whose outward phenomena it is for the playwrights to illustrate. He has opened a new field for the display of emotional power, — found- ing, so to speak, a sub-dramatic school of poetry whose office is to follow the workings of the mind, to discover the impalpable elements of which human motives and passions are composed. The greatest forces are the most elusive, the unseen mightier than the seen ; modern genius chooses to seek for the under-currents of the soul rather than to depict acts and situations. Browning, as the poet of pys- chology, escapes to that stronghold whither, as I have said, science and materialism are not yet pre- pared to follow him. How shall the chemist read the soul ? No former poet has so relied upon this 8 Robert Browning. province for the excursions of his muse. True, he explores by night, stumbles, halts, has vague ideas of the topography, and often goes back upon his course. But, though others complete the unfinished work of Columbus, it is to him that we award the glory of discovery, — not to the engineers and colo- nists that succeed him, however firmly they plant themselves and correctly map out the now undis- puted land. II. Browning's manner is so eccentric as to challenge attention and greatly affect our estimate of him as a poet. Eccentricity is not a proof of genius, and even an artist should remember that originaHty con- sists not only in doing things differently, but also in " doing things better." The genius of Shakes- peare and Moliere enlarged and beautified their style; it did not distort it. Again, the grammarian's statement is true, that Poetry is a means of Expres- sion. A poet may differ from other men in having profounder emotions and clearer perceptions, but Robert Bro7vning. 9 this is not for him to assume, nor a claim which they are swift to grant. The lines, " O many are the poets that are sown By Nature ! men endowed with highest gifts, The vision and the faculty divine ; Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse," imply that the recognized poet is one who gives voice, in expressive language, to the common thought and feeling which lie deeper than ordinary speech. He is the interpreter : moreover, he is the maker, — an artist of the beautiful, the inventor of harmonious numbers which shall be a lure and a repose. A poet, however emotional or rich in thought, must not fail to express his conception and make his work attractive. Over-possession is worth less than a more commonplace faculty ; he that has the former is a sorrow to himself and a vexation to his hearers, while one whose speech is equal to his needs, and who knows his limitations, adds some- thing to the treasury of song, and is able to shine in lo Robert Brotvnins;. his place, " and be content.' Certain effects are suggested by nature; the poet discovers new com- binations within the ground which these afford. Ruskin has shown that in the course of years, though long at fault, the masses come to appreciate any admirable work. By inversion, if, after a long time has passed, the world still is repelled by a singer, and finds neither rest nor music in him, the fault is not with the world ; there is something deficient in his genius,^ he is so much the less a poet. The distinction between poetry and prose must be sharply observed. Poetry is an art, — a specific fact, which, owing to the vagueness fostered by minor wits, we do not sufficiently insist upon. We hear it said that an eloquent prose passage is poetry, that a sunset is a poem, and so on. This is well enough for rhetorical effect yet wholly untrue, and no poet should permit himself to talk in that way. Poetry is poetry, because it differs from prose ; it is artificial, and gives us pleasure because we know it to be so. It is beautiful thought expressed in rhyth- mical form, not half expressed or uttered in the Robert Browning. ir form of prose. It is a metrical structure ; a spirit not disembodied, but in the flesh, — so as to affect the senses of living men. Such is the poetry of Earth ; what that of a more spiritual region may be I know not. Milton and Keats never were in doubt as to the meaning of the art. It is true that fine prose is a higher form of expression than wretched verse ; but when a distinguished young English poet thus writes to me, — " My own impression is that Verse is an inferior, or infant, form of speech, which will ultimately perish altogether. . . The Seer, the Vates, the teacher of a new truth, is single, while what you call artists are legion," — when I read these words, I remember that the few great seers have furnished models for the sim- plest and greatest form of art ; I feel that this poet is growing heretical with respect, not to the law of custom, but to a law which is above us all ; I fear to discover a want of beauty, a vague transcenden- talism, rather than a clear inspiration, in his verse, — to see him become prosaic and substitute rhetoric for passion, realism for naturalness, affectation for 12 Robert Brow7tmg. lofty thought, and, " having been praised for blunt- ness," to " affect a saucy roughness." In short, he is on the edge of danger. Yet his remark denotes a just impatience of forms so hackneyed that, once beautiful, they now are stale and corrupt. It may be necessary, with the Pre-Raphaelites, to escape their thraldom and begin anew. But the poet is a creator, not an iconoclast, and never will tamely en- deavor to say in prose what can only be expressed in song. And I have faith that my friend's wings will unfold, in spite of himself, and lift him bravely as ever on their accustomed flights. Has the lapse of years made Browning any more attractive to the masses, or even to the judicious few ? He is said to have " succeeded by a series of failures," and so he has, as far as notoriety means success, and despite the recent increase of his faults. But what is the fact which strikes the admiring and sympathetic student of his poetry and career ? Dis- trusting my own judgment, I asked a clear and im- partial thinker, — " How does Browning's work im- press you ? " His reply, after a moment's consider- Robert Browning. 13 ation was: " Now that I try to formulate the sen- sation which it always has given me, his work seems that of a grand intellect painfully striving for ade- quate use and expression, and never quite attain- ing either." This was, and is, precisely my own feeling. The . question arises, What is at fault ? Browning's genius, his chosen mode of expression, his period, or one and all of these ? After the flush of youth is over, a poet must have a wise method, if he would move ahead. He must improve upon instinct by experience and common-sense. There is something amiss in one who has to grope for his theme and cannot adjust himself to his per- iod ; especially in one who cannot agreeably handle such themes as he arrives at. More than this, how- ever, is the difficulty in Browning's case. Expres- sion is the flower of thought ; a fine imagination is wont to be rhythmical and creative, and many pas- sages, scattered throughout Browning's works, show that his is no exception. It is a certain caprice or perverseness of method, that, by long practice, has injured his gift of expression ; while an abnor- 14 Robert Broivning. mal power of ratiocination, and a prosaic regard for details, have handicapped him from the begin- ning. Besides, in mental arrogance and scorn of authority, he has insulted Beauty herself, and fur- nished too much excuse for small offenders. What may be condoned in one of his breed is intolerable when mimicked by every jackanapes and self-ap- pointed reformer. A group of evils, then, has interfered with the greatness of his poetry. His style is that of a man caught in a morass of ideas through which he has to travel, — wearily floundering, grasping here and there, and often sinking deeper until there seems no prospect of getting through. His latest works have been more involved and excursive, less beautiful and elevating, than most of those which preceded them. Possibly his theory is that which was his wife's instinct, — a man being more apt than a wom- an with some reason for what he does, — that poetry is valuable only for the statement which it makes, and must always be subordinate thereto. • Neverthe- less, Emerson, in this country, seems to have fol- Robert Browning. 15 lowed a kindred method ; and who of our poets is greater, or so wise ? III. Browning's early lyrics, and occasional passages of recent date, show that he has melodious intervals, and can be very artistic with no loss of original power. Often the ring of his verse is sonorous, and overcomes the jagged consonantal diction with stir- ring lyrical effect. The '' Cavalier Tunes " are examples. Such choruses as " JMarchinc: along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song ! " " King CharleSjvand who'll do him right now ? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse : here's, in Hell's despite now, King Charles ! " — these, with, "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away !" show that Browning can put in verse the spirit of a historic period, and has, or had, in him the making of a lyric poet. How fresh and wholesome this work ! Finer still that superb stirrup-piece, best of 1 6 Robert Browning. its class in the language, " How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix." " Ratisbon" and " The Lost Leader," no less, are poems that fasten themselves upon literature, and will not be forgotten. The old fire flashes out, thirty years after, in " Herve Riel," another vigorous production, — unevenly sustained, but on a level with Longfellow's legendary ballads and sagas. From among lighter pieces I will select for present mention two, very unlike each other ; one, as delightful a child's poem as ever was written, in fancy and airy extravagance, and having a wildness and pathos all its own,— the daintest bit of folk-lore in English verse, — to what should I refer but '' The Pied Piper of Hamelin ?" The author made a strong bid for the love of chil- dren, when he placed "By Robert Browning" at its head, in the collection of his poems. The other, " Beauliful Evelyn Hope is dead ! Sit and watch by her side an hour," appeals, like Wordsworth's " She dwelt among the untrodden ways," and Landor's " Rose Aylmer," to Robert Browm7ig. 17 the hearts of learned and unlettered, one and all. Browning's style is the more aggressive, because, in compelling beauty itself to suffer a change and conform to all exigencies, it presents such a con- trast to the refined art of our day. I have shown that much of this is due to natural awkwardness, — but that the author is able, on fortunate occasions, to better his work, has just been amply illustrated. More often he either has let his verse have its way, or has shaped a theory of art by his own restrictions, and with that contempt for the structure of his song which Plato and St. Paul entertained for their fleshly bodies. If the mischief ceased here, it would not be so bad, but his genius has won pupils who copy his vices without his strength. He and his wife injured each the other's style as much as they sustained their common aspiration and love of poesy. To be sure, there was a strange similarity, by nature, between their modes of speech ; and what I have said of the woman's obscurity, affecta- tions, elisions, will apply to the man's — with his 1 8 Robert Browning. Vthes and dtJies^ his dashes, breaks, halting measures, and oracular exclamations that convey no dramatic meaning to the reader. Her verse is the more spasmodic ; his, the more metaphysical, and, while effective in the best of his dramatic lyrics, is con- stantly running into impertinences worse than those of his poorest imitators, and which would not be tolerated for a moment in a lesser poet. Parodies on his style, thrown off as burlesques, are more intelligible than much of his " Dramatis Personae." Unlike Tennyson, he does not comprehend the limits of a theme ; nor has he an idea of the relative importance either of themes or details ; his mind is so alert that its minutest turn of thought must be uttered ; he dwells with equal precision upon the meanest and grandest objects, and laboriously jots down every point that occurs to him, — parenthesis within parenthesis, — until we have a tangle as intricate as the line drawn by an anemometer upon the recording-sheet. The poem is all zigzag, criss- cross, at odds and ends, — and, though we come out right at last, strength and patience are exhausted in Robert Browning. 19 mastering it. Apply the rule that nothing should be told in verse which can be told in prose, and half his measures would be condemned ; since their chief metrical purpose is, through the stress of rhythm, to fix our attention, by a certain unpleasant fascina- tion, upon a process of reasoning from which it otherwise would break away. For so much of Browning's crudeness as comes from inability to express himself, or to find a proper theme, he may readily be forgiven ; but whatever is due to real or assumed irreverence for the divine art, among whose votaries he stands enrolled, is a grievous wrong, unworthy of the humble and delightful spirit of a true craftsman. He forgets that art is the bride of the imagination, from whose embraces true creative work must spring. Lastly, concerning realism, while poets are, as Mrs. Brown- ing said, ^' your only truth-tellers," it is not well that repulsive or petty facts should always be recorded ; only the high, essential truths demand a poet's illumination. The obscurity wherein Browning dis- guises his realism is but the semblance of imagina- 20 Robert Bnnvning. tion, — a mist through which rugged details jut out, while the central truth is feebly to be seen. IV. After a period of study at the London University young Browning, in 1832, went to Italy, and acquired a remarkable knowledge of the Italian life and lan- guage. He mingled with all classes of the people, mastered details, and rummaged among the monas- teries of Lombardy and Venice, studying mediaeval history, and filling his mind with the relics of a bygone time. All this had much to do with the bent of his subsequent work, and possibly was of more benefit to his learning than to his ideality. At the age of twenty-three he published his first drama, Paracelsus ^ a most unique production, — strictly speaking, a metaphysical dialogue, as notice- able for analytic power as the romances of Keats for pure beauty. It did not find many readers, but no man of letters could peruse it without seeing that a genuine poet had come to light. From that time the author moved in the literary society of London, Robert Browning. 21 and was recognized as one who had done something and might do something more. The play is " Faust," with the action and passion, and much of the poetry and music, — upon which the fascination of the Ger- man work depends, — omitted ; the hero resembles " Faust " in the double aspiration to know and to enjoy, to search out mystical knowledge, yet drink at all the fountains of pleasure, — lest, after a long struggle, failing of knowledge, he should have lived in vain. It must be understood that Mr. Brown- ing's Paracelsus was his own creation : a man of heroic longings, observed at various intervals, from his twentieth year, in which he leaves his native hamlet until he dies at the age of forty-eight, — obscure, and with his ideal seemingly unattained ; not the juggler, empiric, and charlatan of history, whose record the poet frankly gives us in a foot- note. This poem has every characteristic of Browning's genius. The verse is as strong and as weak as the best and worst he has composed during thirty years, and is pitched in a key now familiar to us all. 2 2 Robert Browning. " Paracelsus," the fruit of his youth, serves as well for a study of this poet as any later effort, and, though inferior to " Pippa Passes " and " In a Bal- cony," is much better than his newest romance in blank verse. I cannot agree with critics Avho say that he did his poorest work first and has been mov- ing along an ascending scale ; on the contrary, his faults and beauties have been somewhat evenly dis- tributed throughout his career. We are vexed in ^' Paracelsus " by a vice that haunts him still, — that tedious garrulity which, however relieved by beauti- ful passages, palls on the reader and weakens the general effect. As an offset, he displays in this poem, with respect to every kind of poetic faculty except the sense of proportion, gifts equal to those of any compeer. By turns he is surpassingly fine. We have strong dramatic diction ; — " Festus, strange secrets are let out by Death, Who blabs so oft the follies of this world : And I am Death's familiar, as you know. I helped a man to die, some few weeks since ; . . . . No mean trick Robert Browning. 23 He left untried ; and truly wellnigh wormed All traces of God's finger out of him. Then died, grown old ; and just an hour before — Having lain long with blank and soulless eyes — He sate up suddenly, and with natural voice Said, that in spite of thick air and closed doors God told him it was June , and he knew well, Without such telling, harebells grew in June ; And all that kings could ever give or take Would not be precious as those blooms to him," The conception is old as Shakespeare, but the manner is large and effective. Few authors vary the breaks and pauses of their blank verse so natur- ally as Browning, and none can so well dare to extend the proper limits of a poem. Here, as in later plays, he shows a more realistic perception of scenery and nature than is common with dramatic poets. We have a bit of painting at the outset, in the passage beginning, " Nay Autumn wins you best by this its mute Appeal to sympathy for its decay ! " and others, equally fine and true, are scattered throughout the dialogue. 24 Robert Browniiig. '' Paracelsus " is meant to illustrate the growth and progress of a lofty spirit, groping in the dark- ness of his time. He first aspires to knowledge, and fails ; then to pleasure and knowledge, and equally fails — to human eyes. The secret ever seems close at hand : — "Ah, the curse, Aprile, Aprile ! We get so near — so very, very near ! 'Tis an old tale : Jove strikes the Titans down Not when they set about their mountain-piling, But when another rock would crown their work !" Now, it is a part of Browning's life-long habit, that he here refuses to judge by ordinary standards, and makes the hero's attainment lie even in his fail- ure and death. There are fcAv more daring asser- tions of the soul's absolute freedom than the words of Festus, impressed by the nobility of his dying friend : — " I am for noble Aureole, God ! I am upon his side, come weal or woe ! His portion shall be mine ! He has done well ! I would have sinned, had I been strong enough, Robert Browning. 25 As he has sinned ! Reward him, or I waive Reward ! If thou canst find no place for him He shall be king elsewhere, and I will be His slave forever ! There are two of us 1'^ The drama is well worth preserving, and even now a curious and highly suggestive study. Its lyrical interludes seem out of place. Astan author's first essay, it promised more for his future than if it had been a finished production, and in any other case but that of the capricious, tongue-tied Brown- ing, the promise might have been abundantly ful- filled. In "Strafford," his second drama, the interest also centres upon the struggles and motives of one heroic personage, this time entangled in a fatal mesh 01 great events. Apparently the poet, after some experience of authorship, wished to commend his work to popular sympathy, and tried to write a play that should be fitted for the stage ; hence a tragedy dedicated to Macready, of which the chief character, — the hapless Earl of Strafford, — was assumed by that tragedian, but with no marked sue- 26 Robert B 7' owning. cess. The action, in compliance with history, moves with sufficient rapidity, yet in a confused and turbu- lent way. The characters are eccentrically drawn, and are more serious and mystical than even the gloom of their period would demand. It is hard to perceive the motives of Lady Carlisle and the Queen ; there is no underplot of love in the play, to develop the womanly element, nor has it the humor of the great playwrights, — so essential to dramatic contrast, and for which the Puritans and Jhe Lon- don populace might afford rich material. Imagine Macready stalking portentously through the piece, the audience trying to follow the story, and bored beyond endurance by the solemn speeches of Pym and Strafford, which answer for a death-scene at the close. The language is more natural than is usual with Browning, but here, where he is least eccentric, he becomes tame — until we see that he is out of his element, and prefer his striking psychology to a forced attempt at writing of the academic kind. Something of this must have struck the poet him* self for, as if chagrined at his failure, he swung back Robert Browm?7g. 27 to the other extreme, and beyond his early starting- place ; farther, happily, than any point he since has ventured to reach. In no one of his recent works has he been quite so "hard," loquacious, and im- practicable as in the renowned nondescript entitled Sordello. Twenty-three years after its appearance he owned that its " faults of expression were many," and added, " but with care for a man or book such would be surmounted."- The acknowledgment was partial. " Sordello " is a fault throughout, in con- ception and execution : nothing is " expressed, " not even the "incidents in the development of a soul," though such incidents may have had some nebulous origin in the poet's mind. It is asking too much of our care for a book or a man that we should surmount this chaotic mass of word-building. Carlyle's " Sartor Resartus " is a hard study, but, once entered upon, how poetical ! what lofty episodes ! what wisdom, beauty, and scorn ! Few such treasures await him that would read the eleven thousand verses into which the fatal facility of the rhymed-heroic measure has led the muse of Brown- 28 Robert Browning. ing. The structure, by its very ugliness and bulk, like some half buried colossus in the desert, may survive a lapse of time. I cannot persuade myself to solicit credit for deeper insight by differing from the common judgment with regard to this unattrac- tive prodigy. It had its uses, seemingly, in acting as a purge to cleanse the visual humors of the poet's eyes and to leave his general system in an auspicious condition. His next six years were devoted to the composition of a picturesque group of dramas, — the exact order of which escapes me, but which finally were collec- ted in Bells and Poniegra7iates^ a popular edition, issued in serial numbers, of this raaturer work. " Luria," " King Victor and King Charles," and *' The Return of the Druses," are stately pieces, historical or legendary, cast in full stage-form. In Luria we again see Browning's favorite characteri- zation, from a different point of view. This is a large-moulded, suffering hero, akin, if disturbed in conscience, to Wallenstein, — if devoted and magnan- imous, to Othello. Luria, the Moor, is like Robert Browning. 29 Othello in many ways : a brave and skillful general, who serves Florence (instead of Venice), and declares, " I can and have perhaps obliged the 1 state, Nor paid a mere son's duty. " He is so true and simple, that Domizia says of him, " How plainly is true greatness charactered By such unconsciousness as Luria's here. And sharing least the secret of itself ! " Browning makes devotion to an ideal or trust, how- ever unworthy of it, the chief trait of this class of personages. Strafford dies in behalf of ungrateful Charles ; Luria is sacrificed by the Florence he has saved, and destroys himself at the moment when love and honor are hastening, too late, to crown him. Djabal, false to himself, is true to the cause of the Druses, and at last dies in expiation of his fault. Valence, in " Colombe's Birthday," shows devotion of a double kind, but is rewarded for his fidelity and honor. Luitolfo, in " A Soul's Tragedy," is of a kindred type. But I am anticipating. The language 3© Robert Broivning. of " Luria " often is in the grand manner. In depict- ing the Moorish general and his friend Husain, — brooding, generous children of the sun, — the soldierly Tiburzio, painted with a few ma:ter- strokes, — and in the element of Italian craft and intrigue, the author is at home and well served by his knowledge of mediaeval times. That is an eloquent speech of Domizia, near the end of the fourth act. Despite the poverty of action, and the prolonged harangues, this drama is worthy of its dedication to Landor and the wish that it might be " read by his light " : almost worthy (Landor always weighed out gold for silver !) of the old bard"s munificent return of praise : — ** Shakespeare is not our poet but the world's, Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for thee, Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive and hale. No man hath walked along our roads with step So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue So varied in discourse. But warmer climes Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the breeze Of Alpine hei-^ht thou playest with, borne on Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where The Siren waits thee, singing song for song." Robert Broivning. 31 *The Return of the Druses," with its scenic and choric effects, is like some of Byron's plays : the scene, an isle of the Sporades ; the legend, half Venetian, half Oriental, one that only Browning could make available. The girl Anael is an impas- sioned character, divided between adoration for Hakeem, the god of her race, — whom she believes incarnate in Djabal, — and her love for Djabalas a man. The tragedy, amid a good deal of trite and pedantic language, is marked by heroic situations and sudden dramatic catastrophes. Several brilliant points are made : one, where the Prefect lifts the arras, on the other side of which death awaits him, and says, — ** This is the first time for long years I enter Thus, without feeling just as I lifted The lid up of my tomb ! . . . . Let me repeat — for the first time, no draught Coming as from a sepulchre salutes me ! " A moment, and the dagger is through his heart. Another such is the wonder and contempt of Anael 32 • Robert Browning. at finding Djabal no deity, but an impostor ; while perhaps the most telling point in the whole series of Browning's plays is her cry of Hakeem I made when she comes to denounce Djabal, but, moved by love, proclaims him as the god, and falls dead with the effort. The poet, however, is justly censured for too frequently taking off his personages by the intensity of their own passions, without recourse to the dag- ger and bowl. He rarely does it after the "high Roman fashion." This tragedy observes the classic unities of time and place. A hall in the Prefect's palace is made to cover its entire action, which occupies only one day. In its earnest pitch and lack of sprightly underplot, it also is Greek or Italian. Not long ago, listening to Salvini in "Samson" and other plays, I was struck by their likeness, in simplicity of action and costume, to the antique dramas. The actors were sufficient to themselves, and the audience was intent upon their lofty speech and passion ; there was no lack of interest, but a refresh- ing spiritual elevation. The Gothic method better Robert Browning, y^ suits the English stage, nevertheless we need not refuse to profit by the experience of other lands. Our poetry, like the language, should draw its riches from all tongues and races, and well can endure a larger infusion of the ancient grandeur and simplic- ity. In the play before us Browning has but renew- ed the debt, long since incurred, of English literat- ure to the Italian, — greater than that to all other sources combined. Not without reason, in " De Gustibus," he sang, — " Open my heart and you will see, Graved inside of it, 'Italy.' Such lovers old are I and she ; So it always was, so it still shall be ! " "King Victor," is one of those conventional plays in which he appears to ordinary advantage. His three dramatic masterpieces are *' Pippa Passes," ''A Blot in the 'Scutcheon." and " Colombe's Birthday." The last-named play, inscribed to Barry Cornwall, really is a fresh and lovely little drama. The fair young heroine has possessed her duchy for a 34 Robert Browning, single year, and now, upon her birthday, as she unsuspectingly awaits the greetings of her courtiers, is called upon to surrender her inheritance to Prince Berthold, decreed to be the lawful heir. At the same time Valence, a poor advocate of Cleves, seeks audience in behalf of his suffering townsmen, and ends by defending the Duchess's title to her rank. She loves him, and is so impressed by his nobility and courage as to decline the hand of the Prince, and surrender her duchy, to become the wife of Valence, with whom she joyfully retires to the ruined castle where her youth was spent. This play might be performed to the great interest of an audience composed exclusively of intellectual per- sons, who could follow the elaborate dialogue and would be charmed with its poetry and subtle thought. Once accept the manner of Browning, and you must be pleased with the delineation of the characters. " Colombe " herself is exquisite, and like one of Shakespeare's women. Valence seems too harsh and dry to win her, and her choice, des- pite his loyalty and intellect, is hardly defensible. Robert Brownirig. 35 Still, "Colombe's Birthday" is the most natural and winsome of the author's stage-plays. " A Blot in the 'Scutcheon " was brought out at Drury Lane, in 1843, and failed. This of course, for there is little in it to relieve the human spirit, — which cannot bear too much of earnestness and woe added'to the mystery and burden of our daily lives. Yet the piece has such tragic strength as to stamp the author as a great poet, though in a narrow range. One almost fopgets the singular improbabil- ities of the story, the blase talk of the child-lovers (an English Juliet of fourteen is against nature), the stiff language of the retainers, and various other blemishes. There is a serenade in which, unchecked by his fear of detection, Mertoun is made to sing under Mildred's window, — " There's a woman like the dew drop, she's so purer than the purest ! *' This song, composed seven years before the poet's meeting with Miss Barrett, is precisely in the style of " Lady Geraldine's Courtship," and other bal- lads of the gifted woman who became his wife. 36 Robert Broivning. The most simple and varied of his plays — that which shows every side of his genius, has most light- ness and strength, and all in all may be termed a rep- resentative poem — is the beautiful drama with the quaint title of " Pippa Passes." It is a cluster of four scenes, with prologue, epilogue, and interludes ; half prose, half poetry, varying with the refinement of the dialogue. Pippa is a delicately pure, good, blithesome, peasant-maid. " ' Tis but a little black- eyed, pretty, singing Felippa, gay silk-winding girl," — though with token, ere the end, that she is the child of a nobleman, put out of the way by a villain, Maifeo, at instigation of the next heir. Pippa knows nothing of this, but is piously content with her life of toil. It is New Year's Day at Asolo. She springs from bed, in her garret chamber, at sunrise, — resolv- ed to enjoy to the full her sole holiday : she will not " squander a wavelet " of it, not a " mite of her twelve hours' treasure." Others can be happy throughout the year : haughty Ottima and Sebald, the lovers on the hill ; Jules and Phene, the artist and his bride ; Luigi and his mother ; Monsignor, Robert Browning. 37 the Bishop ; but Pippa has only this one day to enjoy. She envies these great ones a little, but reflects that God's love is best, after all. And yet, how little can she do ! How can she possibly affect the world ? Thus she muses, and goes out, singing, to her holiday and the sunshine. Now, it so happens that she passes, this day, each of the groups or persons we have named, at an important crisis in their lives, and they hear her various carols as she trills them forth in the innocent gladness of her heart. Sebald and Ottima have murdered the latter's aged husband, and are unremorseful in their guilty love. Jules is the victim of a fraud practised by his rival artists, who have put in his way a young girl, a paid model, whom he believes to be a pure and cultured maiden. He has married her, and just discovered the imposture. Luigi is hesitating whether to join a patriotic conspiracy. Monsignor is tempted by Maffeo to overlook his late brother's murder, for the sake of the estates, and to utterly ruin Pippa. The scene between Ottima and Sebald is the most intense and striking passage of all Browning's 3$ Robert Browning. poetry, and, possibly, of any dramatic verse compos- ed during his lifetime up to the date of this play. A passionate esoteric theme is treated with such vigor and skill as to free it from any debasing taint, in the dialogue from which I quote : — •' Ottima. . , The past, would you give up the past Such as it is, pleasure and crime together ? Give up that noon I owned my love for you — The garden's silence — even the single bee. Persisting in his toil, suddenly stopt, And where he hid you only could surmise By some campanula's chalice set a-swing As he clung there — ' Yes, I love you ! ' Sebald. And I drew Back ; put far back your face with both my hands Lest you should grow too full of me — your face So seemed athirst for my whole soul and body ! Ottima. Then our crowning night — Sebald. The July night? Ottima. The day of it too, Sebald ! When the heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed with heat. Its black blue canopy seemed let descend Close on us both, to weigh down each to each, And smother up all life except our life So lay we till the storm came. Sebald. How it came ! Robert Browning. 39 Ottima. Buried in woods we lay, you recollect Swift ran the searching tempest overhead ; And ever and anon some bright white shaft Burnt thro' the pine-tree roof, — here burnt and there, As if God's messenger thro' the close wood screen Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture, Feeling for guilty thee and me : then broke The thunder like a whole sea overhead — Sebald. Yes ! How did we ever rise? Was it that we slept ? Why did it end ? Ottijua. I felt you, Fresh tapering to a point the ruffled ends Of my loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips — (My hair is fallen now — knot it again !) Sebald. I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now, and now ! This way ? Will you forgive me — be once more My great queen ? Ottima. Bind it thrice about my brow ; Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress, Magnificent in sin. Say that ! Sebald. I crown you My great white queen, my spirit's arbitress, Magnificent — " But here Pippa passes, singing " God's in his heaven, — All's right with the world ! " 40 Robert Browning. Sebald is stricken with fear and remorse ; his para- mour becomes hideous in his eyes ; he bids her dress her shoulders, wipe off that paint, and leave him, for he hates her ! She, the woman, is at least true to her lover, and prays God to be merciful, not to her, but to him. The scene changes to the post-nuptial meeting of Jules and Phene, and then in succession to the other passages and characters we have mentioned. All these persons are vitally affected, — have their lives changed, merely by Pippa's weird and suggestive songs, coming, as if by accident, upon their hearing at that critical moment. With certain reservations this is a strong and delicate conception, admirably worked out. The usual fault is present : the characters, whether students, peasants, or soldiers, all talk like sages ; Pippa reasons like a Paracelsus in pantalets, — her intellectual songs are strangely put in the mouth of an ignorant silk- winding girl ; Phene is more natural, though mature, even for Italy, at fourteen. Browning's children are old as himself ; — he rarely sees them objectively. Robert Brownmg. 41 Even in the songs he is awkward, void of lyric grace ; if they have the wilding flavor, they have more than need be of specks and gnarledness. In the epilogue Pippa seeks her garret, and, as she dis- robes, after artlessly running over the events of her holiday, soliloquizes thus : — '* Now, one thing I should like really to know: How near I ever might approach all these I only fancied being, this long day — — Approach, I mean, so as to touch them — so Asto . . in some way . . move them — if you please^ Do good or evil to them some slight way. " Finally, she sleeps, — unconscious of her day's mis- sion, — and of the fact that her own life is to be something more than it has been, — but not until she has murmured these words of a hymn : — "All service is the same with God, — With God, whose puppets, best and worst. Are we : there is no last nor first." *' Pippa Passes" is a work of pure art, and has a wealth of original fancy and romance, apart from 42 Rohe7-t Brownhig. its wisdom, to which every poet will do justice. Its faults are those of style and undue intellectuality. To quote the author's words, in another drama, " Ah? well ! he o'er-refines, — the scholar's fault ! * As it is, we accept his work, looking upon it as up- on some treasured yet bizarre painting of the mixed school, whose beauties are the more striking for its defects. The former are inherent, the latter exter- nal and subordinate. Everything from this poet is, or used to be, of value and interest, and '' A Soul's Tragedy " is of both : first, for a masterly distinction between the action of sentiment and that founded on principle, and, secondly, for wit, satire, and knowledge of affairs. Ogniben, the Legate, is the most thorough man of the world Browning has drawn. That is a matchless stroke, at the close, where he says: " I have seen four-and-twenty leaders of revolts." It is a consolation to recall this when a pretender arises ; his race is measured, — his fall shall surely come. Robert B?'owning. 43 With '' Luria," thirty years ago, Browning, whose stage-plays had been failures, and whose closet-dra- mas had found too small a reading, made his " last attempt, for the present, at dramatic poetry." It remains to examine his miscellaneous after-work, including the long poems which have appeared within the last five years, — the most prolific, if not the most creative, period of his untiring life. V. Something of a dramatic character pertains to \ nearly all of Brownmg's lyrics. Like his wife, he ' has preferred to study human hearts rather than the forms of nature.) A note to the first collection of his briefer poems places them under the head of Dramatic Pieces. This was at a time when English poets were enslaved to the idyllic method, and for- got that their readers had passions most suggestive to art when exalted above the tranquillity of pictur- esque repose. Herein Browning justly may claim originality. Even the Laureate combined the art of Keats with the contemplative habit of Words- 44 Robert Broivmng. worth, and adapted them to his own times ; while Browning was the prophet of that reaction which holds that the proper study of mankind is man. His effort, weak or able, was at figure-painting, in distinction from that of landscape or still life. It has not flourished during the recent period, but we are indebted to him for what we have of it. In an adverse time it was natural for it to assume peculiar, almost morbid phases ; but of this struggling, turbid figure-school, — variously represented by the young- er Lytton, Rossetti, Swinburne, and others, he was the long-neglected progenitor. His genius may have been unequal to his aims. It is not easy for him to combine a score of figures upon the ample canvas : his work is at its best in separated ideals, or, rather, in portraits, — his dramatic talent being more realistic than imaginative. Still, portraiture, in a certain sense, is the highest form of painting, and Browning's personal studies must not be under- valued. As usual, even here he is unequal, and, while some of them are matchless, in others, like all men of genius who aim at the highest, he conspicu- Robert Brouming. 45 ously fails. A man of talent may never fail, yet never rise above a fixed height. Yet if Browning were a man of great genius his failures would not so outnumber his successes that half his lyrics could be missed without injury to his reputation. The shorter pieces, " Dramatic Romances and Lyrics," in the first general collection of his works, are of a better average grade than those in his latest book of miscellanies. One of the best is '* My Last Duchess," a masterly sketch, comprising within sixty lines enough matter to furnish Browning, nowadays, with an excuse for a quarto. Nothing can be sub- tler than the art whereby the Duke is made to reveal a cruel tragedy of which he was the relentless vil- lain, to betray the blackness of his heart, and to suggest a companion-tragedy in his betrothal close at hand. Thus was introduced a new method, ap- plied with such coolness as to suggest the idea of vivisection or morbid anatomy. But let us group other lyrics in this collection with the matter of two later volumes, Men and Wo- men^ and Dni7fiatis Personce. These books, made 46 Robert Broiuning. up of isolated poems, contain the bulk of his work during the eighteen years which followed his mar- riage in 1846. While their contents include no long poem or drama, they seem, upon the whole, to be the fullest expression of his genius, and that for which he is likeliest to be remembered. Every poet has limitations, and in such briefer studies Browning keeps within the narrowest bounds allotted to him. Very few of his best pieces are in " Dramatis Per- sonae," the greater part of which book is made up of his most ragged, uncouth, and even puerile verse ; and it is curious that it appeared at a time when his wife was scribbling the rhetorical verse of those years which I have designated as her period of decline. But observe the general excellence of the fifty poems in " Men and Women," — collected nine years earlier, when the author was forty years old, and at his prime. In the chapter upon Tennyson it was stated that almost every poet has a represen- tative book, showing him at full height and variety. " Men and Women," like the Laureate's volume of 1842, is the most finished and comprehensive of the Robert Browning. 47 author's works, and the one his readers least could spare. Here we find numbers of those thrilling, skilfully dramatic studies, which so many have imi- tated without catching the secret of their power. The general effect of Browning's miscellaneous poems is like that of a picture-gallery, where cabi- net paintings, by old and modern masters, are placed at random upon the walls. Some are rich in color ; others, strong in light and shade. A few are elabora- tely finished, — more are careless drawings, fresh, but hurriedly sketched in. Often the subjects are re- pulsive, but occasionally we have the solitary, im- pressive figure of a lover or a saint. The poet is as familiar with mediaeval thought and story as most authors with their own time, and adapts them to his lyrical uses. " Andrea del Sarto" belongs to the same group with " My Last Duchess." It is the language of " the faultless painter," address- ed to his beautiful and thoughtless wife, for whom he has lowered his ideal — and from whose chains he cannot break, though he knows she is unworthy, and even false to him. He moans before one of 48 Robert Bro7i>ftmg. Raphael's drawings, excusing the faults, in envy of the genius : — "Still, what an arm i and I could alter it. But all the play, the insight and the stretch — Out of me ! out of me ! And wherefore out ? Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, We might have risen to Raphael, I and you. But had you — O, with the same perfect brow, And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth. And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare, — Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind ] Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged * God and the glory ! never care for gain ! ' I might have done it for you." AVere it indeed "all for love," then were the "world well lost "; but even while he dallies with his wife she listens for her gallant's signal. This poem is one of Browning's finest studies : of late he has given us nothing equal to it. The picture of the rollicking " Fra Lippo Lippi " is broad, free- handed, yet scarcely so well done. " Pictor Igno- tus " is upon another art-theme, and in quiet beauty Robe7't Browning. 49 differs from the poet's usual manner. Other old- time studies, good and poor, which served to set the fashion for a number of minor poets, are such pieces as " Count Gismond," " Cristina," " The Laboratory," and '* The Confessional." How perilous an easy rhymed-metre is to this author was discernible in '* Sordello." After the same manner he is tempted to garrulity in the semi- religious poems, " Christmas Eve " and " Easter Day." It is difficult otherwise to account for their dreary flow, since they are no more original in theology than poetical in language and design. It would be strange if Browning were not indebted, for some of his most powerful themes, to the superstition from which mediaeval art, politics, and daily life took their prevailing tone. In his analysis of its quality he seems to me extremely profound. Monasticism in Spain even now is not so different from that of the fifteenth century, and the repulsive imagery of a piece like the " Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister," written in the harshest verse, well consorts with a period when the orders, 4 50 Robert Browning. that took their origin in exalted purity, had become degraded through lust, gluttony, jealousy, and every cardinal sin. Browning draws his monks, as Dore in the illustrations to " Les Contes Drolatiques," with porcine or wolfish faces, monstrous, seamed with vice, defiled in body and soul. " The Bishop orders his Tomb " has been criticised as not being a faithful study of the Romish ecclesiastic, A. D. 15 — ; but, unless I misapprehend the spirit of that period, this is one of the poet's strongest portrai- tures. Religion then was often a compound of fear, bigotry, and greed ; its officers, trained in the Church, seemed to themselves invested with some- thing greater than themselves ; their ideas of good and evil, after years of ritualistic service, — made gross with pelf, jealousy, sensualism, and even blood-guiltiness, — became strangely intermixed. The poet overlays this groundwork with that love of art and luxury — of jasper, peach-blossom marble, and lazuli — inbred in every Italian, — and even with the scholar's desire to have his epitaph carved aright : - — Robert Browning. 51 " Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word. No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line, — Tully, my masters ? Ulpian serves his need ! And then how I shall lie through centuries. And hear the blessed mutter of