quite alone, and like other forerunners was distinctly in advance of its time. above that of other natives; their men are | such, but in its day it stood almost it not handsome, and their girls really beautiful; and apart from the ingrained and inveterate habit of lying, they are honest and comparatively trustworthy people. In this periodical did Mr. Browning's earliest work, "Pauline," receive its first public recognition in the April number of the volume for 1833, that is, immediately on publication; while "Paracelsus" was welcomed in the volume for 1835, also as soon as published. The articles were both from the pen of Mr. Fox. I will quote a few sentences from them, but they would both well bear republication in full. In the first article, the one on Under the indolent smoothness of their exterior there lurks a fiery and warlike nature, which often needs but a spark to set it in a blaze. The Said Hassîm affair was an excellent instance of this. Village feuds are of constant occurrence among them, though they seldom lead to any very serious results. In former years, scarcely a week has passed without some disturbance breaking out upon the thrash-"Pauline; a Confession," after a careful ing-floors; and frequent conflicts have taken place between the multazim and the peasant, before the former has gained possession of the latter's corn. Hence it is all the more to the credit of the Druses that they manifested so little opposition to me, and showed so willing a disposition to meet me half-way. My arduous labors came to a successful termination by the end of October. Contrary to the sinister prognostications of pessimist advisers, I realized a small profit, a little over three thousand piastres, or about £23. Moreover, the main object of my undertaking was, I think, also in a great measure fulfilled; and I am persuaded that one consequence has been that the mutual relations between the Druses and ourselves have been placed on a firmer and more confidential footing. Indeed, so satisfied have I been with the result of my experiment, that I have determined to repeat it this year. HAIFA, 1889. HASKETH SMITH. From The Argosy. ROBERT BROWNING. "Stand still, true poet that you are, I know you; let me try and draw you. You rise, remember one man saw you, A SMALL packet of old yellow letters lies before me as I write, the writing in faded ink. The packet is labelled "from Robert Browning," the letters are addressed to my father, the Rev. W. J. Fox. The date of the earliest of these notes is the year 1833. My father was, at that time, editor of the Monthly Repository, a periodical which he endeavored to raise from its original denominational character into a first-class literary and political journal. It was the forerunner of many similar analysis of the young author's mental stages and their progress, Mr. Fox continues thus: "The poem in which a great poet should reveal the whole of himself to mankind would be a study, a delight, and a power, for which there is yet no parallel; and around which the noblest creations of the noblest writers would range themselves as subsidiary luminaries. "These thoughts have been suggested by the work before us, which, though evidently a hasty and imperfect sketch, has truth and life in it, which gave us the thrill, and laid hold of us with the power, the sensation of which has never yet failed us as a test of genius. Whoever the anonymous author may be, he is a poet. A pretender to science cannot always be safely judged of by a brief publication, for the knowledge of some facts does not imply the knowledge of other facts; but the claimant of poetic honors may generally be appreciated by a few pages, often by a few lines; for if they be poetry, he is a poet. We cannot judge of the house by the brick, but we can judge of the statue of Hercules by its foot. We felt certain of Tennyson, before we saw the book, by a few verses which had straggled into a newspaper; we are not less certain of the author of 'Pauline."" Mr. Fox proceeds to give many quotations, interspersed with admiring and appreciative comments; towards the close of the article he makes some small criticisms, after which he concludes with the following words: "In recognizing a poet we cannot stand upon trifles, nor fret our. selves about such matters. Time enough for that afterwards, when larger works come before us. Archimedes in the bath had many particulars to settle about specific gravities and Hiero's crown; but he first gave a glorious leap and shouted Eureka." This full and complete recognition of the first effort of the young poet was never forgotten by Mr. Browning, and was often After copious quotations the article con- After long years of neglect the public at last responded to that appeal. Those who have learned to admire Browning's noble poetry have indeed had to "awake their senses," in order to be able to appreciate his pregnant and thoughtful work. Immediately before the publication of "Paracelsus," Mr. Browning writes to Mr. Fox, that he hopes his poem "" will turn out not utterly unworthy your kind interest, and more deserving your favor" than anything that Mr. Fox had yet seen; adding, "it will never do for one so distinguished by past praise to prove nobody after all." This note seems to be in reply to one from Mr. Fox, who had obtained for him an introduction to Moxon, who, however, could not be prevailed on to publish "Paracelsus." Mr. Moxon had, apparently, burnt his fingers with the early works of two poets, both of them since taking first rank, and he begged to decline even inspecting Mr. Browning's poem. Messrs. Saunders and Ottley, too, who had previously published "Pauline," I believe at the author's own risk, were applied to in vain; when Mr. Fox bethought him of that ultra liberal, Effingham Wilson, whose name, finally, is found on the title page of the first edition of " Paracelsus." In the March of 1835 "Paracelsus appeared, and was noticed by Mr. Fox, before the end of that year, in the Monthly Repository in a careful and appreciative analysis. He speaks of the author as having in this work, “essayed the solution of one of those great enigmas, which human life in its different phases presents." He continues: "His 'Paracelsus' is, not a personification indeed, but an individualization of humanity, in whom he exhibits its alternate conditions of aspiration and attainment. Truly here is something for the mind to grapple with; but the labor is only of that species which accords with the proper enjoyment of poetry, and which raises that enjoyment to its due degree of loftiness and intensity. Para-"The King," which was introduced aftercelsus left that sort of mingled reputation wards in "Pippa Passes," as one of Pip. which exactly suited the author's purpose. pa's songs; those songs that effect such It is neither too bad for a blessing, nor too momentous changes in the current of the good for a curse.' lives of the hearers, all unconsciously to After the notice of "Paracelsus," Mr. Browning writes: Sardanapalus could not go on multiplying kingdoms, nor I protestations but I thank you very much." Four of Mr. Browning's shorter poems made their first appearance on the pages of the Monthly Repository. In 1835 the little silk-winder of Asolo passing by. "Porphyria,” which re-appears in the first number of "Dramatic Lyrics" (original edition) under the title of "Madhouse Cells," and "Agricola " which appears in the "Collected Works;" all of these first saw the light in the Monthly Repository volume for 1836. The fourth, a charming sonnet, somewhat Heine-like in character, to be found in the Monthly Repository volume for 1834, I have not seen again in any of the later editions of the poet's works. Why I know not, for it deserves not to be lost. Shortly before the notice of "Pauline," there appears a delightful recognition of Tennyson, whose second little volume, "Poems, chiefly Lyrical," had then just appeared, also from the pen of Mr. Fox. On May 1st, 1837, "Strafford; an historical Tragedy," was produced at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, through Mr. Macready's agency; he taking the title part, and Miss Helen Faucit the Countess of Carlisle. I am under the impression that my father introduced both the poet and the play to Mr. Macready, with whom he was on terms of intimacy. My father wrote a critique on the play, as it was acted. I find Mr. Browning sadly annoyed at the "considerable alterations" which were made for acting. He says "the complexion of the piece, is, I grieve to say, perfect gallows;" and the acting of the king (which very difficult part it seems to my humble judgment would have required a second Macready to do justice to) was such, that the note leaves it with a dash, as too bad to be described. In a letter to a relative, from an early friend who was present, I find the performance referred to amongst the London news, so dear at that time to country cousins, in the following interesting passage: 66 Then, 'Strafford :' were you not pleased to hear of the success of one you must I think remember a very little boy, years ago. If not, you have often heard us speak of Robert Browning, and it is a great thing to have accomplished a successful tragedy, although he seems a good deal annoyed at the go of things behind the scenes, and declares he will never write a play again as long as he lives. You have no idea of the ignorance and obstinacy of the whole set, with here and there an exception; think of his having to write out the meaning of the word im peachment, as some of them thought it meant poaching." In 1841, the first number of those delightful "Bells and Pomegranates" appeared, the title of which was such a perpetual puzzle, both to critics and the public; recurring as it regularly did each year with a fresh number, until, with the "Soul's Tragedy," the eighth and last, an explanation was appended. One of these only, appears to have been acted simultaneously with its publication, as "Strafford" was; namely: "The Blot on the 'Scutcheon," which bears date, "Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. February 11th, 1843.' In this play, Macready took the part of Lord Thorold, the elder brother, on the first night of its representation only. I well remember his noble bearing, and dignified grace. It was, however, produced by him in the latter days of his management of Drury Lane, when, worn out with fatigue and anxiety, he was unable to continue to sustain the part, and handed it over to Mr. Phelps for the remainder of the nights that the play ran. It may perhaps be well for me to mention here that I have the first editions of each work before me, and copy the dates of each as I write; even to the original yellow paper covers of the "Bells and Pomegranates" (enriched with a few gracious words from Mr. Browning to my father on each). As my memory glances back, and I try to recall my own early impressions of Mr. Browning, one bright morning rises up clear before me, like a sunlit spot through the long, misty years. I see myself, a child, sitting drawing at a sunny cottage window in the then rural suburb of Bayswater. Puffs of sweet scents of hawthorn and roses came floating in at the open window as I drew. I remember that I was trying to copy Retsch's design of a young knight surrounded by Undines, who seek to entice him down with them into the waves, when Mr. Browning entered the little drawing-room with a quick, light step; and on hearing from me that my father was out, and in fact that nobody was at home except myself, he said: "It's my birthday to-day; I'll wait till they come in," and sitting down to the piano, he added: "If it won't disturb you, I'll play till they do." And as he turned to the instrument, the bells of some neighboring church suddenly burst out with a frantic, merry peal. It seemed to my childish fancy, as if in response to the remark that it was his birthday. He was then slim and dark, and very handsome; and — may I hint it-just a trifle of a dandy, addicted to lemon-colored kid gloves and such things; quite "the glass of fashion and the mould of form." But full of ambition, eager for success, eager for fame, and what's more, determined to conquer fame and to achieve success. Soon after these first publications, he writes to a friend: "I have a headful of projects—mean to song-write, play-write forthwith." And again: "When these three plays are out, I hope to build a huge ode- but all goeth but (with) God's will." I think it must have been a year or two later, that I remember him as looking in often in the evenings, having just returned from his first visit to Venice. I cannot tell the date for certain. He was full of enthusiasm for that queen of cities. He used to illustrate his glowing descriptions of its beauties, the palaces, the sunsets, the moon-rises, by a most original kind of etching. Taking up a bit of stray notepaper, he would hold it over a lighted candle, moving the paper about gently till it was cloudily smoked over, and then, utilizing the darker smears for clouds, shadows, water, or what not, would etch with a dry pen the forms of lights on cloud and palace, on bridge or gondola, on the vague and dreamy surface he had produced. My own passionate longing to see Venice dates from those delightful, well-remembered evenings of my childhood. My father had given up the editorship of the Monthly Repository, in 1836, to R. H. Horne, the author of " Orion," and to Leigh Hunt, with the latter of whom the journal died a natural death, two years later. My father became absorbed in political life, which occupied him incessantly from that time onwards. His name is known to the public in conjunction with those of Cobden and Bright in the great Anti-Corn Law struggle, and his pen was a weapon of power in many a goodly fight; but except in occasional lectures, the delights of purely literary work became a thing of the past. Still, I do not remember the time, from the old Repository days onward, when a new poem by Browning was not an event and an excitement to him. One day, Mr. John Forster sent word that he would bring the proof-sheets of the "Christmas Eve" to read to us; and how we revelled in the humor of the opening passages; and how Mr. Forster's melodious voice did justice to the grand vision, as the poem proceeds! In 1858-9 I paid a visit to Rome, where Mr. and Mrs. Browning were also spending the winter, on account of her health, and I saw a good deal of them; more especially, I had the great felicity of passing many quiet hours in the company of Mrs. Browning, for she kindly sat to me for her portrait in chalks; Mr. Browning, the while, was giving his little son a first-rate music lesson in the adjoining room. The portrait, I may be excused for mentioning, was exhibited at the Royal Academy the same year, and was considered successful by most of those who knew her. She seemed to me to be an angel on earth, so modest, so unselfish. At that time her poems were extremely popular, whilst Mr. Browning's were beginning only to take hold of the public. I remember his bringing in, during my sittings, an American paper in which the work of the two poets were compared, to the disadvantage of the husband. Mr. Browning seemed piqued, I thought, as was but natural; for the criticism showed both bad taste and want of judgment. But nothing of that sort could cast a shadow of a shade upon the perfect harmony that existed between that ideal pair. Their's was the "better love" that could "defy the scoffer." Mr. Browning lived chiefly abroad, and took no great interest in the details of English politics, saving all political enthusiasm either for the land of his adoption or for the affairs of past times. But the early regard between him and my father was not dead, only slumbering. I find in my packet a long letter from Mrs. Browning to my father (under date June, 1859) about Italian matters, enclosing a cutting from an Italian newspaper, a translation into Italian of a public speech of my father's to a meeting at Oldham, which had given great satisfaction to Italian patriots. Mrs. Browning writes to thank him "for her husband, for herself, and for Italy," for this speech on the Italian question. She says: "One generous voice raised, and that such a thrilling voice as yours, is indeed a thing to thank God for, after all the disappointments, and, let me add, the humiliation we suffer here as to the words and acts of England." I open also a sort of double letter, written partly by Mr. and partly by Mrs. Browning; a delightful letter from Casa Guidi, date January, 1857, on learning from Mr. Fox of his re-election as member for Oldham. Mr. Browning writes: " I wish from my heart we could get closer together again, as in those old days, and what times we would have here together in Italy; " and after a page of most delightful joking he adds: "I say this foolishly, just because I can't trust myself to be earnest about it. I would, you know I would, always would, choose you out of the whole English world to judge and correct what I write myself. My wife shall read this, and let it stand, if I have told her so, these twelve years; and certainly I have not grown intellectually an inch over the good and kind hand you extended over my head, how many years ago!" along the bleak highroad; for I had a bright shilling to spend, and it burnt a bole in my pocket. I was planning my purchases, when I noticed, on an eminence of the road ahead, a man's figure sharply defined against the sky. He was driving a flock of geese, so slowly that I soon caught him up; and such a man or such geese I had never The letter is long, too long to quote in seen. To begin with, his rags were worse this place; after speaking of English than a scarecrow's. In one hand he carbooks and newspapers, or rather the want ried a long staff; the other held a small of them, in Italy, Mr. Browning adds: book close under his nose, and his lean "Yet for me there would be one book bet-shoulders bent over as he read in it. You ter than any now to be got, here or else where, and all out of a great English head and heart6 those Memoirs you engaged to give us. Will you give us them?" Those memoirs, alas! were never written. He that should have written, and he that would have read them, both now rest beneath the sod. My father died in 1864: The poet died last month, and now Commands the palms. E. F. BRIDELL.FOX. From The Speaker. FORTUNIO. WHEN I was a small boy, my parents lived within three miles of Tregarrick, a dead-and-alive little market town, set amid wide and sad-colored moors. It had once a mayor and corporation, could speak of royal visits, and was a noted stage for the mail coaches. These glories, however, were of the past; the railway came, skirted the moors, and left Tregarrick to itself; and now the inhabitants woke up for one day only in the year. But that was a gala day; for Tregarrick goose-fair (which fell in the week after Michaelmas) was, as all the world owned, the most famous in the west country. They cooked a goose there in twenty-two different ways; and as no one who came to the fair would dream of eating any other food, you may fancy what a reek of cooking would fill the narrow grey street soon after midday. We boys were always given a holiday to go to the goose-fair; and it was on my way thither that I first made Fortunio's acquaintance. I wore a new pair of corduroys, that smelt - oh, how they smelt! and squeaked, too, as I trotted briskly could tell by the man's undecided gait that all his eyes were for this book. Only he would look up when one of his birds strayed too far on the turf that lined the highway, and would guide it back to the stones again with his staff. As for the geese, they were utterly draggle-tailed and stained with travel, and waddled, every one, with so woe-begone a limp that I had to laugh as I passed. The man glanced up, set his forefinger between the pages of his book, and turned on me a long, sallow face and a pair of the most beautiful brown eyes in the world. "Little boy," he said, in a quick, foreign way- rosy little boy. You laugh at my geese, eh?" No doubt I stared at him like a ninny, for he went on:"Little wide-mouthed Cupidon, how you gaze! Also, by the how you way, smell! "It's my corduroys," said I. "Then I do not like your corduroys. But I like you to laugh. Laugh again -only at the right matter; laugh at this And, opening his book again, he read a long passage as I walked beside him; but I could make neither head nor tail of it. "That is from the 'Sentimental Journey,' by Laurence Sterne, the most beautiful of your English wits. Ah, he is more than French! Laugh at it." It was rather hard to laugh thus to order; but suddenly he set me the example, showing two rows of very white teeth, and fetching from his hollow chest a sound of mirth so incongruous with the whole aspect of the man that I smiled at his very oddity. "That's right; but be louder. Make the sounds that you made just now He broke off sharply, being seized with an ugly fit of coughing, that forced him to halt and lean on his staff for a while. When he recovered we walked on together after the geese, he talking all the way in high-flown sentences that were Greek to me, and I stealing a look every now and |