Mr. Browning essayed persistently to pierce into the dark. He is commonly content to adopt the 'strategic movement' of American generals,-sometimes discharging a scrap of irony or a light jest as he flies. or or There remaineth a rest for the people of God, 'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, As for Venice and its people, merely born to bloom and drop, Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop. What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop? are the parting shafts that cover his retreat. There is never, however, any foolish levity in Browning's laughter. His irony plays over his melancholy humour —that intricate, exquisite sadness, that heroic pensiveness as the rainbow plays upon its cloud. Though baffled, he never ceases to recognise the reality and magnitude of the problem. Only I discern Infinite passion and the pain of finite hearts that yearn. Mr. Browning, moreover, does not care to study what I may call the stock passions. He seldom pursues an obvious train of thought or feeling. He delights in tracking the byways of the imagination. With grim fun, with tender irony, with unfrequent tears, he lays bare the waste and solitary places of the heart. The public does not like this. Vice should be vice; virtue, virtue; moral distinctions are confounded if Lucifer does not wear a complete suit of black, or if there be any speck on Gabriel's wings. It is undoubtedly quite true that the writer who does not conform to this rule often fails to make his outline sharp and articulate. The acute angles which the mind grasps without exertion are wanting. Most of those who have read King Charles and King Victor complain that they have been unable to form any exact conception of the politic and passionate D'Ormea. Is he an angel of light or a minister of darkness? The man himself, and those who knew him best, would have been puzzled to answer the question; and we cannot require his biographer to be better informed. The shadowy border-land that lies between the good and the evil passions, where they meet as on a kind of neutral ground, is more thickly peopled than we are willing to admit; and the dramatist who paints its occupants with entire fidelity cannot undertake to produce a rogue who is all roguery, or an honest man whose honesty is free from every base alloy. Nor (as might be anticipated from what has just been said) are the verdicts which Mr. Browning pronounces calculated to win popular favour. There is a species of rhetorical morality which has been current for a long time, especially on the stage and in juvenile literature. Wicked Don Giovanni is removed by the fiends. The good prince and princess are united, and live happily ever afterwards. The vindictive uncle relents, and leaves the virtuous 'prentice his blessing and his estate. Most thoughtful men, however, are unwilling to commit themselves to any exact theory of retribution. The characters on the wall are hard to interpret, and are better, perhaps, left unread. But Mr. Browning insists on reading them. Nor will he accept the meaning that lies quite on the surface. He deliberately prefers the difficult reading. He does not merely repudiate the verdict of the vulgar, but he undertakes to show where it is defective. King Victor returns to claim the crown which he had renounced. The irresolute Charles is profoundly agitated. He owes obedience to his father,—that is the duty which lies nearest to him, and which will win the applause of those who relish an effective moral interlude. It is at this moment that Polyxena, his high-souled wife, appeals to him. The speech is so fine, and so aptly illustrates Mr. Browning's habitual mood, that I am unwilling to curtail it : King Charles! Pause here upon this strip of time Crowns are from God-in his name you hold yours. Would be illumined; while, as 'tis, no doubt, While daily must we tread these palace rooms We might have taken this great night—such bear, Duty! There's man's one moment—this is yours! In The Glove this analytic propensity is seen in full play. The poem is founded upon the well-known incident of De Lorge and the lion, and Peter Ronsard is the narrator. 'Heigho,' yawned one day King Francis, Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm Give us your speech, Master Peter?' Here the King whistled aloud, 'Let's- Such are the sorrowful chances If you talk fine to King Francis. So they visit Blue-beard, the great lion (a splendid fellow), and as soon as King Francis declares that no man is foolhardy enough to leap into the den, a lady's glove flutters over the rails. The sentence no sooner was uttered Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier! Flung the glove— King and courtiers applaud the conduct of the lover 'Twas mere vanity, Not love, set that task to humanity!' Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing. But the poet is not so quickly satisfied, and when the lady leaves the court 'amid hooting and laughter,' he |