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,
And I have had troubles enough, for one ;—

'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,
And matter enough to save one's own ;-

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
Allotted you out of eternity!

Crowns are from God-in his name you hold yours.
Your life's no least thing, were it fit your life
Should be abjured along with rule; but now
Keep both! Your duty is to live and rule.
You, who would vulgarly look fine enough
In the world's eye, deserting your soul's charge,—
Ay, you would have men's praise-this Rivoli

Would be illumined; while, as 'tis, no doubt,
Something of stain will ever rest on you;
No one will rightly know why you refused
To abdicate; they'll talk of deeds you could
Have done, no doubt,-nor do I much expect
Future achievements will blot out the past,
Envelope it in haze-nor shall we two
Be happy any more; 'twill be, I feel,
Only in moments that the duty's seen
As palpably as now-the months, the years
Of painful indistinctness are to come,

While daily must we tread these palace rooms
Pregnant with memories of the past; your eye
May turn to mine and find no comfort there,
Through fancies that beset me, as yourself,
Of other courses with far other issues,

We might have taken this great night—such bear,
As I will bear! What matters happiness?

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,
'Distance all value enhances.

Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm
Caught thinking war the true pastime !
Is there a reason in metre?

Give us your speech, Master Peter?'
I who, if mortal dare say so,
Ne'er am at loss with my Naso,
'Sire,' I replied, 'joys prove cloudlets;
Men are the merest Ixions-'

Here the King whistled aloud, 'Let's-
Heigho-go look at our lions!'

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
Than over the rails a glove fluttered,
Fell close to the lion, and rested;
The dame 'twas (who flung it and jested
With life so) De Lorge had been wooing
For months past; he sat there pursuing
His suit, weighing out with nonchalance
Fine speeches like gold from a balance.

Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier!
De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,
Walked straight to the glove,-while the lion
Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on
The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire
And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,-
Picked it up, and as calmly retreated,
Leaped back where the lady was seated,
And full in the face of its owner

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