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errors are so great, as to call for the genial appreciation of all true lovers of poetry or of truth.

Robert Browning is still, we believe, a young man, though he has been before the world as an author for some ten or twelve years. His genius may be said to be pre-eminently dramatic,so much so, indeed, that whatever he writes, takes consciously or unconsciously a dramatic form. His lyrics are almost all monodramas; and his one long poetic tale, "Sordello," is almost unintelligible, from the abruptness of its conversational and dramatic style.

"Who wills may hear Sordello's story told :—
His story?"

The poet commenccs, asking himself a question in the second
line, and throughout strangely embodying his own momentary
moods of thought and fancy, without placing himself for a moment
in the position of those to whom the tale is told; making no
allowance for their inevitable ignorance of the minutest historic
circumstances connected with his theme, but going straight on,
“Over park, over pale,

Thorough bush, thorough brier,"

exhausting his readers in their attempts to keep pace with his passionate advance, and at last leaving them all far, far, behind him. "Sordello," not having been republished in that new edition of Mr. Browning's works which especially engages our attention, scarcely falls within the scope of the present essay. We will only say, therefore, that its tendency is in our opinion morbid, and so, rather mischievous than otherwise, and that its style is preeminently harsh and rugged: it is such a work as a great man only could have created, with all its faults; but it is deficient in moral healthfulness, and therefore we do not regret its absence from the present edition. We believe that we understand it, speaking generally,-having studied it carefully; and therefore . venture to pronounce our opinion on so abstruse a theme. One other work of Mr. Browning's, a tragedy on the subject of "Strafford," performed with great success some ten years ago, has not been republished here. We are glad of this also. Regarded as a drama, it was, no doubt, a fine and stirring creation, despite the exaggeration so prominent in it, and the many starts and bursts, which made ill-natured people call it

66 a thing of shreds and patches:"

but, in our opinion, it was deficient in the important element of historic truth,-embodying, and exaggerating even, the prevalent

absurd notions as to the royal martyr's faithlessness and tyranny, and, in fact, representing him as a kind of moral monster. Strange is it, that after the testimony of such men as Hume and the elder D'Israeli—men not likely, from their creed or position, to overvalue the representative of Anglican high churchmanshipevery stupid calumny, which Puritan rancour ever devised, should be revived in this enlightened age. The mad fury of a Carlyle might be regarded as a thing of course: his praise would be desecration, his abuse is praise: the worshipper of a Mahomet is the natural adversary of a Charles. He, who cringes in the attitude of adoration before successful brute force, in every age and country, was not likely to appreciate the royal martyr. But that Mr. Macaulay should have been so carried away by the fashionable superstition on this score, as to accuse the king of faithlessness, because, while for the sake of peace he negotiated with the London parliament, he recorded his protest that it was no true parliament, adding other charges of a still more preposterous nature, this may well excite our wonder at the bigotry and prejudice of man. But we must not wander from our theme.

"Strafford" is not in the present volumes, and we therefore dismiss it from our consideration; proceeding at once to the contents of this edition, which might afford matter for several comprehensive essays, instead of the cursory review we shall be enabled to bestow for the works contained in this edition (counting the dramatic lyrics as one series) may be said to be all great works, and worthy of serious consideration: they are characterized by deep earnestness, sweet pathos, high purpose, and intense dramatic truthfulness. That to dramatic intensity probability, and even truth, are sometimes sacrificed, we cannot deny. There is, perhaps, an absence of repose in Mr. Browning's dramas; the interest is too passionately sustained; every thing is made too much a matter of life and death: even when the characters speak with most apparent calm, we see that deep feeling or wild passion are working underneath; there is nothing purely narrative, little purely demonstrative; the dramatic active element is almost invariably paramount. This is one of the reasons for which Mr. Browning is so difficult to understand. The very souls of his dramatis persona are constantly palpitating before us; yet they express themselves so simply, with such an apparent absence of fuss, that we do not at once perceive the full import of their speeches: we regard them only from an external point of view, as poetry perhaps, without entering into the characters of those who speak, and then we must be necessarily disappointed. We have mentioned that general obscurity, which some people regard as necessarily fatal to Mr. Browning's popularity to the end of

time, however great may be his merits. This obscurity arises, mainly, from an excess of reality. Mr. Browning does not write about people,-does not tell you why they think or feel so and so, as other poets do, but shows you the people themselves, thinking, feeling, acting: he brings the scene actually and immediately before you, not presenting it through the usual artificial medium: he rushes abruptly into the very heart of his subject without any exordium, and presupposes a certain knowledge of his theme on the reader's part, which he cannot reasonably expect to find. Every where an introductory argument seems to be wanted, placing the reader at the right point of view; in the absence of which, this author's highest beauties may at first be unintelligible, or apparently even absurd. To give a strong instance of what we mean:-the Tragedy of "The Return of the Druses" is founded on the superstition of the Druse people, that they shall only return to their home, Lebanon, when their former chief Hakeem, otherwise called the Khalif, who died on the verge of Mokattam's mountain several centuries before, shall return, to place himself at their head, and lead them on to victory. A certain Druse chief, called Djabal, who has lived many years in Europe, and possessed himself of certain secrets of science, has resolved to pass himself off on the Druse people as their Hakeem, or Khalif, as the only possible means of rousing them from their disgraceful lethargy; and has announced his intention mysteriously "to exalt himself" on a certain day, that is, to resume his former shape of Hakeem. The play thus commences. A certain number of Druses enter the Prefect's Hall,—as it afterwards appears, in his absence from the island,-and one of them thus exclaims (these are the opening words) :

"The moon is carried off in purple fire;

Day breaks at last!-Break, Glory, with the day,
On Djabal's dread incarnate mystery,

Now ready to assume its pristine shape

Of Hakeem!-As' the Khalif' vanish'd erst,

In what seem'd death to uninstructed eyes,

On red Mokattam's verge ;-our Founder's flesh,

As he resumes our Founder's function!"

This may seem plain enough, when the clue has been given, but without it, in the first instance, it must be nearly unintelligible; yet this is one of Mr. Browning's least dramatic speeches; it is one in which he is endeavouring to explain. The number of recondite facts crowded together constitute the difficulty, not the hidden motive of the speech, as is more usually the case. However, many of these difficulties naturally

vanish on a second perusal: when the mind has once taken a bird's-eye view of the whole, it can better appreciate the parts. We would, however, force on Mr. Browning's attention the expediency of prefixing either arguments or prologues to his principal works, which should not themselves be dramatic, but simply preparatory, explanatory, demonstrative. We almost question, whether he could write them himself; but any one else who had studied his works could perform this office for him; and this would go far towards rendering his works accessible to the general reader, and himself consequently popular. So much must be admitted: the motives of Mr. Browning's dramatis persono are always clearly defined in their author's mind; they never say a word at random: where we least see purpose, we shall be sure to find it, if we take the trouble to search. We may not always agree with the poet that such a motive is natural or becoming, but we shall always see, that, taking that motive for granted, the consequent expression of feeling is wonderfully natural and real; that the poet has done what he meant to do, whether that in itself be right or wrong. This is a very rare, perhaps the rarest, quality. How few, how very few men, in creating works of art, have a clear knowledge of their own intentions! How few dramatists, for instance, conceive and develop a character consistently! Almost all trust in a great degree to chance, and often write better than they know themselves; though generally, of course, much worse. Mr. Browning, on the contrary, realizes intensely whatever he conceives; he creates and commands his characters, he is not commanded by them. We believe, then, that as a real purpose will always eventually be discovered where the greatest apparent obscurity prevails, time must necessarily be favourable to the appreciation of Mr. Browning's works. When they are universally acknowledged to be noble dramatic creations, (as they must eventually be,) men, who can, will study them for themselves, and, communicating their observations to others, will plane the way even for masses, so that the very "public" at last may wonder at its having found much difficulty in the matter. But a truce to these general observations. Pass we to the first work in these volumes, the dramatic poem "Paracelsus," well worthy of a lengthy essay on itself alone.

It is difficult to express the object of this poem in a few words. Paracelsus [the Paracelsus] is a man who lives for Knowledge for its own sake, without regard to Love: after many years he is partially converted from this error, but his conversion is only partial; men treat him ill, and therefore he relapses into his old heresy under a worse form, and finally dies, acknowledging, that

he has lived too much for self, too little for his race. The beauty of much of the poetry in this work can scarcely be too highly commended. We must give a few samples. The two charming characters of Festus, the sympathizing and admiring friend of Paracelsus, and his bride Michal, would alone endear this work to us. In the first part, or act, entitled "Paracelsus aspires," he is discovered in a garden at Wurzburg, passing the last evening with these friends, previous to his departure on the search for absolute truth and knowledge. Festus has encouraged his mystical aspirations; but is now afraid of his own work, and would dissuade Paracelsus from his ambitious design, -an endeavour in which Michal unites. Paracelsus thus sweetly and affectionately addresses them :

"You must forget

All fitful, strange, and moody waywardness,
Which e'er confused my better spirit, to dwell
Only on moments such as these, dear friends!
My heart no truer, but my words and ways
More true to it. As Michal, some months hence,
Will say, 'This autumn was a pleasant time'
For some few sunny days, and overlook
Its bleak wind hankering after pining leaves.
Autumn would fain be sunny; I would look
Liker my nature's truth; and both are frail,
And both beloved for all their frailty!"

Festus, however, is not blinded by this fair speech; he recognizes the secret pride of his friend, and chides his ambitious longings:

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We cannot enter into the philosophy of the poem: this would lead us much further than we can now go. Festus's main fear is that Paracelsus will not seek knowledge for the sake of God or of He says,

man.

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"How can that course be safe, which from the first
Produces carelessness to human love?"

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