the scope of his inquiries so enlarged its most baleful effect, if enacted into that he would have been compelled to take into consideration every class of laborers in the country, and might, perhaps, have received new impressions as to the unity of Labor's demands and Labor's interests. He would certainly have found that the reduction of the tariff, which he recommended, strikes Labor a far more severe blow than it inflicts upon Capital, and that in the end James law, would be in giving Capital an exasperating control of Labor-a result already attained where Free Trade is complete. It is not asserted that the President consciously designed or anticipated this result, but the voters of the country must hold him responsible for the obvious effects of his official recommendation. They have neither time nor inclination to question motives. G. Braine مجھے Н REFLECTED. YOUR heart is like a beautiful smooth pool, That mirrors clear whatever bends above- My grief lies in your heart as in my own, Why is it, then, that I am not content? What do I long for? Is there more than this- And yet, sometimes, I grow to hate the thing Bessie Chandler. SOME SANE WORDS ABOUT BROWNING. BY EMILY SHAW FORMAN. 10 clearly comprehend the work of any artist, whether painter, poet or musician, we must first put ourselves in sympathy with his motive or intention; and, if we would judge him fairly, make this the measure of his success. Nothing short of this attains to the dignity of criticism, though much that is wholly unworthy, lacking this essential, goes by that name. Perhaps Robert Browning has suffered more than most artists from the hands of shallow and superficial critics, because in motive and method he has departed from well-worn and obvious paths, and struck out a new way for himself. Nothing is more common than to hear him depreciated because he is not Tennyson, or decried because some of his admirers, led by brave, scholarly Landor, have dared to utter his name in nearness to Shakespeare's. For the last three or four years the magazines and papers, both in England and America, have been flooded with silly talk and cheap wit about the "Browning Craze." It is doubtful whether any such thing has existed except on paper. The phrase may have originated in the empty brain of some "funny man" of the newspapers, who, seeing it stated that a society had been formed in London for the study of Browning, and, having never heard of Browning, concluded that the members must be crazy. The phrase was taking and catchy, and, once started, it has led a lively career; but the thing for which it stands is as hard to find as a genuine case of hydrophobia. It is true that there are in England and America many societies and clubs giving time and serious study to the works of Robert Browning; these include eminent scholars, well-known artists, learned professors and eager students; but there are similar societies and clubs for the study of Shakespeare, Shelley, Goethe and Dante. Why should one be styled a craze and not the others? Partly, perhaps, because the age has a greater reverence for the dead than for the living; and partly, no doubt, because the public is so ignorant of Browning's poetry and his purpose. It is so easy to ridicule that of which we know nothing! It is not at all strange that the general public should be ignorant of a poet who demands so much. Browning has not written lightly, and is not to be lightly read. Into his work he has put the varied learning of a ripe scholar, the solid thought of a profound thinker, the vivid imagination of a great poet, and has infused it all with the vitality of a remarkably vigorous nature. We are bound to give him in return careful study, an unprejudiced mind, and, as far as possible, a sympathetic comprehension. We have an excellent example of the opposite treatment in an article entitled "The Browning Craze," which has recently appeared in magazine literature. The writer, who has acquired some reputation as the author of sketches of New York fashionable society, and who, in pursuit of this absorbing branch of literature, has, I think, not found time to do more than skim the surface of Browning's books, seems to take it for granted that this method is quite sufficient, and all that the poet deserves. He quite ignores all earnest students of Browning, styles his admirers "inflammable zealots" and "loyal maniacs," and intimates that the admiration is chiefly a pretence and the result of anglomania or snobbishness. He is much mixed at "the placing of Mr. Browning above Lord Tennyson," and cannot understand how any artist should hesitate to decide that "In Memoriam" and "The Princess," those "two inestimable marvels," must be retained even at the cost of all that Browning has written. He speaks of "the craze which Browning has succeeded in raising," as if that had been the 19 66 99 66 voice that changed the whole purpose of Pictor Ignotus;" some unconscious influence that determines a destiny, as the look of Pompilia, which lifted Caponsacchi to the level of her, and the "passing by" of the trustful, singing little Pippa. Sometimes it is a crucial test, like the agony of the girl in "The Confessional," or that of the Russian mother in "Ivan Ivanovitch," or of the 66 effort of Browning's life, and Browning himself were wholly responsible for it. In his despair over the hopelessness of the situation, he regrets that Browning was not born in France, as in that case he would have been taught "healthy, rigid, uncompromising lessons in style." After hurling many remarkable epithets at the English poet, such as "conscious trickster, eccentric attitudinizing," ""deliberated oddity," "rank affectation," art- unhappy Martin Relph." Sometimes istic laziness," "insufferable vanity" and it is an exalted experience, as that of "the frivolity inseparable from his tem- the risen Lazarus, or of the Duchess perament," he calls him a "poseur." The in "The Flight," when she meets the French word flies airily forth from that Gypsy Queen and "drinks life" from dainty hand that flings it, but rebounds the eyes of the crone. But whether it with a droll effect from the sturdy, sin- happen on the heights or in the depths, cere English poet, who has the misfortune this crisis, this turning point in a soul's not to have been born in France. Why progress, this "poseur"? Why not, in plain English, poser? That would express quite clearly the attitude of the poet to his critic. The article is very amusing, but so far as it exerts any influence, uttterly misleading. May not a sincere word be said for Robert Browning? What, then, is his motive or intention ? He stated it himself, with serious frankness, as long ago as when he dedicated "Sordello" to his friend, M. Milsaud, saying: "My stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul; little else is worth study. I, at least, always thought so,you, with many known and unknown to me, think so,-others may one day think so." This is the key to all his work. He does not propose to build up ideal character, to carve a complete and rounded life, to paint lovely landscapes or sing melodious songs; he "works in fresco;" he "blows through bronze." His thought centres upon some "incident in the development of a soul;" some "rebuff," it may be, "that turns earth's smoothness rough;" some sting that bids not sit nor stand, but go!" some instant that flashes the truth out as by a lightning-stroke; some moment of revelation, 66 "When the spirit's true endowments Stand out plainly from its false ones, And apprise it if pursuing Or the right way or the wrong one;" some voice that sways and controls the deep under-currents of life, as the sordid "Moment one and infinite, When a soul declares itself—to wit, this it is that centralizes all the best In Browning's Essay on Shelley, a choice bit of writing, interesting both as the only piece of solid prose from his pen that has yet been put into print, and, still more, as his statement of the work of the subjective poet, he says: "The objective poet is one whose endeavor has been to reproduce things external (whether the phenomena of the scenic universe, or the manifested action of the human heart and brain) with an immediate reference, in every case, to the common eye and apprehension of his fellow-men, assumed capable of receiving and profiting by this reproduction. It has been obtained through the poet's double faculty of seeing external objects more clearly, widely and deeply, than is possible to the average mind, at the same time that he is so acquainted and in sympathy with its narrow comprehension, as to be careful to supply it with no other materials than it can combine into an intelligible whole. Such a poet is properly the poietes, the fashioner; and the thing fashioned, his poetry, will of necessity be substantive, projected from himself and distinct. "Gifted, like the objective poet, with the fuller perception of nature and man, the subjective poet is impelled to embody the thing he perceives, not so much with re ference to the many below as to the One above him, the Supreme Intelligence, which apprehends all things in their absolute truth-an ultimate view ever as pired to, if but partially attained, by the poet's own soul. Not what man sees, but what God sees-the Ideas of Plato, seeds of creation lying burningly on the Divine Hand-it is toward these that he struggles. Not with the combination of humanity in action, but with the personal elements of humanity he has to do; and he digs where he stands-preferring to seek them in his own soul as the nearest reflex of that absolute Mind, according to the intuitions of which he desires to perceive and speak. Such a poet does not habitually deal with the picturesque groupings and tempestuous twinings of the forest-trees, but with their roots and fibres naked to the chalk and stone. He does not paint pictures and hang them on the walls, but rather carries them on the retina of his own eyes. We must look deep into his human eyes, to see those pictures on them. He is rather a seer, accordingly, than a fashioner, and what he produces will be less a work than an effluence." This statement of the work of the subjective poet, although referring immediately to Shelley, is certainly broad enough to be applied to all poets of the subjective school, and, therefore, to Browning himself, who is, without question, essentially a subjective poet. Vividly as he can depict, and has depicted, the external and visible, this finds its chief value as a type or revelation of the inmost and invisible. The landscape interests him as a reflection or suggestion of the varying moods of mind and heart. Art is valuable to him as the result of the highest striving of the artist, and the effect of this endeavor upon other lives. The world is chiefly interesting to him as the environment of man. Life, the human soul and the relation of these to God are his constant theme, his absorbing problem, his profound study. So he looks not at the surface but at the centre of things; he seeks not effect but cause; he holds up for our consideration not a pictured ideal but a living reality. He deals with human beingstheir motives, purposes and cross pur poses; their strength and weakness, fail- marred Who set it-his praise be my reward!" More than half the misapprehension of Browning comes from ignorance or forgetfulness of his purpose and method. No objection is more frequently offered than this: "Poetry should deal only with beautiful and inspiring themes; why does Browning choose the ugly and repulsive? These are out of the domain of poetry." Certainly not out of the domain of poetry, if we define it as a criticism or transcript of life; not out of the domain of the poet of the human soul, so long as any distorted, cramped or crippled soul exists. To see beauty in these, to breathe our breath of love upon the divine spark that smoulders within, to lift them up and restore them to their place in the divine order, is not this worthy work for the poet as well as the philanthropist? And why not psychical poetry? Can poetry reach a higher height than the noblest mood of man? Can the poet sound a deeper depth than the mystery of the embodied soul? Does not art, in all its forms, find its best attainment when it serves as an environment or reflection of humanity? As M. Taine has admirably shown in his work on English Literature, the leading literature of any period reflects the character of that period-its tastes, attainment and endeavor. Our own time is, before everything else, humanitarian. Our inventions, our institutions, our charitable associations, are all based upon the protection and progress of mankind. Our literature already shapes itself accordingly. We have not only a large accession of works purely ethical or psychological, but our novels and romances begin to deal with life analytically and subjectively. It is said that the demand for George Eliot's novels steadily increases. Also an interest springs up here, at last, in the works of George Meredith, for some years greatly admired by the best English critics;-a novelist of rare ability, who unites to a keen penetrative power of analysis, a fine gift of imagination, and a delightful good humor; a not unworthy disciple of Robert Browning, whom he resembles somewhat in manner and purpose. All great poets are in part prophets, and forerun their age. The poet of the future will sing not of arms, but of men. As Wagner has composed the music of the future, so has Browning written its poetry. A word about the form of Browning's work. Speaking of the play of "Strafford," he says: "It is a play of action in character rather than character in action." This terse, epigrammatic phrase serves not only to mark the difference between Browning's plays and plays which are written expressly for action upon the stage, but it also helps to explain why Browning gradually dropped the usual dramatic form and adopted that of the dramatic monologue, in the use of which he stands unequalled and almost alone. To vary Mr. Browning's words a little: He outgrew "The simulation of the painted scene, Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight and costume, And [took] for a nobler stage the soul itself." The dramatic monologue may almost be regarded as the resultant invention of Browning's necessity. He found the "trappings and the suits" of the legitimate drama too cumbrous for his purpose, and the ordinary soliloquy too monotonous and lifeless for his vivid imagination; so he took the soliloquy, and, infusing it with dramatic fire, produced the dramatic monologue, which blends the best elements of both. Some of these monologues are marvels of concentrated thought and feeling a life-time in a page-a five-act tragedy in a single scene; witness "Andrea del Sarto," "Fra Lippo Lippi," Count Gismond, Cristina, 66 and 'A Forgiveness." These are sublimated plays, freed from act and scene, entrance and exit, curtain and prompter. With some human soul for stage, its tones, notes, hopes, fears for "incidents," and only words for actors, the master sets the living drama before our eyes. 46 66 How they flock to do his bidding, these tried and trusty minions, one crowd but 66 It is noticeable that Browning's critics invariably attack the form rather than the thought of his work. They are never weary of harping upon his obscurity, his involved sentences, his rugged rhymes, his clashing consonants and his monotonous blank verse. John Ruskin has said an apt word in regard to the comparative value of form and thought in poetry: "The strength of poetry is in its thought, not in its form; and with great lyrists their music is always secondary and their substance of saying primary; so much so that they will even daringly and wilfully leave a syllable or two rough, or even mean, and avoid a perfect rhythm, or sweetness, rather than let the reader's mind be drawn away to lean too definitely on sound. On the other hand, the lower order of singers cast themselves primarily into their song, and are swept away with it (thinking themselves often finer folks for so losing their legs in the stream), and are in the end little concerned though there be an extremely minute dash and infusion of meaning in the jingle, so only that the words come tuneably.' It is to be said for Browning that he has not been neglectful of form. He has given us great variety of form, measure and rhythm, and a new revelation of the possibilities of rhyme. Often when the style seems uncouth, bizarre or grotesque, we find upon a close reading that this is a part of the poet's purpose and that the style is admirably adapted to the thought. Take, for example, the rugged, rolling measure of "Master Hugues," the vivid picturesqueness of "Childe Roland," and the rough, unrhymed, savage method of |