interview, down to the splendid climax where, in obedience to the Duchess's direction to Valence how he should reveal his love to the lady she so little suspects to be herself, he kneels,-every heart evidently feeling each word as an electric touch, and all giving vent at last to their emotion in round after round of hearty applause. Indeed, during the entire performance I took occasion, at passages that might have been thought by some readers abstruse, to look around and see if I could discover a flickering intelligence in any face, but was convinced that the whole was thoroughly comprehended and felt by the entire audience. Undoubtedly this was due, to a great extent, to the genuine ability of the leading artists and the care with which they had studied the drama. Indeed the performance of Colombe by Miss Davenport was an excellent analysis of the play. In the line I have italicised The D... Your first love, doubtless! Well, what's gone from me? her voice sank to the tone of plaintive bewilderment, it being spoken to Let 2. FRESH ENTRIES OF CRITICISMS, ETC. 1833. Literary Gazette,' March 23, p. 183, col. 2. A four-line depreciatory notice of Pauline. 1833. [Allan Cunningham in the] 'Athenæum,' April 6, p. 216, col. 2, 3 reviews Pauline. There is not a little true poetry in this very little book, here and there we have a touch of the mysterious, which we cannot admire; and now and then a want of melody, which we can forgive; with perhaps more abruptness than is necessary: all that, however, is as a grain of sand in a cup of pure water, compared to the nature, passion, and fancy of the poem. We open the book at random; but fine things abound: there is no difficulty in finding passages to vindicate our praise [quotes "Autumn has come" to "the verse being as the mood it paints," Works, 68, i. 11-12]. Description and sentiment are everywhere beautifully mingled [quotes "Night, and one single ridge" to "joins its parent-river with a shout," b. p. 29-31; including the longer of the two passages cited by Mr. Gosse in Scribner's Century,' Dec. 1881, p. 193]. The poem is dated Richmond, Oct. 22, 1832; it bears no name, and carries the stamp of no poet with whose works we are intimate. We hope the author's next strains will be more cheerful, and as original as these: the day is past, we fear, for either fee or fame in the service of the muse; but to one who sings so naturally, poetry must be as easy as music is to a bird, and no doubt it has a solace all its own. 1833. Tait's Edinburgh Magazine,' No. 17, August, p. 668. "Besides the above poems, which are of recent publication, we have Pauline, a Fragment of a Confession; a piece of pure bewilderment." And this line of silly carelessness lost us John Stuart Mill's review of the poem ! 1835. Athenæum,' Aug. 2, p. 640, col. 2. A ten-line notice of Paracelsus. "There is talent in this dramatic poem, (in which is attempted a picture of the mind of this celebrated character,) but it is dreamy and obscure." 1837. Literary Gazette,' May 6, p. 283-4 rev. Strafford. The poem of Paracelsus presented so many high poetical beauties, as to give its young author a strong hold upon the public attention, and teach it to expect much from any future production of his pen. He has now appeared in the more difficult and arduous character of a tragic dramatist; and so successfully, that we may truly say he has not disappointed the hopes his first work led us to entertain. There is much vigour in Strafford, and much genuine poetry, though Mr. Br. has rather sought to accomplish his aim by the impulses given to his dramatis persona, than by endowing them with the beauties of style and diction . . . . the play is more one of rapid events than of studied poetical embellishment. The only part that seems to admit of the latter, is an imaginary one of Lucy Percy, whom the author has painted as devoted in love to the ill-fated Strafford. The dialogue is very abrupt and interrupted-the sentences broken and exclamatory, to a degree that often affects the sense. This was felt even more upon the stage than it is in the closet; and, as an acting play, the interest fails after the third act, when Strafford is overthrown. The fourth, in which he does not appear, lingers amid the plot for his destruction, and the vacillation of the King; and, though his prison scene is touching and sad, it insufficiently revives our sympathies for the prototype of royal martyrdom. Charles himself is drawn more weak and treacherous than even adverse history represents him ; and only Pym, among the rest, stands out prominently and consistently on the canvas.... Hampden, Savile, Rudyard, &c., are ciphers; and the Queen has not much either to say or do. Where Strafford is not, there is nothing to care for; and where he is, is turmoil from the beginning.. 1842. Charles Dickens on The Blot in the 'Scutcheon. This was the date, too, of Mr. Browning's tragedy of the Blot on the 'Scutcheon, which I took upon myself, after reading it in the manuscript, privately to impart to Dickens, and I was not mistaken in the belief that it would profoundly touch him. Browning's play,' he wrote (25th of November), has thrown me into a perfect passion of sorrow. To say that there is anything in its subject save what is lovely, true, deeply affecting, full of the best emotion, the most earnest feeling, and the most true and tender source of interest, is to say that there is no light in the sun, and no heat in blood. It is full of genius, natural and great thoughts, profound and yet simple, and yet beautiful in its vigour. I know nothing that is so affecting, nothing in any book I have ever 'read, as Mildred's recurrence to that "I was so young-I had no mother." 6 [I was so young-I loved him so I had No mother-God forgot me-and I fell,] 'I know no love like it, no passion like it, no moulding of a splendid thing 'after its conception, like it. And I swear it is a tragedy that MUST be played and must be played, moreover, by Macready. There are some things that I would have changed if I could (they are very slight, mostly broken lines); and I assuredly would have the old servant begin his tale upon the scene; and be taken by the throat, or drawn upon, by his master, in its commencement. But the tragedy I never shall forget, or less vividly remember 'than I do now. And if you tell Browning that I have seen it, tell him that 'I believe from my soul there is no man living (and not many dead) who could 'produce such a work.1-Macready likes the altered prologue very much.' . . Forster's 'Life of Dickens,' vol. ii. (1873), p. 24-5. 1843. Gentleman's Magazine,' August, p. 168-9, reviews Bells and Pomegranates, Nos. I-IV. Of Mr. Browning's poetical powers and philosophical knowledge of the mind of man, we have a very high opinion, and on some of the eloquent and powerful passages in his former productions we have been delighted to dwell. His Paracelsus was a noble monster(!); but as regards the present work. we take it that Mr. Browning in poetry, as Mr. Turner in the sister art of painting, being self-delighted with the exercise of his acknowledged powers, writes for his own gratification and to his own will, without much regard to the approbation or applause of his readers. His mind is full of imagery, and all fancies quaint and noble; a copious flow of language is at his command; he is master of the passions that sway the human heart: and thus conscious of his powers, he mounts his steed, turns the magic peg in its ear, and instantly shoots aloft, and goes careering along in the high regions of the empyrean, hardly visible to ordinary mortals. Of his four numbers we like best his first, Pippa Passes. The scene between the wife Olivia [Ottima] and her paramour Sibald [Sebald].. is very poetically drawn; and so is the sketch of the Poor Girls who sit on the steps near the Duomo of S. Maria. . . . The dramatic lyrics are very clever in parts; but the following is perfect as a whole, as an excellent companion to the best of the spirited old political ballads and garlands, Cavalier Tunes.-I. Marching Along [all quoted]. The Cloister [Spanish] is the next best, in our belief, but we have not room to extract it. (Mr. W. G. Stone gives me the reference.) ... 1845. The Theologian: a Chronicle of Ancient and Modern Divinity, and Universal Christian Literature,' London, Ollivier, no. 6, vol. ii. p. 276-282. Review of Paracelsus, p. 278. Browning's Paracelsus is indeed one of the most remarkable, one of the most poetically beautiful works, that has been added for many years to our stores of national literature. A profundity of thought is displayed in it, almost unrivalled in the poetic creations of our countrymen ; whilst the imaginativeness, the picturesque fancy of the illustrative comparisons, the tenderness of loving depth of soul developed in the characters of the drama, form a whole that must at once challenge high admiration for its grandeur and nobility, and heartfelt sympathy with its gentler beauties. p. 279. The poetry in which the drama is embodied is of the very highest order worthy indeed of its author, for whom we scruple not to challenge admiration and acknowledgement, as the first poet of the day. Let us give some proofs of the truth of the allegation. Thus beautifully speaks Browning, in the poem of Paracelsus, of the influence of man's birth on creation. "Man once descried, imprints for ever His presence on all lifeless things .. (V. 720-739.) p. 280. Or again, for a description of night verging towards morning, is it possible to surpass this? . . . . p. 281. Still, the highest merit of this poem remains almost untouched on. These will be found chiefly in that dramatic verisimilitude, that entering into the very heart and soul of man, which is Browning's special prerogative; that "He [Dickens] is a strong admirer of Tennyson and Browning; we have heard him declare that he would rather have written the Blot in the 'Scutcheon than any work of modern times."-T. Powell, Living Authors,' 1849, p. 175. "All the incidents-as in The Blot on the 'Scutcheon, one of the most perfectly conceived and perfectly executed tragedies in the language - are grouped around the supreme crisis out of which they spring, and to which they are organically related. The tragedy may cover a life-time; but the one moment big with fate burns like a baneful star in the centre." 1865. Jno. Skelton. Campaigner at Home,' p. 277. portraying of separate individualities which it is almost impossible to confound or miscomprehend... It is more particularly in the portraiture of gentle hearts and noble deeds that Browning excels . . . (p. 282). Paracelsus is a great poem, one that requires long and careful study for a full appreciation, but which contains many beauties that will strike the reader at the first glance. It is truly important.. it confirms us in that belief. . which Paracelsus here expresses, and which may be said to convey the very essence of Christianity, as establishing the superiority of spirit over mind,— "Love, hope, fear, faith,-these make humanity!” Intellect is subordinate to Conscience. 1845 (?). Landor on R. Browning.' "I have written to Browning, a great poet, a very great poet indeed, as the world will have to agree with us in thinking. I am now deep in the Soul's Tragedy. The sudden close of Luria is very grand; but preceding it, I fear there is rather too much of argumentation and reflection. It is continued too long after the Moor has taken poison. I may be wrong; but if it is so, you will see it and tell him. God grant that he may live to be much greater than he is, high as he stands above most of the living: latis humeris et toto vertice. But now to the Soul's Tragedy, &c. Adieu till we meet at this very table." 1846. Easter. W. S. Landor to R. B. on his dedication of Luria and the Soul's Tragedy to L. (From S. Colvin's Landor,' 1881, p. 188. 'Accept my thanks for the richest of Easter offerings made to any one for many years. I staid at home last evening on purpose to read Luria, and if I lost my good music (as I certainly did) I was well compensated in kind. To-day I intend to devote the rainy hours entirely to The Soul's Tragedy. I wonder whether I shall find it as excellent as Luria. You have conferred too high a distinction on me in your graceful inscription. I am more of a dramatist in prose than in poetry. Go on and pass us poor devils! If you do not go far ahead of me, will crack my whip at you and make you spring forward. So, to use a phrase of Queen Elizabeth, "Yours as you demean yourself, "W. LANDOR." 1848. J. Russell Lowell on Browning's Humour. 'His humour is as genuine as that of Carlyle, and if his laugh have not the "earthquake" character with which Emerson has so happily labelled the shaggy merriment of that Jean Paul Burns, yet it is always sincere and hearty, and there is a tone of meaning in it which always sets us thinking. Had we room, we should be glad to give our readers a full analysis of his Soul's Tragedy, which abounds in the truest humor, flitting from point to point with all the electric sparkle and condensed energy of wit." 1848.. North American Review,' April, vol. 66, p. 394. p. 395: We copy one specimen of Mr. Browning's more formal, and so to speak, Scholastic humor, Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis. (p. 397). We are confident that our readers will sympathize with us in the joy we feel, that one of those old bores in Quarto, whose oppressions we have all suffered in our several degrees, has met with an adequate retribution.' 1850. Massachusetts Quarterly Review,' No. XI. June, 1850. Art. IV. "Brown 6 ing's Poems." 1. Poems. In Two Vols. Boston: Ticknor, Reed, and Fields. 1850. 2. Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day. London. 1850. . . 'If we have nearly made up our mind that a metaphysical faculty, both keen and profound, is the writer's gift, we suspend our judgment when he gives us some of the most subtle developments of human character and motive that exist since Shakspeare. Lest we should decide in favor of this great trait of genius, he hurries us into the domain of nature, charms us by description at once delicate and sublime, brings the fleeting graces of earth and sky to match his thoughts, gives animals an individuality, from the quick jerboa, "none such as he for a wonder," to the lion, thinking of his desert, with "the hope in those eyes wide and steady :' there is not a dead or living thing with which the poet has not the healthiest sympathy. He brings them all out, the shy birds, the dumb flowers, and encourages them to show their best side to us. We yield our admiration to his pictures of still life, and are on the point of calling him the artist of nature, when he gives his tube another turn. Were it not for the genial relations 66 which all his gifts bear to each other, we should say that another poet was demonstrating before us, with the power of vivid relation, the dramatic rendering of imaginary scenes into life and wonderful movement, with inevitable word-painting, with coloring and grouping that cheapen in our estimation the best pictures we can remember. Then he tosses us a lyric, with the rich golden cry" of the trumpet, such as Marching Along, Incident of the French Camp, The Lost Leader. Then his clear voice rolls out the sly humor of The Pied Piper of Hamelin, and one of the Garden Fancies. Then he breaks into a fierce scorn with The Confessional; recovers and consoles himself with (p. 348) the singing of The Boy and the Angel, and those two exquisite pieces, at once song and picture, Meeting at Night, and Parting at Morning. . . then he sings songs. Suddenly he grows very serious as he calls up the scenes of Luria to pass before you. As you become elevated and strengthened, he bids you look again; film after film passes over the magical mirror, each film a character or a life: the pure pathos of Mildred's lapse in The Blot in the 'Scutcheon. the naïve and sweet prayerfulness of Pippa, God's unconscious singer the endurance, the love of right, of Valence, rewarded by a doubling of all these in Colombe the great lesson of the impulsive, ruined Paracelsus his heart broken by its last throb, suggesting too late that Love should precede Power, that love itself was knowledge . . . the line will stretch out to the crack of doom... (p. 349) The characters are as substantial and probable as the landscapes; they are reproduced with all the vividness of thought and feeling belonging to a history. (p. 350) You long to know more about them, for their imagined acts and situations have won you completely, enlisting heart and soul in their behalf. The story related may be simple enough, but it is transfused with the life's blood of the actors. as in real life you are conscious of their reserved power and character. Chance touches reveal to you a world of feeling or passion, and a couple of lines gives you a lustrum of their lives... (p. 355) We do not find the condensed energy and meaning of Mr. Br. an objectionable trait. "Hamlet" has to be studied a little, and we remember that Beethoven's symphonies do not possess us till we have heard each half a dozen times. Mr. B. seems to take his poems, after writing them, and crush them at both ends, till he gets the well-knit symmetry and consistency of a Bedouin . . . (p. 358) Paracelsus on his death-bed gives us nearly 11 pages of a discussion upon the nature of man, and the need of establishing knowledge upon love. The thoughts are so grand, the fancy is so rich and illustrative, the whole mood is so sublime, that we forget the dying man upon his pallet, and the listening friend, completely rapt and charmed away from all ideas of unity into regions of still meditation. Thought urged with eloquence holds us enthralled; noble and finished figures surprise and stimulate us. . . We remember the ascetic loftiness of Milton's metaphysics, only to feel thein at last depreciated, for they are the mere discursus of a theologian compared with the domestic thoughts and the tender human religion in Paracelsus. At least, we have a body of divinity clad in the glowing robes of the epic, speaking with the clear bright voices of the lyric. . . let us enjoy some of these lines together... (p. 360) The dying Paracelsus ignores dramatic proprieties, to talk with us concerning God; to lend to dumb, wistful nature, waiting for man's recognition, the hues of his great human spirit, brightening towards the close to fill us with faith and brotherly love. This is the loftiest effort of Mr. Browning's genius; he resigns part of his manifoldness, the fresh earthy humour, the subtle irony, for a great recompense in solemn conceptions of the nature of God. Solemn, yet cheerful, mingling with his vital fancy, like thoughts of death long past, with the sunshine lying aslant the placid hearth. No man can read without acknowledging that here poetry fulfils her highest object. She takes of the things of God, and shows them unto men (p. 384) Nothing of late has so lifted the veil behind our customary routine and feeling, letting in upon them ripples of glory from the sphere of perfect beauty, as the latter half of Easter Eve, with its presageful lines, its credible anticipations, its cosraic thought. We forbear to mar the sustained and solemn grace of the poem by quotations of that which every man must buy and read (p. 385). Is it too much to say that, with this pen for his sceptre, Mr. Br. can exact the |