made the actual, is expressed in things more than in words, and in things by which words are transcended. Milton's 'L'Allegro," fine as it is, is not as fine as the scenery, the crystallized, embodied poetry, out of which it arose. All the delicious rural verse that has been written in England, is only the excess and superflux of her own poetic opulence; it has rippled from the hearts of her poets just as the fragrance floats away from her hawthorn hedges. At every step of his progress, the pilgrim through English scenes is impressed with this sovereign excellence of the accomplished fact, as contrasted with any words that can be said in its celebration.

To see

Among representative scenes that are eloquent with this instructive meaning,-scenes easily and pleasurably accessible to the traveler in what Dickens expressively called "the green, English summer weather," is the region of Windsor. The chief features of it have often been described; the charm that it exercises can only be suggested. Windsor, moreover, is to comprehend, as at a glance, the old feudal system, and to feel in a profound and special way the pomp of English character and history. More than this: it is to rise to the ennobling serenity that always accompanies broad, retrospective contemplation of the current of human affairs. In this quaint, decorous town, nestled at the base of that mighty and magnificent castle which has been the home of princes for more than five hundred years, the imaginative mind wanders over vast tracts of the past, and beholds, as in a mirror, the pageants of chivalry, the coronations of kings, the strife of sects, the battles of armies, the schemes of statesmen, the decay of transient systems, the growth of a rational civilization, and the everlasting march of thought. Every prospect of the region intensifies this sentiment of contemplative grandeur. As you look from the castle walls, your gaze takes in miles and miles of blooming country, sprinkled over with little hamlets, wherein the utmost stateliness of learning and rank is gracefully commingled with all that is lovely and soothing in rural life. Not far away rise the "antique towers" of Eton

Where grateful science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade.

It was in Windsor Castle that her Henry was born; and there he often held his court; and it is in St. George's Chapel that his ashes repose. In the dim distance stands the church of Stoke-Pogis, about which Gray used to wander,

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. You recognize now a deeper significance than ever before in the "solemn stillness" of the incomparable Elegy. The luminous twilight mood of that immortal poem-its pensive reverie and solemn passion is inherent in the scene; and you feel that it was there, and there only, that the genius of its exceptional author--austerely gentle and severely pure, and thus in perfect harmony with its sur

roundings could have been moved to that
sublime strain of inspiration and eloquence.
Near at hand, in the midst of your reveries,
the mellow organ sounds from the chapel of
St. George, where, under "fretted vault" and
over "long-drawn aisle," depend the ghostly,
moldering banners of ancient knights, as still
as the bones of the dead-and-gone monarchs
that crumble in the crypt below. In this
church are many of the old kings and nobles
of England. The handsome and elegant
Edward IV here found his grave; and near it,
is that of the accomplished Hastings, his
faithful friend, to the last and after. Here
lies the dust of the stalwart, impetuous, and
savage Henry VIII; and here, at midnight, by
the light of torches, they laid beneath the
pavement the mangled body of Charles I. As
you stand at Windsor ramparts, pondering
thus upon the storied past and the evanes-
cence of all that beauty, all that wealth e'er
gave," your eye rests dreamily on green fields
far below, through which, under tall elms,
the brimming and sparkling river flows on
without a sound, and in which a few figures,
dwarfed by distance, flit here and there, in
seeming aimless idleness; while, warned
homeward by impending sunset, the chatter-
ing birds circle and float around the lofty
towers of the castle; and delicate perfumes of
syringa and jasmine are wafted up from
dusky, unknown depths at the base of its ivied
steep. At such an hour I stood on those ram-
parts and saw the shy villages and rich mead-
ows of fertile Berkshire, all red and golden
with sunset light; and at such an hour I
stood in the lonely cloisters of St. George's
Chapel, and heard the distant organ sob, and
saw the sunlight fade up the gray walls, and
felt and knew the sanctity of silence.
and death have made this church illustrious;
but the spot itself has its own innate charm
of mystical repose.

No use of lanterns; and in one place lay
Feathers and dust to-day and yesterday.

Age

The drive from the front of Windsor Castle is through a broad and stately avenue, three miles in length, straight as an arrow and level as a standing pool; and this white highway through the green and fragrant sod is sumptuously embowered, from end to end, with double rows of magnificent elms and oaks. The Windsor avenue, like the splendid chestnut grove at Bushey Park, long famous among the pageants of rural England, has often been described. It is after leaving this that the rambler comes upon the rarer beauties of Windsor Park and Forest. From the far end of the avenue, where, in a superb position, the equestrian statue of King George III rises on its massive pedestal of natural rock, the road winds away, through shaded dell and verdant glade, past great gnarled beeches, and under boughs of elm, and yew, and oak, till its silver thread is lost in the distant woods. At intervals a branching pathway strays off to some secluded lodge, half hidden in foliagethe property of the crown, and the rustic resi

dence of a scion of the royal race. In one of these retreats dwelt poor old George III, in the days of his mental darkness; and the memory of the agonizing king seems still to cast a shadow on the mysterious and melancholy house. They show you, under glass, in one of the lodge gardens, an enormous grape-vine, owned by the queen- a vine which, from its single stalwart trunk, spreads its teeming branches, laterally, more than a hundred feet in each direction. So come use and thrift, hand in hand with romance! Many an aged oak is passed, in your progress, round which, "at still midnight," Herne the Hunter might yet take his ghostly prowl, shaking his chain "in a most hideous and dreadful manner." The wreck of the veritable Herne's Oak, it is said, was rooted out, together with other ancient and decayed trees, in the time of George III, and in somewhat too literal fulfilment of his majesty's misinterpreted command. This great park is fourteen miles in circumference, and contains nearly four thousand acres, and many of the youngest trees that adorn it are more than one hundred and fifty years old. Far in its heart you stroll by Virginia Water,— an artificial lake, but faultless in its gentle beauty, and perceive it so deep and so breezy that a full-rigged ship-of-war, with armament, can navigate its wind-swept, curling billows. This lake was made by the sanguinary Duke of Cumberland, who led the English forces at Culloden. In the dim groves that fringe its margin are many nests wherein pheasants are bred, to fall by the royal shot and to supply the royal table; these you may contemplate but not approach. At a point in your walk, sequestered and lonely, they have set up and skilfully disposed the fragments of a genuine ruined temple, brought from the remote East- relic perchance of "Tadmor's marble waste," and certainly a most solemn memorial of the morning twilight of time. Broken arch, storm-stained pillar, and shattered column are here shrouded with moss and ivy; and should you chance to see them as the evening shadows deepen and the eve

ning wind sighs mournfully in the grass, your fancy will not fail to drink in the perfect illusion that one of the stateliest structures of antiquity has slowly crumbled where now its fragments remain.

Quaint" is a descriptive epithet that has been much abused, but it may, with absolute propriety, be applied to Windsor. The devious little streets there visible, and the carved and timber-crossed buildings, often of great age, are uncommonly rich in the expressiveness of imaginative character. The emotions and the fancy, equally with the sense of necessity and the instinct of use, have exercised their influence and uttered their spirit in the shaping and adornment of the town. While it constantly feeds the eye with that pleasing irregularity of lines and forms which is so delicious and refreshing, it quite as constantly nurtures the sense of romance that ought to play so large a part in our lives, redeeming us from the tyranny of the commonplace, and intensifying all the high feelings and noble aspirations that are possible to human nature. England contains many places like Windsor; some that blend in even richer amplitude the elements of quaintness, loveliness, and magnificence. The meaning of them all is the same,-that romance, beauty, and gentleness are forever vital; that their forces are within our souls, and ready and eager to find their way into our thoughts, actions, and circumstances, and to brighten for every one of us the face of every day; that they ought neither to be relegated to the distant and the past nor kept for our books and day-dreams alone; but in a calmer and higher mood than is usual in this age of universal mediocrity, critical skepticism, and miscellaneous tumult, should be permitted to flow forth into our architecture, adornments, and customs, to hallow and preserve our antiquities, to soften our manners, to give us tranquillity, patience, and tolerance, to make our country lovable for our own hearts, and so to enable us to bequeath it, sure of love and reverence, to succeeding ages.

SOME years ago a story was related to me of

a Parisian journalist, since famous, who was taken to task by his editor-in-chief for the style of an article he had written. "Nobody writes like that," said the irate chief. "True," said the journalist, "but I write like that." Browning might have made the same response to all those critics who have found fault with this rugged and eccentric style of writing. For nobody writes like that, but Robert Browning wrote like that, and if that eccentric, intricate manner of speech was a natural one, it was useless to find fault with it. You had either to dismiss it or endeavor to understand it. A very considerable degree of culture, a considerable intellectual maturity, is required to understand it. Some even maintain that it is pure pretense and affectation to affect to understand Browning's verse, but those are usually the people that regard a Scotch ballad as superior to Beethoven, and blame you if you have a different taste.

I profess to be one of the constantly increasing number who find a profound pleasure in Browning's verse, though much of it is neccessarily rugged and eccentric.

mens of his poetry are fair samples of his genius, he certainly would have done very well to have exchanged the pen for the sword. The musical quality in the rhythm and melody you find so overwhelmingly in Swinburn, is absent from Browning. The rhythm is exasperating beyond belief, but there is a charm and a very great one, and it is my hope, in the present lecture, to show that quality.

It cannot be expressed, this charm, in one or two verses, but demonstrated by example. First, I have called Browning an intellectual poet, in contradistinction to the usual type, which is emotional. In the first place, Browning usually chooses some very intricate and sometimes abstruse

Now, it may be audacious on the part of any one to set up his judgment against that of the laureate Tennyson, who, you know, said he did not understand any of Browning. But for all that I believe if Tennyson had taken the trouble to delve more deeply into the poetry of his great rival, he would have found much to admire in him. Take up "Sordello." I confess it was exceedingly hard reading. I read it over three or four times. You know Sordello engages in an unending argument with himself as to whether to conquer greatness in the capacity of a man of action with the sword, or in the capacity of a poet and writer by his pen. He does not seem to arrive at any conclusion, and I myself think that if the speci

* A lecture given at Bay View in 1895.

psychological analysis, stirring drama.

There are those who think that if there is anything in poetry, it always floats on the surface, and can be fished up without the least effort. I don't believe that to be true. I once heard in the Ninteenth Century Club in New York a speech made by a Brahman, in response to two Christian clergymen on that subject, and I confess it was a most masterly presentation. These gentlemen said Christianity was given by Christ to all to be received and felt by all alike, universally, and there could be no secrets nor profundities of religion of a few highly developed, spiritually organized persons. The argument was exceedingly strong, one being an Episcopal minister and one a Baptist. The Brahman said: "I have many things to tell you yet, but you could not

bear them now. Is religion the one thing in this world which is not subject to growth, which is comprehended by all? It is not God who changes, but we who change, and our comprehension of him grows larger and more spiritual with each change. The great Christian faith was noble no doubt, but the highest spiritual development of religion as among the Brahmans, is far nobler; and if you have reached that stage, you are capable of comprehending the beautiful profoundness of the highest religious experiences, and I shall be happy to accept you as adepts." There was a tremendous force in the argument, and he constantly fortified himself by quoting the Scriptures.

Now, in Browning, in all the poet has written out of the profundity of personal experience, you will find things that are not read like A B C. You have got to delve in to get them, and they are sufficiently valuable to make it worth while to delve for them. Here is a man who, like Ulysses of old, has visited many countries and cities, and known the inhabitants thereof, and not only their faces but their hearts. It is his intellect which pre-eminently you admire. As I say, he has a rough, imperfect gift of song. He has not the faculty of using any voice but his own. He has the power to throw himself passionately into sympathy with his persons; to imagine their spiritual condition, and how they would feel under certain occasions; but whenever they speak, they speak Browning. With perhaps the single exception of Pompanelle, they speak as Browning writes. It is very singular, but Browning could have expressed himself with absolute clearness, as is shown by two poems, "Woman's Last Word," and How They brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.

64

I should like very much to read Fra Lippo Lippi. I don't know of anything quite so delightful. It is a bit of marvelous color painting. It is the story of the life of Fra Lippo Lippi, with which Browning of course is very familiar. He has taken the man as he really appeared at that time, and as a piece of human flesh and blood. As a painting of the human soul, it is simply unrivaled. There is a spirit of the flesh and of the world which is very strong on the one, and the spiritual aspiration on the other side. One night when the flesh has gotten the better of him, he slips out of his window and is captured, while in search of gallant adventures, by the duke's guard that go the rounds of the city at midnight. The soliloquy is an explanation and apology for himself, and it is the most masterly apology of its kind I. can imagine. I know nothing in all the range of English literature which in its own line approaches it, and I want to call your attention to what I think explains the extraordinary difficulty of grasping Browning. He has not the courage to sacrifice innumerable phrases which confuse and disturb. All art consists in rejection and selection. Now Browning has such an overvivid imagination that he sees not only the essentials, but all little things, and as a rule

he puts them down. Artistically considered, that is certainly a mistake. I have gone through dozens of his poems with that in view, and find everywhere you fail to understand him, it is not because of the idea itself, but because he has expressed it with a certain overvividness. Then, you must remember, Browning was born with a fortune. His father, an official of a bank of England, left him a comfortable competency for life, and the poet was never under the necessity of earning his living. Accordingly he put forth his books one by one, without regard for the public. It was not until the latter years of his life, about ten or fifteen years before his death, when Browning societies had been formed in Chicago and all through the West, - a fact that moved Browning very much, by the way, and in England also, all over the face of the country, that he tasted the sweets of popularity. It rejoiced his soul and made him blossom out, made his personality more human than it had been before. Something in the man that had been closed up, as it were, by that lack of understanding, gave way and blossomed out in his later years, and everybody says he was a very much more lovable man during the latter ten or fifteen years than in his prime.

If the saying that that which is obscurely expressed is obscurely thought, is true, then, undoubtedly, Browning was truly the most obscure thinker that ever expressed himself in the English language. But it does not hold good; for Browning's obscurity is not from the obscurity of the thought, but from its overfulness.

Browning has been so prolific I cannot possibly undertake to give you an account of his writings. That would take a lecture course. "Paracelsus," his first work, was published in 1835, when he was twenty-three years old. It is a long, metaphysical drama, the central thought of which is akin to that of Faust. Stedman has said of it that it is a paler, lesser Faust. The whole book seems to be but a demonstration of Browning's wonderful philosophy. In 1837 came 'Strafford,' which was not well received, in spite of the magnificent impersonation of the hero by Macready. Every one of Browning's works, as it came out, was received by the critics with a few disparaging remarks, except the very last, but when they passed out into the great civilized world, they found a public that did not hold with the critics.

Altogether the noblest work that Browning has given to the world, is "The Ring and the Book." If he had written nothing else, he might have rested sure on his laurels. For pure intellect I know nothing which quite reaches it, in any language, except Goethe's Faust. One marvels how a mind must be constituted which masters such a quantity of curious and forgotten lore as is given in this book. To my mind the story of Pompanelli and the monk are among the noblest specimens of English literature. If this magnificent book were written a little more intelli

gibly, I don't say it is unintelligible, but it is overexpressed, it could not fail to take its rank among the very greatest works of English literature. To give you a contrast, and prove to you that Browning can be musical, that he can be simple, notice that most exquisite poem called, " Woman's Last Word." As to "A Toccata of Galuppi's," I do not know anything in any language that approaches the exaltation, the height of spiritual feeling, you find in that. I do not know another poet who has risen so high in spiritual insight. Browning is, in fact, the most spiritual poet in the English language. He sees the very heaven open above him, sees the glory of the eternal open upon him, and obtains some fleeting rays, and manages to express the inexpressible. To have brought down the realm of music into the realm of language, is a wonderful thing.

It is remarkable that Browning, who was deeply versed in musical lore, who could go into an ecstasy over an old, forgotten composer and bring him out and make him live and quiver again, that this man could not write two musical lines; while Tennyson, who was absolutely tune deaf; and did not know "Old Hundred" from "The Girl I left Behind Me," wrote the most exquisitely musical verse. It is a very wonderful thing, but it is a fact. In the "Toccata of Galuppi's," Browning pretends to get a poor, wandering, Italian street musician, to play for him; he plays this toccata, which brings back the Venice of the middle ages, that Titian caught in his pictures of those marvelous women,- all that magnificence and that merely sensuous life. Remember the words "sensuous life are expressed in this thin strain of the toccata. The toccata is a musical composition that does not, like the sonata, sound the depths of sentiment and feeling. It is a light theme that plays upon the surface of men and sentiment. There is a high imaginativeness in that poem that simply is unsurpassed. I can't say how these things affect me, because when I read them, I seem to see all the ages rise before me like the countries on a map, and I seem to see all that sensuous Venice, where the women were as we see them in Titian's Venice.

I am of the opinion that every great poet must assume a definite attitude toward life. In Shelley, for instance, we find an entirely restless aspiration and a headlong disregard of all the conditions to which human life is subject. In Tennyson, on the other hand, we find a confidence in law as the direct agency of reform, constantly emphasized.

Browning was absolutely contrary. If Tennyson emphasizes self-sacrifice, Browning perpetually emphasizes the obligation to self. He has but slight favor for the law of development. On the other hand, passion as the expression of a personality, has to him a certain sanctity. He would regard it as a great sacrilege to sacrifice a great and noble passion to a pusillanimous sense of duty, while Tennyson would regard it a desecration of self to

sus

yield to it. To the young poet in "Paracelit is not because of the fact that he has yielded to passion, but that he has failed to open that flood-tide of feeling, that he is perpetually doomed- because he failed to grasp the great opportunity of life, because for worldly reasons he suppressed the strong passion flames, and is doomed to a whole life of utterly humdrum respectability. That is Browning's punishment- -a long life of utterly humdrum respectability, without any moments of ecstatic bliss.

Browning had the courage to live his own life without reference to anything other people said. He was fortunately so situated that he could pursue his life-work without going to the right or left, and make those volumes which certainly will remain among the most precious heritages that any poet has left to the present century. Browning was not like Shelley in the hope of grasping absolute truth, or of advancing humanity to the condition of perfection. He would have regarded it as a misfortune if it had been possible. One has said: "If God held in his right hand truth absolute, and in his left hand the restless desire for truth, and should say to me, 'Choose,' I should humbly bow to his left hand, saying, 'Father give me this.'" Now this was undoubtedly Browning's doctrine. Pure truth for God alone. God alone is perfection. The condition of man is imperfection perpetually striving toward perfection. God raises man by continual aspiration and growth throughout the ages. That is the philosophy of Browning. Therefore we shall strive perpetually to rise to the position and loftiest condition of the perfect truth. The fact, you know, that we are aspiring, is always evidence that we are alive.

man.

In restless activity a man proves that he is a But what stimulates a man to activity except the desire for something which he does not possess? As long as you have that Promethean fire within you which perpetually drives you on to something better than what you have, that makes you feel the dissatisfaction toward earthly alloy in pure spiritual gold, your soul through life will grow, and I am perfectly sure you need not trouble yourself greatly about your spiritual welfare. Because, I say, you have that perpetual dissatisfaction and aspiration for nobler things, because your tendency is upward rather than downward. And as long as you are engaged in this upward, perpetual climb toward the unattainable, or the attainable, whatever you choose to call it, as long as you have that, it seems to me you have some of the divine nature in you which can never be completely quenched.

I am aware, of course, that I have left out much of Browning that was in me to tell you, but I have endeavored to give you my own interpretation of him. If you find this sufficient to lead you to an appreciation of Browning's poetry, to the precious spoils of the ages, then I am confident I shall have added fresh and rich treasures to your lives.