1864
Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build,Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work,Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when SolomonwilledArmies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk,Man, brute, reptile, fly,—alien of end and of aim,Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed,—Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name,And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved!
Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine,This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise!Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine,Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise!And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell,Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things,Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well,Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs.
And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was,Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest,Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass,Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest:For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire,When a great illumination surprises a festal night—Outlined round and round Rome's dome from space to spire)Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was insight.
In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man'sbirth,Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I;And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth,As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky:Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine,Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star;Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine,For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far.
Nay more; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow,Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast,Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow,Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last;Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body andgone,But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth theirnew:What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon;And what is,—shall I say, matched both? for I was made perfecttoo.
All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul,All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth,All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole,Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth:Had I written the same, made verse—still, effect proceeds fromcause,Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told;It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws,Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled:—
But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can,Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they are!And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man,That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star.Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is naught:It is everywhere in the world—loud, soft, and all is said:Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought:And there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head!
Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared;Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow;For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared,That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go.Never to be again! But many more of the kindAs good, nay, better perchance: is this your comfort to me?To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mindTo the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, shallbe.
Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name.Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands!What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same?Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands?There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before;The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound;What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more;On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round.
All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist;Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor powerWhose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodistWhen eternity affirms the conception of an hour.The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard,The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky,Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard;Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by and by.
And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidenceFor the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonized?Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issuethence?Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized?Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear,Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe:But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear;The rest may reason and welcome: 'tis we musicians know.
Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign:I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce.Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again,Sliding by semitones till I sink to the minor,—yes,And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground,Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep;Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found,The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep.
In the autumn following his wife's death Browning wrote the poemProspice, which title meansLook Forward! This is the most original poem on death in English Literature. It shows that Browning strictly and consistently followed the moral appended toThe Glove—Venienti occurrite morbo, run to meet approaching disaster!
Although the prayer-book expresses the wish that the Good Lord will deliver us from battle, murder, and sudden death, that hope was founded on the old superstition that it was more important how a man died than how he lived. If a man who had lived a righteous, sober and godly life died while playing cards or in innocent laughter, with no opportunity for the ministrations of a priest, his chances for the next world were thought to be slim. On the other hand, a damnable scoundrel on the scaffold, with the clergyman's assurances assented to, was supposed to be jerked into heaven. This view of life and death was firmly held even by so sincere and profound a thinker as Hamlet: which explains his anguish at the fate of his father killed in his sleep, and his own refusal to slay the villain Claudius at prayer.
It is probable that thousands of worshippers who now devoutly pray to be delivered from sudden death, would really prefer that exit to any other. The reason is clear enough: it is to avoid the pain of slow dissolution, the sufferings of the death-bed, and the horrible fear of the dark. Now Browning boldly asks that he may be spared nothing of all these grim terrors. True to his conception of a poet, as a man who should understand all human experiences, he hopes that he may pass conscious and aware through the wonderful experience of dying. Most sick folk become unconscious hours before death and slip over the line in total coma: Browning wants to stay awake.
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,And bade me creep past.
I want to taste it all, the physical suffering, the fear of the abyss: I want to hear the raving of the fiend-voices, to be in the very thick of the fight. He adds the splendid line,
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave.Brave hearts turn defeat into victory.
Browning died twenty-eight years after he wrote this poem, and his prayer was granted. He was conscious almost up to the last second, and fully aware of the nearness of death. Even the manner of death, as described in the first line of the poem, came to be his own experience: for he died of bronchitis.
1864
Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,The mist in my face,When the snows begin, and the blasts denoteI am nearing the place,The power of the night, the press of the storm,The post of the foe;Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,Yet the strong man must go:For the journey is done and the summit attained,And the barriers fall,Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,The reward of it all.I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,The best and the last!I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,And bade me creep past.No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peersThe heroes of old,Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrearsOf pain, darkness and cold.For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,The black minute's at end,And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,Shall dwindle, shall blend,Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,Then a light, then thy breast,O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,And with God be the rest!
One can hardly repress a smile at Browning's thorough-going optimism, when he reads the poem,Apparent Failure, and then glances back at the title.Apparentfailure! Of all the defeated sons of earth, the nameless suicides whose wretched bodies are taken to the public morgue, ought surely, we should imagine, to be classed as absolute failures. But Browning does not think so. It is possible, he says, that the reason why these poor outcasts abandoned life, was because their aspirations were so tremendously high that dull reality overpowered their spirits. Goodness is better than badness: meekness better than ferocity: calm sense than mad ravings. But, after all, these poor fellows were God's creatures. His sun will eventually pierce the darkest cloud earth can stretch. Somewhere, after many ages in the next life, these men will develop into something better under the sunshine of the smile of God.
1864
"We shall soon lose a celebrated building."Paris Newspaper.
No, for I'll save it! Seven years since,I passed through Paris, stopped a dayTo see the baptism of your Prince;Saw, made my bow, and went my way:Walking the heat and headache off,I took the Seine-side, you surmise,Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff,Cavour's appeal and Buol's replies,So sauntered till—what met my eyes?
Only the Doric little Morgue!The dead-house where you show your drowned:Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue,Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned.One pays one's debt in such a case;I plucked up heart and entered,—stalked,Keeping a tolerable faceCompared with some whose cheeks were chalked:Let them! No Briton's to be baulked!
First came the silent gazers; next,A screen of glass, we're thankful for;Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text,The three men who did most abhorTheir life in Paris yesterday,So killed themselves: and now, enthronedEach on his copper couch, they layFronting me, waiting to be owned.I thought, and think, their sin's atoned.
Poor men, God made, and all for that!The reverence struck me; o'er each headReligiously was hung its hat,Each coat dripped by the owner's bed,Sacred from touch: each had his berth,His bounds, his proper place of rest,Who last night tenanted on earthSome arch, where twelve such slept abreast,—Unless the plain asphalte seemed best.
How did it happen, my poor boy?You wanted to be BuonaparteAnd have the Tuileries for toy,And could not, so it broke your heart?You, old one by his side, I judge,Were, red as blood, a socialist,A leveller! Does the Empire grudgeYou've gained what no Republic missed?Be quiet, and unclench your fist!
And this—why, he was red in vain,Or black,—poor fellow that is blue!What fancy was it turned your brain?Oh, women were the prize for you!Money gets women, cards and diceGet money, and ill-luck gets justThe copper couch and one clear niceCool squirt of water o'er your bust,The right thing to extinguish lust!
It's wiser being good than bad;It's safer being meek than fierce:It's fitter being sane than mad.My own hope is, a sun will pierceThe thickest cloud earth ever stretched;That, after Last, returns the First,Though a wide compass round be fetched;That what began best, can't end worst,Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst.
The poemRephan, the title of which was taken from the Book of Acts, has the same pleasant teaching we find in the play by Ludwig Fulda, calledSchlaraffenland, published in 1899. In this drama, a boy, ragged, cold, and chronically hungry, falls asleep in a miserable room, and dreams that he is in a country of unalloyed delight. Broiled chickens fly slowly by, easy to clutch and devour: expensive wardrobes await his immediate pleasure, and every conceivable wish is instantly and completely fulfilled. For a short time the boy is in ecstasies of joy: then the absence of effort, of counterbalancing privation, begins to make his heart dull: finally the paradise becomes so intolerable that he wakes with a scream—wakes in a dark, cold room, wakes in rags with his belly empty: and wakes in rapture at finding the good old earth of struggle and toil around him.
Contentment is stagnation: development is happiness. The mystery of life, its uncertainty, its joys paid for by effort, these make human existence worth while.
Browning delights to prove that the popular longing for static happiness would result in misery: that the sharp sides of life sting us into the real joy of living. He loves to take popular proverbs, which sum up the unconscious pessimism of humanity, and then show how false they are to fact. For example, we hear every day the expression, "No rose without a thorn," and we know very well what is meant. InThe Ring and the Book, Browning says:
So a thorn comes to the aid of and completes the rose.
1889
How I lived, ere my human life beganIn this world of yours,—like you, made man,—When my home was the Star of my God Rephan?
Come then around me, close about,World-weary earth-born ones! Darkest doubtOr deepest despondency keeps you out?
Nowise! Before a word I speak,Let my circle embrace your worn, your weak,Brow-furrowed old age, youth's hollow cheek—
Diseased in the body, sick in soul,Pinched poverty, satiate wealth,—your wholeArray of despairs! Have I read the roll?
All here? Attend, perpend! O StarOf my God Rephan, what wonders areIn thy brilliance fugitive, faint and far!
Far from me, native to thy realm,Who shared its perfections which o'erwhelmMind to conceive. Let drift the helm,
Let drive the sail, dare unconfinedEmbark for the vastitude, O Mind,Of an absolute bliss! Leave earth behind!
Here, by extremes, at a mean you guess:There, all's at most—not more, not less:Nowhere deficiency nor excess.
No want—whatever should be, is now:No growth—that's change, and change comes—howTo royalty born with crown on brow?
Nothing begins—so needs to end:Where fell it short at first? ExtendOnly the same, no change can mend!
I use your language: mine—no wordOf its wealth would help who spoke, who heard,To a gleam of intelligence. None preferred,
None felt distaste when better and worseWere uncontrastable: bless or curseWhat—in that uniform universe?
Can your world's phrase, your sense of thingsForth-figure the Star of my God? No springs,No winters throughout its space. Time brings
No hope, no fear: as to-day, shall beTo-morrow: advance or retreat need weAt our stand-still through eternity?
All happy: needs must we so have been,Since who could be otherwise? All serene:What dark was to banish, what light to screen?
Earth's rose is a bud that's checked or growsAs beams may encourage or blasts oppose:Our lives leapt forth, each a full-orbed rose—
Each rose sole rose in a sphere that spreadAbove and below and around—rose-red:No fellowship, each for itself instead.
One better than I—would prove I lackedSomewhat: one worse were a jarring factDisturbing my faultlessly exact.
How did it come to pass there lurkedSomehow a seed of change that workedObscure in my heart till perfection irked?—
Till out of its peace at length grew strife—Hopes, fears, loves, hates,—obscurely rife,—My life grown a-tremble to turn your life?
Was it Thou, above all lights that are,Prime Potency, did Thy hand unbarThe prison-gate of Rephan my Star?
In me did such potency wake a pulseCould trouble tranquillity that lullsNot lashes inertion till throes convulse
Soul's quietude into discontent?As when the completed rose bursts, rentBy ardors till forth from its orb are sent
New petals that mar—unmake the disc—Spoil rondure: what in it ran brave risk,Changed apathy's calm to strife, bright, brisk,
Pushed simple to compound, sprang and spreadTill, fresh-formed, facetted, floretted,The flower that slept woke a star instead?
No mimic of Star Rephan! How longI stagnated there where weak and strong,The wise and the foolish, right and wrong,
Are merged alike in a neutral Best,Can I tell? No more than at whose behestThe passion arose in my passive breast,
And I yearned for no sameness but differenceIn thing and thing, that should shock my senseWith a want of worth in them all, and thence,
Startle me up, by an InfiniteDiscovered above and below me-heightAnd depth alike to attract my flight,
Repel my descent: by hate taught love.Oh, gain were indeed to see aboveSupremacy ever—to move, remove,
Not reach—aspire yet never attainTo the object aimed at! Scarce in vain—As each stage I left nor touched again.
To suffer, did pangs bring the loved one bliss,Wring knowledge from ignorance,—just for this—To add one drop to a love-abyss!
Enough: for you doubt, you hope, O men,You fear, you agonize, die: what then?Is an end to your life's work out of ken?
Have you no assurance that, earth at end,Wrong will prove right? Who made shall mendIn the higher sphere to which yearnings tend?
Why should I speak? You divine the test.When the trouble grew in my pregnant breastA voice said "So wouldst thou strive, not rest?"
"Burn and not smoulder, win by worth,Not rest content with a wealth that's dearth?Thou art past Rephan, thy place be Earth!"
Browning was an optimist with his last breath. In theProloguetoAsolando, a conventional person is supposed to be addressing the poet: he says, "Of course your old age must be sad, because you have now lost all your youthful illusions. Once you looked on the earth with rose-colored spectacles, but now you see the naked and commonplace reality of the things you used to think so radiant."
Browning's answer is significant, and the figure he uses wonderfully apt. Suppose you are going to travel in Europe: you go to the optician, and you ask for a first-rate magnifying-glass, that you may scan the ocean, and view the remote corners of cathedrals. Now imagine him saying that he has for you something far better than that: he has a lovely kaleidoscope: apply your eye to the orifice, turn a little wheel, and you will behold all sorts of pretty colored rosettes. You would be naturally indignant. "Do you take me for a child to be amused with a rattle? I don't want pretty colors: I want something that will bring the object,exactly as it is, as near to my eyes as it can possibly be brought."
Indeed, when one buys a glass for a telescope, if one has sufficient cash, one buys a glass made of crown and flint glass placed together, which destroys color, which produces what is called anachromaticlens. Now just as we judge of the value of a glass by its ability to bring things as they are within the range of our vision, so, says Browning, old age is much better than youth. In age our old eyes become achromatic. The rosy illusions of youth vanish, thank God for it! The colors which we imagined belonged to the object were in reality in our imperfect eyes—as we grow older these pretty colors disappear and we see what? We see life itself. Life is a greater and grander thing than any fool's illusion about it. The world of nature and man is infinitely more interesting and wonderful as it is than in any mistaken view of it. Therefore old age is better than youth.
1889
The Poet's age is sad: for why?In youth, the natural world could showNo common object but his eyeAt once involved with alien glow—His own soul's iris-bow.
"And now a flower is just a flower:Man, bird, beast are but beast, bird, man—Simply themselves, uncinct by dowerOf dyes which, when life's day began,Round each in glory ran."
Friend, did you need an optic glass,Which were your choice? A lens to drapeIn ruby, emerald, chrysopras,Each object—or reveal its shapeClear outlined, past escape,
The naked very thing?—so clearThat, when you had the chance to gaze,You found its inmost self appearThrough outer seeming-truth ablaze,Not falsehood's fancy-haze?
How many a year, my Asolo,Since—one step just from sea to land—I found you, loved yet feared you so—For natural objects seemed to standPalpably fire-clothed! No—
No mastery of mine o'er these!Terror with beauty, like the BushBurning but unconsumed. Bend knees,Drop eyes to earthward! Language? Tush!Silence 'tis awe decrees.
And now? The lambent flame is—where?Lost from the naked world: earth, sky,Hill, vale, tree, flower,—Italia's rareO'er-running beauty crowds the eye—But flame? The Bush is bare.
Hill, vale, tree, flower—they stand distinct,Nature to know and name. What then?A Voice spoke thence which straight unlinkedFancy from fact: see, all's in ken:Has once my eyelid winked?
No, for the purged ear apprehendsEarth's import, not the eye late dazed:The Voice said "Call my works thy friends!At Nature dost thou shrink amazed?God is it who transcends."
It is an interesting and dramatic parallel in literary history that Tennyson and Browning should each have published the last poem that appeared in his life-time in the same month of the same year, and that each farewell to the world should be so exactly characteristic of the poetic genius and spiritual temperament of the writer. In December, 1889, came from the pressDemeter and Other Poems, closing withCrossing the Bar—came alsoAsolando, closing with theEpilogue. Tennyson's lyric is exquisite in its tints of sunset, a serene close to a long and calmly beautiful day. It is the perfect tone of dignified departure, with the admonition to refrain from weeping, with the quiet assurance that all is well. Browning'sEpilogueis full of excitement and strenuous rage: there is no hint of acquiescence; it is a wild charge with drum and trumpet on the hidden foe. Firm in the faith, full of plans for the future, he looks not on the darkening night, but on to-morrow's sunrise.
He tells us not to pity him. He is angry at the thought that people on the streets of London, when they hear of his death will say, "Poor Browning! He's gone! How he loved life!" Rather he wishes that just as in this life when a friend met him in the city with a face lighted up by the pleasure of the sudden encounter, with a shout of hearty welcome—so now, when your thoughts perhaps turn to me, let it not be with sorrow or pity, but with eager recognition. I shall be striving there as I strove here: greet me with a cheer!
1889
At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,When you set your fancies free,Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, imprisoned—Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so,—Pity me?
Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!What had I on earth to doWith the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly?Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel—Being—who?
One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,Never doubted clouds would break,Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,Sleep to wake.
No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-timeGreet the unseen with a cheer!Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,—fight on, fare everThere as here!"
Abt Vogler. Addison, J., disgust for the Alps.Andrea del Sarto.Another Way of Love.Apparent Failure.Artemis Prologises.Asolando, Prologue and Epilogue. Asolo: Browning's visits to, its place in his work; last summer passed there. Austin, Alfred, compared with F. Thompson.
Bad Dreams.Bells and Pomegranates, meaning of title.Bishop Blougram's Apology.Bishop Orders His Tomb, The.Blot in the 'Scutcheon, A.Boy and the Angel, The.Browning, Elizabeth Barrett: engagement;her sonnets;described by her son;her ill health;invented name "Dramatic Lyric;"her assistance in R. Browning's poems.Browning, Robert: parentage and early life;education;visit to Russia;play-writing;first visit to Italy;marriage;travels in Italy and lives at Paris;domestic life in Florence described by Hawthorne;death;personal habits;peculiarities;piano-playing;enthusiasm;friendship with Tennyson;normality in appearance;excellence in character;his theory of poetry;his sonnets;his favorite feature the brow;fondness for yellow hair;his "rejected lovers,".Browning, Robert Barrett: death at Asolo;my conversation with.Bryant, W. C., visits Browning.Byron, Lord, lyrical power.By the Fireside.
Caliban on Setebos.Campion, T., his lyrical power compared with Donne's.
Carlyle, T.: travels to Paris with the Brownings;his smoking.Cavalier Tunes.Charles Avison."Childe Roland."Choate, J. H., his remark on old age.Christmas-Eve.Cleon.Clive.Confessions.Count Gismond.Cristina.
Death in the Desert, A.De Gustibus.Dis Aliter Visum. Donne, J.: compared with Browning; compared with Campion. Dramatic Lyric, origin of name.Dramatic Lyrics.Dramatic Romances.Dramatis Persons.
Eliot, George,Daniel Deronda and My Last Duchess.Emerson, R. W.: pie and optimism;his opinion of Tennyson'sUlysses.Epistle, An, Containing Strange Medical Experience ofKarshish.Eurydice.Evelyn Hope."Eyes Calm Beside Thee".
Face, A.Fano: seldom visited;scene of picture ofGuardian Angel.Fifine at the Fair;Epilogue to.Forster, J., his praise ofParacelsus.Fra Lippo Lippi.Fulda, L., his playSchlaraffenlandcompared withRephan.
Garden Fancies, Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis.Glove, TheGoethe, doctrine of elective affinities.Gold Hair.Grammarian's Funeral, A.Gray, T., early appreciation of mountain scenery.Guardian Angel, The,
Hallam, A. H., home in Wimpole Street.Hawthorne, N., visits Browning in Florence.Holy Cross Day.Home-Thoughts, from, Abroad.Home-Thoughts, from the Sea.How It Strikes a Contemporary."How They Brought the Good News."
Ibsen, H.: an original genius;When We Dead Awaken,A Doll's House.In a Balcony.In a Gondola.Incident of the French Camp.Ivàn Ivanovitch.
James Lee's Wife.Jocoseria, Prologue to.Johannes Agricola in Meditation.Jonson, B., his remarks on Donne.
Karshish (see Epistle, An).Keats, J.: prosody inEndymion;Bright Star;his conception of Beauty;preface toEndymion;his doctrine; of beauty.Kipling, R., allusions to Browning inStalky and Co.
Laboratory, The.Landor, W. S., his poetic tribute to Browning.Lanier, S., his criticism ofThe Ring and the Book.La Saisiag, Prologueto.Last Ride Together, The.LeMoyne, Sarah Gowell, her reading aloudMeeting at Night.Lessing, G. E., his: remark about truth.Longfellow, H. W.: a better sonneteer than either Tennysonor Browning;Paul Revere's Ridecompared with "How They Brought," etc.Lost Leader, The.Lost Mistress, The.Love Among the Ruins.Lover's Quarrel, A.Luria.
Macbeth: German translation of;pessimistic speech by.Macready, W. C., relations with Browning.Maeterlinck, M.: scene inMonna Vannataken fromLuria;his praise of Browning's poetry.
Master Hugues of Saxe-GothaMeeting at NightMen and WomenMesmerismMill, J. S., his opinion ofPaulineMulèykehMy Last DuchessMy Star
Nationality in Drinks
Old Pictures in FlorenceOmar Khayyam, his figure of the Potter compared with Browning's,One Way of LoveOne Word More
Pacchiarotto:Epilogueto,Prologueto,ParacelsusParting at Morning (see Meeting at Night)PaulinePippa PassesPope: popularity ofEssay on Man,his prosody compared with that of Keats.Porphyria's LoverPrince Hohenstiel-SchwangauProspice
Rabbi Ben EzraRephanRespectabilityReverieRing and the Book, TheRossetti, D. G.: draws picture of Tennyson;his opinion ofPauline.Rossetti, W. M., meets the Brownings and the Tennysons.Rudel to the Lady of TripoliRuskin, J., his remark onThe Bishop Orders His Tomb.
SaulSchiller, F.: his poemDer Handschuh;his poemDas Ideal und das Leben.Schopenhauer, A.: father's financial help similar to Browning's;his late-coming fame similar to Browning's,his remark on Rafael'sSt. Cecilia.Schumann, R. and Mrs., presentation to the Scandinavian king.Shakespeare, W., Browning declares him to be the supreme poet.Sharp, W., characterization ofSordello.Shelley, P. B.: his vegetarianism imitated by Browning;his lyrical power.Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis(seeGarden Fancies).Sludge (Mr. ) the Medium.Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister.Soul's Tragedy, A.Sordello.Statue and the Bust, The.Stedman (mother of the poet, E.C.), her remarks on the health ofMrs. Browning in Florence.Summum Bonum.
Tennyson, A.: reading aloud fromMaud;Browning's letter to him;a genius for adaptation;wrote to please critics;compared with Browning;his lyrical power;his lyrics compared with Browning's;wrote no good sonnets;Lotos-Eaters;Ulysses;Crossing the Bar;St. Agnes' Evecompared withJohannes Agricola;Locksley Hall;his "rejected lovers" compared with Browning's;his criticism ofThe Laboratory;Crossing the Barcompared withEpilogue to Asolando.Thackeray,Vanity Fair.Thompson, F., his poetry compared with Austin's.Time's Revenges.Toccata of Galuppi's.Transcendentalism.Twins, The.Two Poets of Croisic, theEpilogueto.Up at a Villa—Down in the City.Wagner, R.: his originality;his slow-coming fame;his operas.Which.Wister, O., criticism of Browning's poetry in his novelTheVirginian.Wordsworth, W.: served as model forThe Lost Leader;his sincere love of the country.
Youth and Art.