"Evelyn Hope," and drew the characters of Mildred and Guendolen Tresham and Colombe, need fear comparison with very few, at least of modern days. Yet he has usually preferred to leave this path for the steeper and more solitary one, on which he has won his fairest laurels. We cannot blame the choice to which we owe plays like "The Return of the Druses" and poems like "Caliban upon Setebos," "A Death in the Desert" and "The Experiences of Kharshish." Yet one is sometimes tempted to wish that, even at the risk of spreading a less sumptuous feast for the thoughtful and educated, he had given us (as he so well might) more that would have cheered and brightened the hours of rest of the toiling and the ignorant. We cannot forget that while "Locksley Hall" and "In Memoriam” are learnt by heart within our college walls, and "The Miller's Daughter" and "The Pictures" delight our homes, "The May Queen" and "Elaine" bring tears to the eyes of the outcasts of St. Giles's. Nay! was it not one who bore his honoured name that wrote both the "Vision of Poets" and "The Cry of the Children"?

Again, in many parts his writings are full of recondite. allusions, rarely indeed so infelicitously introduced as those which cause some of the very few flaws in the brilliant gems given to England by the wife who was more than worthy of him; but yet sufficient to limit greatly the pleasure with which many read his works. It is not a little in consequence of this characteristic that the poem of "Sordello" is so extremely difficult of comprehension. A severe critic remarked of this, that there were two intelligible lines in it; the firstWho will, may hear Sordello's story told:

and the last

Who would has heard Sordello's story told;

and that both of these were untrue. This is more witty than correct; yet I would not advise any one to commence the study of this poem, until he has become thoroughly familiar with Mr. Browning's style, and has been filled with that trustful enthusiasm, which will carry him unwearied over much that will sorely try his powers, for the sake of the rich beauties that are scattered here and there. In touching upon the charge of obscurity of conception, that is so commonly brought against Mr. Browning, there are two or three things that we ought to notice, which may do good service

to the advocate who is retained for the defence. Goethe somewhere lays down a canon that " one of the surest tests of a work of real high art, is that it strikes you with a kind of feeling of repugnance at first sight." And this naturally, because it is so different to what you would have imagined it yourself. I suppose that few have not been conscious of this, in looking for the first time at Mr. Holman Hunt's" Light of the World." It has not been till after minutes of steady thoughtful gaze, that its full beauty has begun to dawn upon the mind. Now Mr. Browning's subtle intellect rarely looks upon any scene or character from the common stand-point: the first thing then, is to place yourself in his point of view; till this is done, all appears a confused and hopeless maze, but as soon as this is successfully accomplished, you are able to look down upon it as from above, and the clue is at once discovered. Again, Mr. Browning's style of thought is often obscure, but it is the obscurity of Tacitus, which arises from the fulness and compression of the thought, and may be dispelled by frequent and careful reading, not that utterly hopeless obscurity which is caused by pompous verbiage poured forth profusely in the hope of concealing the absence of ideas. It is the obscurity of "In Memoriam," not that which occasionally diversifies the commonplaces of the Proverbial Philosophy.

Owing to xrmonstrances nomon

apprand

THE DEVIL TO PAY.

A Legend of the times of King James the First.

of this

РАКТ І.

SIR ROWLAND MACKAY

Was a citizen gay,

And he lived in the times of King James; in whose day,
I hardly need say,

At witchcraft and sorcery folks were 'au fait.'

When, attended by rats

Or ugly black cats,

Rheumatic old ladies would be such great flats

As on broomsticks to ride, at the risk of their necks,
To a spot which a dingy old party selects,
There to play up old gooseberry, good people to vex.

Sir Rowland Mackay was a regular beau,

His dress and deportment were quite comme il faut ;'
He sang well, he talked well, and then he could dance
With the best professeur that e'er came out of France.
His air so degagé, his manners so gay

So enchanted the fair,

One and all would declare

That the dearest of men, was Sir Rowland Mackay.

The great Lord Chamberlain, in his hand

The golden stick of office bore,

Never was nobleman in the land

Half so honored, or half so grand,

Or half so proud, before.

All the beauty and rank of the nation was there;

10

20

There's a ball at the palace, a gorgeous affair,

Whole suites of apartments were blazing with light
And ladies whose lovely eyes sparkled as bright

As the gems they were wearing, made up such a sight
As the Morning Post's 'Own

30

Correspondent' alone

Sir Rowland Mackay, had received an invite.

Would a faithful description be able to write:
And our handsome young knight

The great Lord Chamberlain had but one daughter,

To the palace, that night for the first time, he brought her:
Never before to supper or rout

Balls with refreshments, or parties without,

Had the young lady been;

She was just seventeen,

In Belgravian parlance, she'd just then come out.—

Sir Rowland approached the lovely girl,
His hand for the next quadrille she took;
As he led her forth in the mazy whirl,
Merrily danced each wavy curl
Upon her faultless neck of pearl,
Like sunshine on a brook.

40

Sweet as the music of the spheres

Her silvery tones on his senses pour,
Never had his enchanted ears

50

Such melody heard before;
And o'er and o'er

To himself he swore

So help him Bob! he'd flirt no more.

The ball was over, Sir Rowland Mackay,

With the rest of the company, hurried away:
And jumping into his cabriolet,

Drove off at the speed of a railway train
To his splendid mansion in Mincing Lane.

Sir Rowland Mackay went home to bed,
His eyes felt heavy as lumps of lead,
So pulling his nightcap over his head,
He soundly and quietly slept.

But as soon as ever he sank in a doze,
A form he saw resting upon the bedclothes,
Entirely destroying all hopes of repose,
And there all night it kept.

Sir Rowland sighed

And vainly tried

To get off to sleep, but the nightmare defied

All his endeavours, and still would ride

On his chest, till at last he despairingly cried

"Avaunt! thou phantom of the brain!

Why the deuce did I drink such a lot of Champagne";

But he looked again,

And saw very plain,

By the moonbeams that shone thro' the window pane

Instead of the figure that caused him such pain,

The daughter of the Lord Chamberlain.

A rapturous kiss on his lips she pressed,

O'erpow'ring emotions seemed swelling her breast,

60

70

80

Then heaving a deep, deep sigh, she broke
The deathlike silence, and thus she spoke:

"Dearest Rowland, I love you”—then Rowland awoke!
For the incubus, lady and kisses, were all

The consequent nightmare succeeding the ball.

He woke, but still that vision bright
Haunted him throughout the night,
Which ever way he turned his eyes
Her image would before him rise,
That kiss although he knew full well
'Twas but a dream, from fancy flowing,
Charmed him like a powerful spell,
And made his bosom heave and swell,
As on his lips he felt it glowing.

In fact, from all that we've stated above,

To cut my protracted narration much shorter

'Twas clear that Sir Rowland was deeply in love

With the haughty Lord Chamberlain's beautiful daughter.

'Twas morning, Sir Rowland still feeling inflamed

100

110

With the charms of fair Alice (for so was she named),
Tittivated himself with a great deal of care,
Sent out for a barber to frizzle his hair,

And scented his kerchief with perfume most rare;
His doublet was velvet, his hose were of silk,
His ruffles were lace and were whiter than milk;
But as I much fear that my readers will bilk
A description of costume, at once I will tell
That Sir Rowland was got up a wonderful swell.

Thus gaily attired he set off to the palace
In which with her father resided his Alice.
He rubbed up the speeches so often he'd tried on
Occasions like these; he was well up in Dryden,
With whose poetry he overcame every resistance,
For as Tom Moore and Byron were not in existence,
He was forced to dispense with, of course, their assistance,
Though when courting a damsel he often could force her
To yield up her heart, by quotations from Chaucer.
For then as at present in love declarations
Nothing helped on a suit, half so well as quotations.

Arrived at the palace he found to his joy

That the Chamberlain was'nt at home,-but a boy

Who had answered the summons exclaimed with a grin,
"If you'd like to see young Mistress Alice, she's in,
"And I just heard her say,

"If you should call to day,—

120