Great gifts to; but who, proud, refused

To do His work, or lightly used

Those gifts, or failed through weak endeavour,

And mourn, cast off by Him for ever

As if these leant in airy ring

To call me.'

There are two less known poets who resemble Mr. Browning in that they likewise grapple with some of the difficulties of our inward life; Mr. Clough, and Mr. Matthew Arnold. It cannot, however, be said, that either of these writers, though they have displayed no ordinary poetic powers, supply answers nearly so distinct, so suggestive, so Christian, as does Mr. Browning. In the touching utterances of Mr. Clough, all is left uncertain, and as past human ken in this life, though the author earnestly deplores this, and yearns for clearer light. From Mr. Arnold we hardly obtain so much as this; the state of doubt is there, but scarcely the regret for it. Yet both of them are real poets, and even superior to Robert Browning in the grace and finish of their poems. There remains one other sweet singer of our time, whom it is impossible to pass over in connexion with our poet. Elizabeth Barrett Browning stands, unquestionably, at the head of our living poetesses. We will not enter upon the invidious task of comparing in detail the powers of the wife and husband; nor of inquiry into the tone of the lady's poetry before and since her marriage. One or two observations,

As Mr. Clough's poetry is but little known, we subjoin the following, as an illustration of the above remarks :

6

'I have seen higher holier things than these,
And therefore must to these refuse my heart,
Yet am I panting for a little ease;

I'll take, and so depart.

Ah, hold the heart is prone to fall away,

Her high and cherish'd visions to forget,
And if thou takest, how wilt thou repay

So vast, so dread a debt?

How will the heart, which now thou trustest, then
Corrupt, yet in corruption mindful yet,

Turn with sharp stings upon itself! again,
Bethink thee of the debt!

-Hast thou seen higher, holier things than these,
And therefore must to these thy heart refuse?
With the true vest, alack, how ill agrees

That best that thou would'st choose!

The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above;

Do thou, as best thou may'st, thy duty do:

Amid the things allowed thee live and love;
Some day thou shalt it view.'

Mr. Clough's other publication, the 'Bothie of Toper-na-Fuosich,' though strange in its social creed, and containing some lines of questionable taste, yet abounds in exquisite descriptions of Highland scenery (quite photographic in their accuracy), sparkling wit, and delicate delineations of phases of character and feeling.

however, may be made. It was to Mrs. Browning that we alluded, in specifying a writer of poetry, whose realization of the great mystery of our Lord's Incarnation might be placed on a par with that of Robert Browning. While, however, the outpourings of a feminine mind are so committed to paper by this poetess, as by their more openly impassioned nature and greater simplicity to obtain a larger share of popularity than the writings of her husband; they possess less attractiveness for a certain class of readers, from the very circumstance, that in them all is said (very beautifully said, it is true), but nothing left for the imagination of the reader to supply. There is less of reserve, less of suggestiveness. But, in truth, the poetess herself would not quarrel with these remarks. None can appreciate more fully the merits of the volumes, to whose author she has given her heart and hand. Years ago, in allusion to the original title of some of the poems of her future husband, Elizabeth Barrett described a poet as reading

From Browning some "Pomegranate," which, if cut deep down the middle,

Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.'

And subsequently, at a later date,—

My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes
God set between his After and Before,
And strike up and strike off the general roar
Of the rushing worlds, a melody that floats
In a serene air purely. Antidotes

Of medicated music, answering for

Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst pour
From thence into their ears.'

These praises, though from partial lips, are just and merited; our author's freedom from egotism, and his genuine sympathy with his fellow-men, being ever most conspicuous. The latter lines occur in Mrs. Browning's 'Sonnets from the Portuguese;' which we own to having glanced at hastily, without discovering the very pardonable stratagem of the poetess, until a lady pointed out to us that they contained in reality the history of the wooing which led to this union. The husband has replied with equal grace and delicacy in the concluding poem of Men and Women; and, perhaps, we may challenge Germany, France, and Italy, to show us so great a poet and poetess, who

We say this without approving of all the erotic expressions applied to our Blessed Lord by this writer. The following is a happy exemplification of our ground of commendation. The subject is 'The Look' of our Saviour on S. Peter. 'And Peter, from the height of blasphemy

"I never knew this man"-did quail and fall,
As knowing straight, THAT GOD,-and turned free,
And went out speechless from the face of all,
And filled the silence, weeping bitterly.'

(to borrow M. Guizot's motto to his graceful biography of Lady Russell) have so completely found L'Amour dans le Mariage.

It seems to us that Mr. Browning might, perhaps, gratify a larger circle, if he would compose a play wherein the dramatis persone were for the most part of more ordinary stamp than we usually meet with in his compositions; or gave us a few more lyrical narratives of the same force and directness as that of "Count Gismond.'

We have not made any allusions to our author's opinions in literature or politics. It is probable, from the tenor of the dedications prefixed to some of his poems, and other hints, that the literati occupy a higher place in his thoughts than we should be willing to assign to them, in the actual world. With political questions we do not meddle. But it may be observed, for the sake of those who like consistency and sincerity, that Mr. Browning's liberalism does, at any rate, display these qualities. We are not sure that so much could be said for the Laureate. In the Princess' we have, no doubt, a vivid description of a people's feast in a great man's park; but the poet begins by informing us, that he, with others of our set,' (a superlatively exclusive phrase in academic society,) was visiting this baronet of ancient race, as a guest; and while others help to amuse, or instruct the mass of holidaymakers, he, and the set,' seek their recreation in a corner of the grounds, in the composition of the story.

Those who are fond of literary criticism may find interest in some other inquiries in connexion with these volumes. How far Mr. Browning's dramas will bear the Aristotelian analysis into plot, characters, diction and sentiments; whether they tend to confirm the theories of a modern disciple of Aristotle, Mr. Matthew Arnold, that inter-penetration of the mind with a grand action is the primary business of the poet; to what extent they confirm Mr. Ruskin's definition of poetry, the suggestion, by the imagination of noble grounds for the noble emotions,' these points, however, must be left to the reader.

Laws of taste are not as those of morals; nor do we wish to dogmatize upon them. We may have been wrong in our selection of topics for praise or blame; wrong in our interpretation of some of the poems before us; wrong in our comparison of Robert Browning with other poets. But in one thing we are not wrong; and that is in thinking it a good work to attempt to bring to the knowledge of others the works of a philosophic thinker, and great poet; whose writings, if they cannot become widely popular, may at least contribute to the instruction and delight of numbers to whom they are at present unknown.

391

ART. V. Yeast. By the Rev. CHARLES KINGSLEY, M.A. London: J. W. Parker & Son, 445, West Strand.

Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet. By CHARLES KINGSLEY, M.A. London: Chapman & Hall.

Hypatia; or, New Foes with an Old Face. By CHARLES KINGSLEY, M.A. London: J. W. Parker & Son, 445, West Strand.

Westward Ho! By CHARLES KINGSLEY, M.A.

Macmillan & Co.

Two Years Ago. By CHARLES KINGSLEY, M.A.
Macmillan & Co.

Cambridge:

Cambridge:

MODES and habits of composition are infinite, nor has the public any concern with the manner in which the finished book has passed from the writer's brain to the reader's hands, except as that manner influences the style and matter. Whether an author writes at the full speed of his pen, or with deliberationwhether he waits for propitious moments, or forces his mind into harness at his will-are questions for mere literary curiosity. Facility does not enhance, nor difficulty detract from, the merits of the finished work, which, from the moment it passes from the author's control, stands on its own ground, apart from all antecedents whatever. But though a book is what it is, by whatever process produced, the mode of composition has a great deal to do with making it what it is. Therefore, when we trace the same peculiarities and defects in a series of works, and at the same time see signs unmistakeable of haste and precipitation, we are justified in laying the two together and drawing conclusions. Especially if the established order of things is roughly dealt with, we do well to hold back, and be slow to acquiesce in even the most plausible arguments, in proportion to the rapidity with which we believe them to have been conceived and expressed.

For this reason, before entering on a review of Mr. Kingsley's works of fiction, we wish to say a word on this one featuretheir evidently hurried composition: a haste, not only in putting thoughts into language, but in giving those thoughts utterance so soon as they enter the mind at all. There is apparent a certain impetuous need to express the conceptions of fancy or feeling to make others the wiser for every new idea, that leaves no room for the exercise of the deliberative faculties; betraying, in our judgment,-for we cannot separate the mind from its operations, -a hasty and impatient spirit; indulged no doubt if not fostered by the writer as an indication of the poetic temperament, of the fierce voracity and swift digestion

of the soul,' which he attributes to the seer. And no doubt an impression of power is given to the reader by an impetuous flow. There is, indeed, a wonderful activity of mind in this series of stories-a rush of thought and fancy which evidence brilliant faculties. We feel after their perusal somewhat breathless, perhaps, and confused, but not without the enjoyment of the chase, as we have been made to follow arguments, theories, fancies, stirring scenes, and wonderful adventures, all advanced or described with the same ease, temerity, and, in a certain sense, success. The argument, an onslaught on preconceived opinion, which reckons on carrying the day by the confidence of its assumptions, and the daring of its assaults on prejudice; the story, a rapid flight from tumult to calm, from gaiety to horror, with a general appreciation of anything, and every thing that furnishes matter for a lively fancy. There is apparent throughout an intellect enjoying itself in its own activity of conception and speculation.

But fancy and speculation can work faster than the reason or the heart; and there are other things needed for the philosopher and the novelist than a rapid stream of ideas. Thus, though scenes and situations flash into the mind at once, the characters that are to play their part in them must be studies. No real character can be drawn, or rather worked out, in a hurry; for a sketch is a different matter. Nature must be watched and waited on, and patiently observed, before any man, be his genius what it may, knows how she will manifest herself in any given contingency. The heart must commune with itself long and closely to judge of other hearts. There is no royal road to this knowledge; any short method issues in conventionalism; clever and amusing, perhaps, for ready wit can devise fair substitutes for nature; but wanting that one touch of nature itself which we recognize for the truth, and which, once felt, we acknowledge as the crown and highest achievement of the imagination. And equally does reason need time for its work. Theories are proverbially dazzling things. Nothing can stand against a freshcoined argument of our own making,-nothing but time, which gradually dispels the false glare of novelty, unfolds objections, forces the attention to listen to counter-statements, modifies contempt for opponents. Time, on the ingenuous mind, does the work which Bacon assigns to learning. It taketh away all levity, 'temerity, and insolency, by copious suggestion of all doubts and 'difficulties, and acquainting the mind to balance reasons on both 'sides, and to turn back the first offers and conceits of the mind, and to accept of nothing but examined and tried.' How many of Mr. Kingsley's peculiar theories and most characteristic speculations would have stood this ordeal, it is not for us to