power for these by setting us free from personal limitations, and making us aware of that larger world of passion and experience which, though it lie beyond our "bounds," is a most real part of life.

As part also of the dramatic aspect of his work and its moral bearing through that, we must understand that "criticism" of life which is conveyed by the very principle of his characterization. At the basis of his dramatic method will be found certain ideas of high import in this reference, that the soul is individual; that it has supreme worth in the scheme of life; that the value of experience is in the culture of the "soul;" that, as the worth and result of life are found finally within, none need miss life's good; that the experience of each is so far adequate to the well-being of each; that as experience develops the spirituality of the soul, life gains depth and scope.

But here we touch distinctive ideas, or "views," of life as found in this poet; only let us be clear that even as to these the poet is not a “moralist” simply. He does not select a world out of the world by coming to it with a set of notions it is to illustrate. As Mr. J. Morley finely said, speaking of Emerson, “ All great minds see all things; the only difference lies in the order in which they choose to place them." This order, and the estimate it implies, is great part of their criticism of life. It both reflects and determines ìeading ideas. And Browning, though he has looked at the world's order and each man's good constantly from the dramatic point of view, has his order, and so

leading ideas. These I now put, through a study of the chief poems containing them.

I will begin with the poem called "The Boy and the Angel" (iv. 158). It is a Middle-Age legend, in which the poet saw a "romance" of a deep truth. And this truth he has put in words as simple and pious as the legend itself. The story is this: A boy in a monastery followed his trade, doing his work well, by the work and in the pauses of it "praising God." And Blaise, the monk, was pleased, and told the lad that his "praise" reached God as surely as the Pope's at the great Easter Festival at Rome. But the boy was not content; he longed to "praise God" (ie. to please himself) in some "great way"-the Pope's in St. Peter's. And he got his wish, with Gabriel's help. He became a priest, and rose to be Pope. But, as he had been carried out of his proper sphere by the mistaken kindness of the angel, the boy's place was empty, his work now undone. So the angel took his place. But the work and praise of the angel were not the boy's, and could not replace the boy's. In time the angel saw this, and took means to put matters again in their natural order. He went to Rome, and found Theocrite there as Pope, preparing for the great Easter service, and proud of his place and of his realized ambition. Gabriel made known to him the divine idea of life's plan as he had come to see it. He is out of his place, and in his place only can he fulfil his proper tasks and God's will. Another may fill the Pope's place; none can fill his. So Theocrite returned to his craft

and his cell a simpler and a better man, and grew old in peace among his early tasks. A new Pope dwelt at St. Peter's; and when Theocrite died, the angel and the craftsman sought God side by side.

It is a quaint story, of those simple and pure monastic minds, who first made work as such good and dear to God. And that idea had its battle to fight against many discontents and ambitions. Το Theocrite the simple task and daily round seemed poor. Piety, as he thought, and pride much more, said that it were better to do something "greater for God. And he reached the highest point of the monkish ambition, only to find, that, as wandering desires mistakenly helped had carried him from his own tasks and place, his life had ceased to bring its due praise to God. The old way was not better only, but the only good way. The lowly task was best heeded and valued by God, counting well in His great plan a thought to reprove vain desires and sweeten simple lives.

And so through the legend Browning suggests, with a mystic glow and depth such as he likes, ideas to which, in the spirit of them, he attaches great value-the worth of each soul and of all sincere work to God; the personal quality of all real work ; the duty of each to keep his own place, to respect his own worth, and to rest satisfied with his own tasks. In their proper place, and at their own tasks, men are spiritually equal; God is "praised," and the order of the universe is served by the least as truly as

by the greatest. "Greater "Greater" and "less" are words of no essential meaning in the matter. The only really great thing is the whole divine order. All value depends on helping that, and all can help it. All lives rest on a divine order, enter into a scheme" that none of us comprehends, but that all further by simple discharge of duty. All work is consecrated and made right by its relation to that. If we move from our place, we mar the music of God's order. If we keep our place, the highest value our work can have comes from its being our duty.

In the first of " Pippa's Songs" you have the same idea, and it is the keynote of the drama-" All service ranks the same with God." All of us, least and greatest, somehow serve Him, and His Will equalizes all events and souls. We are all near to Him whose Presence fills the world and our lives. This is a dramatic principle and a vital truth for the poet; no "sentiment," as it too often is.

In the "Statue and the Bust" (iv. 288) you will find what seems a very distinct, but is a perfectly congruous, idea of duty. In the poems we have just taken, the idea is that the simple duties and circumstances of life are enough for happiness and for the "soul." Here the doctrine appears to be that it may be a duty to break through circumstances in order to reach a fuller life. Let us see how it is. It is another legend or romance. It arose in this way. In one of the squares of Florence is a statue of Duke Ferdinand I. The statue is so placed that the Duke

seems to be looking towards the palace of the Riccardi as he rides away, that palace standing at the corner of one of the streets running into the square. And this posture of the statue appears to have given rise to a legend. The figure looks fixedly at one of the windows of the Riccardi palace, and so fancy read design in the posture and meaning in the look. The story got abroad that the Duke had loved one of the ladies of the house of Riccardi; that her husband, knowing it, shut her in his palace, so that, if they saw each other, it could only be from a window looking into the square. The Duke, in love for the lady and scorn of her husband, had himself put where he might seem to wait and catch her every appearance.

That is the tradition; but our poet, no doubt regarding the whole thing as invention, took it his own way. To make it a better vehicle for the truth of human hearts he saw in it, he added to and gave it fuller meaning. The bust is his, and the reality the love had for a time. The lady, newly married, but with heart quite free, sees the Duke ride past. The Duke sees the lady at the window. They love, and life begins for both. At a feast the same night they met, and the Duke found means to make known his love to the lady. But the husband heard, or, anyhow, knew, and determined to keep the wife a prisoner within his palace. The wife seemed to submit, inwardly resolved to flee in disguise, which she always found reasons not to do, until, as the years passed, the love passed too, remaining only as a dream.