green depths of ocean priceless gems of thought and feeling; to the
third, a poet full of inequalities in conception and expression, who
has done many good things well and has made many grave failures.

No poet in our generation has fared so ill at the hands of the
critics. Already the Browning library is large. Some of the criticism
is good; much of it, regarding the author as philosopher and
symbolist, is totally askew. Reams have been written in interpretation
of _Childe Roland_, an imaginative fantasy composed in one day.
Abstruse ideas have been wrested from the simple story of _My Last
Duchess_. His poetry has been the stamping-ground of theologians
and the centre of prattling literary circles. In this tortuous maze of
futile criticism the one thing lost sight of is the fact that a poet
must be judged by the standards of art. It must be confessed, however,
that Browning is himself to blame for much of the smoke of commentary
that has gathered round him. He has often chosen the oblique
expression where the direct would serve better; often interpolated
his own musing subtleties between the reader and the life he would
present; often followed his theme into intricacies beyond his own
power to resolve into the simple forms of art. Thus it has come about
that misguided readers became enigma hunters, and the poet their
Sphinx.

The real question with Browning, as with any poet, is, What is his
work and worth as an artist? What of human life has he presented,
and how clear and true are his presentations? What passions, what
struggles, what ideals, what activities of men has he added to the art
world? What beauty and dignity, what light, has he created? How does
he view life: with what of hope, or aspiration, or strength? These
questions may be discussed under his sense and mastery of form, and