me that I am dead!"
When his wife died he wrote in her Testament these words from Dante,
"Thus I believe, thus I affirm, thus I am certain it is, that from this
life I shall pass to another better there where that lady lives of whom
my soul was enamored." This faith in life after death explains much of
Browning's philosophy. The source of the pagan Cleon's profound
discouragement was the fact that man should be dowered with
"joy-hunger," should be given the ability to perceive and comprehend
splendor and breadth of experience, but should, through the straitness
of human limitations, be held back from satisfaction and achievement,
and should be left to die thus dazzled, thus baffled. The secret of
Browning's optimism, on the other hand, is his belief that in heaven
the soul is freed from limitations, and blossoms out into capabilities
of joy and of activity beyond anything suggested by the most golden
dreams of earth. To him all life is a unit, beginning here and destined
to unimaginable development hereafter. Earth is regarded as a place of
tutelage where man may learn to set foot on some one path to heaven. And
no work begun here shall ever pause for death. Even apparent failure
here counts for little so the quest be not abandoned. Each of us may, as
Abt Vogler, look without despair on the broken arcs of earth if his
faith reveals the perfect round in heaven.

From any prolonged study of Browning's poetry we become conscious of
certain dominant qualities of style that may be thought of quite apart
from his themes or message. That his style has the defect of its
qualities has already been pointed out. Here we may appropriately
indicate those qualities as positive elements of his power. His diction,
rich alike in the most learned words and the most colloquial, is
responsive to all demands. His power of phrasing runs the whole gamut
from the most pellucid simplicity to the most triumphant originality.
His figures of speech, drawn from all realms, are penetrating in
quality, of startling aptness. Equally characteristic is his
versification, varying as it does from passages of melodic smoothness
and grace to lines as strident, broken, and harsh as the thought they
dramatically reflect. In narration, whether in the brilliant rapidity
and ease of a short poem like "Herve Riel" or in the sustained flow of a
long story like that of Pompilia, we find unusual skill. In
disquisition, in the presentation of complicated and elusive