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Dividend Two Directory 03
Page 02
Five years ago there appeared a small volume entitled "The Strayed Reveller, and other Poems, by A." (The Strayed Reveller, and other Poems. By A. London: 1849) It was received we believe with general indifference. The public are seldom sanguine with new poets; the exceptions to the rule having been for the most part signal mistakes; while in the case of "A." the inequality of merit in his poems was so striking that even persons who were satisfied that qualities were displayed in them of the very highest kind, were yet unable to feel confidence in the future of an author so unusually incapable, as it appeared, of knowing when he was doing well and when he was failing.
Philip was at this time engaged in the siege of Athens, which had joined Attalus and the Rhodians. The Consul Galba crossed over to Epirus, and Athens was relieved by a Roman fleet; but before he withdrew, Philip, prompted by anger and revenge, displayed his barbarism by destroying the gardens and buildings in the suburbs, including the Lyecum and the tombs of the Attic heroes; and in a second incursion which he made with large re-enforcements he committed still greater excesses. For some time, however, the war lingered on without any decided success on either side. The Consul Villius, who succeeded Galba in B.C. 199, effected nothing of importance, and it was not till the appointment of the Consul T. Quinctius Flamininus to the command that the war was earned on with energy and vigor (B.C. 198).
Browning, on the other hand, kept his raptures and his processes severely to himself. He never seems to have given the smallest hint as to how he conceived a poem or worked it out. He was as reticent about his occupation as a well-bred stockbroker, and did his best in society to give the impression of a perfectly decorous and conventional gentleman, telling strings of not very interesting anecdotes, and making a great point of being ordinary. Indeed, I believe that Browning was haunted by the eighteenth-century idea that there was something not quite respectable about professional literature, and that, like Gray, he wished to be considered a private gentleman who wrote for his amusement. When in later years he took a holiday, he went not for secret contemplation, but to recover from social fatigue. Browning is really one of the most mysterious figures in literature in this respect, because his inner life of poetry was so entirely apart from his outer life of dinnerparties and afternoon calls. Inside the sacred enclosure, the winds of heaven blow, the thunder rolls; he proclaims the supreme worth of human passion, he dives into the disgraceful secrets of the soul: and then he comes out of his study a courteous and very proper gentleman, looking like a retired diplomatist, and talking like an intelligent commercial traveller--a man whose one wish appeared to be as good-humouredly like everyone else as he conveniently could.
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