at least may be, described
in art. But though pleasure is not the end of poetry, pleasing is a
condition of poetry. An exceptional monstrosity of horrid ugliness
cannot be made pleasing, except it be made to suggest--to recall--the
perfection, the beauty, from which it is a deviation. Perhaps in
extreme cases no art is equal to this; but then such self-imposed
problems should not be worked by the artist; these out-of-the-way and
detestable subjects should be let alone by him. It is rather
characteristic of Mr. Browning to neglect this rule. He is the most of
a realist, and the least of an idealist of any poet we know. He
evidently sympathizes with some part at least of Bishop Blougram's
apology. Anyhow this world exists. 'There _is_ good wine--there _are_
pretty women--there _are_ comfortable benefices--there _is_ money, and
it is pleasant to spend it. Accept the creed of your age and you get
these, reject that creed and you lose them. And for what do you lose
them? For a fancy creed of your own, which no one else will accept,
which hardly any one will call a "creed", which most people will
consider a sort of unbelief.' Again, Mr. Browning evidently loves what
we may call the realism, the grotesque realism, of orthodox
christianity. Many parts of it in which great divines have felt keen
difficulties are quite pleasant to him. He must _see_ his religion, he
must nave an 'object-lesson' in believing. He must have a creed that
will _take_, which wins and holds the miscellaneous world, which stout
men will heed, which nice women will adore. The spare moments of
solitary religion--the 'obdurate questionings', the high 'instincts',
the 'first affections', the 'shadowy recollections',

Which, do they what they may,
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day--
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;

the great but vague faith--the unutterable tenets seem to him
worthless, visionary; they are not enough immersed in matter; they
move about 'in worlds not realized'. We wish he could be tried like
the prophet once; he would have found God in the earthquake and the
storm; he could have deciphered from them a bracing and a rough
religion: he would have known that crude men and ignorant women felt
them too, and he would accordingly have trusted them; but he would
have distrusted and disregarded the 'still small voice'; he would have
said it was 'fancy'--a thing you thought you heard to-day, but were
not sure you