ing satire
with which he lashed the impostures of spiritualism in "Sludge the
Medium." In 1872 he published "Fifine at the Fair," to the delight of
those who loved him, and, as usual, to the irritation of those who did
not. "Red Cotton Nightcap Country" appeared in the following year;
and, after an interval of two years, was followed by "Aristophanes'
Apology." Again, after a similar interval, he gave us "The Agamemnon
of Aeschylus Transcribed." In 1879 came "Dramatic Idylls," with the
stirring ballad of "Herve Riel," which, as some think, roused the
Laureate to emulative effort. "Jocoseria," published in 1883,
reclaimed many of his earlier admirers, who had been estranged by what
they regarded as the extravagance and whimsicality, not to speak of
the obscurity and ruggedness, of so many of his later works.
"Jocoseria," in fact, recalls "Men and Women" rather than the
"Fifines," the "Hohenstiel-Schwangaus," and the "Red Cotton Nightcap
Countries" of a later and less happily-inspired period. "Ferishtah's
Fancies and Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in their Day"
was the rather cumbrous title of a still later volume; and last of all
appeared "Asolando," a work which displays all the old qualities, the
old fire, and the old audacity, apparently untouched by advancing
years, or even by imminent death. He died the same month that it
appeared, December, 1889.

It has been Mr. Browning's fate to divide the reading world into two
hostile camps. There are no lukewarm friends on his side; and from
those who have never acquired a taste for the strong wine of his muse,
it is sometimes difficult to extort recognition of the vigor, the
insight, the tenderness, and the variety of intellectual sympathy
which characterize the man, even, if we make abstraction of the poet.
An industrious and enthusiastic society devoted itself during his
lifetime to the promotion of a taste for his writings, but even that
singular tribute to the strength of his personality does not shut the
mouth of the sceptic. Those who love the poets of prettinesses, of
artificial measures, and dainty trifles have at the present day an
almost embarrassing wealth of choice. But Mr. Browning in his own
sphere had no rival and no imitator. No other so boldly faces the
problems of life and death, no other like him braces the reader as
with the breath of a breeze from the hills, and no other gives like
him the assurance that we have to do with a man. His last