sation of all personal intercourse between the world and the poet. The idle chatter of relative merit, 'Is he greater than A?' 'Is he better than B?' dies away with his death. Not how great he was, but what he was, engages our attention, and the searching demand that the soul of Robert Browning makes upon each and all of us who care for the higher life of our nation is, 'What I have done for England, say.'
The kingdom of poesy hath many mansions. That on whose portals Robert Browning's name is inscribed is distinguished from its neighbours both by its huge size and by its massive strength. The style is Gothic with a curious infusion of Italian Renaissance. Notice, before we enter, the quaint gargoyles that in part adorn, in part disfigure, every portion of the architecture that is susceptible of ornamentation. Gaining entrance with some difficulty—for the porter is somewhat gruff and scant of speech, giving but slight guidance to the visitor—we are at first struck by the obscurity that reigns in the interior, only lit up here and there by lurid splashes of splendour at spots which are in direct contact with the outer sunshine. But one's eyes soon get accustomed to the dim religious light, and if we have to strain our attention to catch the scheme of ornamentation, our satis-
