ABSTRACT
When a great man full of years and honour passes from us, the memorial words of regret and sorrow are as often as not conventional. The more outspoken even of his admirers will say with truth: His work was done, he was tired of life, it was a happy release. But in the hearts of the many persons of all classes who knew Robert Browning there must awake at this moment a kindling regret which needs no words to fan it. Death has come between us and his spirit like a sudden cloud; and though we know that the radiance is behind it, we feel and see the darkness. It is no question now whether or no his mind had laid by its labour of love in this life, or whether greater work was in store. While he lived, his brain lived and burned; and his personality, had he never written another line, would, till however remote an end, have been a vivifying fact for all who had the privilege of seeing him face to face. And the spiritual effect of it had for some years gone on increasing, as though a new youth and a fresh outlook were growing into being through the visible fading of the flesh.
