_Pauline_ is interesting chiefly for the evidence it presents of the poet's early tastes. Shelley was the poet to whom in this piece he owed most; but Shelley's genius was not in harmony with Browning's, and afterwards his influence vanished almost as completely as did that of Byron from the works of Tennyson. _Pauline_ was followed by _Paracelsus_ (1835), a poem in which the writer seemed to spring all at once to the full maturity of his powers. He failed however to maintain his ground. _Strafford_ (1837) was the first of a series of dramas published between that year and 1846, when the last number of _Bells and Pomegranates_, containing _Luria_ and _A Soul's Tragedy_, appeared. Browning never afterwards attempted the drama proper, for _In a Balcony_, first published among _Men and Women_, is rather a dramatic episode than a drama. Besides the dramas, there had appeared during those years _Sordello_ (1840), the most enigmatical poem Browning ever wrote. Despite the beauty of the descriptive passages in the poem, it may be questioned whether the enigma is worth the trouble of solution; at any rate, all the ingenuity bestowed upon it has not yet suggested a satisfactory explanation. There had appeared also, as parts of the series of _Bells and Pomegranates_, _Dramatic Lyrics_ (1842) and _Dramatic Romances and Lyrics_ (1845). _Pippa Passes_ (1841) is sometimes misleadingly classed as a drama. It is far more closely akin to the dramatic romances and dramatic lyrics. The decade between _Strafford_ and _A Soul's Tragedy_ may be described then as, for Browning, a period of dramatic experiment. The result was to demonstrate that, though his genius was in some respects intensely dramatic, he was not fitted to write for the stage. His failure is all the more remarkable because of his keen interest in character and his great success, under certain conditions, in understanding and interpreting it. The question naturally arises whether there is any connexion between Browning's failure and the often noted incapacity of the present century to nourish a dramatic literature. This incapacity is conspicuous in the preceding period as well as in that now under discussion. Scott failed completely as a dramatist. The once great reputation of Joanna Baillie has withered away. The dramas of Byron are striking, but their centre is always George Gordon. Shelley succeeded once, in _The Cenci_; for, great as is _Prometheus Unbound_, its greatness is not dramatic. With respect to the present period, the most convincing proof of the scarcity of dramatic talent is the fact that there is no need to devote a separate section to the criticism of this form of literature. To most writers the drama has been a mere interlude among other literary work, and this in spite of the fact that fiction alone can compare with it in respect of the material rewards it offers. Almost the sole exception, among those who can be