Browning is confessedly a difficult poet, and his difficulty is by no means all of the kind which opposes unmistakable impediments to the reader's path.

Some of it is of the more insidious kind, which may co-exist with a delightful persuasion that the way is absolutely clear, and Browning's "obscurity" an invention of the invertebrate.

The problems presented by his writing are merely tough, and will always yield to intelligent and patient scrutiny.

But the problems presented by his mind are elusive, and it would be hard to resist the cogency of his interpreters, if it were not for their number.

The rapid succession of acute and notable studies of Browning put forth during the last three or four years makes it even more apparent than it was before that the last word on Browning has not yet been said, even in that very qualified sense in which the last word about any poet, or any poetry, can ever be said at all.