mental progress while binding still closer the bonds of sympathy and kindred feeling which our relations as students tend to weave among us. In this way only can they be useful or respectable here and elsewhere. But while to college politics we can charge much of our disorganized and crippled condition, there is another bad element at work, which is the more insidious because it wears the guise of usefulness, and the more strongly rooted because it addresses itself to vanity and ambition. We refer to the system of prize debates,-which, though of comparatively recent origin, has done more than anything else to create that universal neglect of the regular and legitimate objects of our Literary Societies, and produce the languor and indifference which pervade everything connected with them. The originator of the plan believed, doubtless, that the interests of the Society to which he made his magnificent donation would be furthered by it, and by the incitement to effort and the reward to industry which it offered, an additional charm and zest would surround those debates for which both Societies mainly exist. It made a great stir in College and great results were expected from it. It was not long before each Society had its prize debates; each has now given them a fair trial; and the results are equally to be lamented in both associations.

It will be remembered by some of us, that prior to the establishment of prize debates, the meetings of the Societies were regularly and fully attended, and there was evident a general and steady desire for improvement. Reputation for debating power was eagerly sought after, and was gained with pains and trouble, after repeated ever-ready display. The places of disputants were always at a premium, and careful and thorough preparation was always apparent. No one ever attended a Meeting without a sense of solid satisfaction and honest pride that he had made a perceptible advance in practical knowledge, and had added to his stock of useful ideas. This state of affairs continued no longer than the birth of prize debates. It ceased when they began to live. The reason is obvious. It was no longer necessary for the ambitious of office or reputation to participate in the regular debates; they needed only to make effort at the great occasion; and when the prize was gained, they had only to retire to the Olympus whence they had swooped on the prey, and lie off in majestic repose on the garlands they had won. As the calm follows the storm, so when the prize debates had passed away, when the eloquence and brilliant imagery and profound thought of our leading men had come and gone no one knew whither, the Societies were left in stillness and sadness, like one who wandering in darkness, sees his path

illumined by a lightning flash, and then, blinded and bewildered more than ever, gropes along his way with trembling step and outstretched hand. All the naturalness and simplicity of the old time vanished; all the seeking for knowledge and improvement for its own sake, which had so preeminently marked the past, were gone; and in their place stood the art and stiff formality of College Essays, polished and hammered to the very death, divided and subdivided into all their infinitesimal logical divisions; and men stood up as declaimers rather than speakers, and declaimed for prizes, not with the design to improve themselves or any one else. College taste has thus become vitiated, and no one will speak unless he has his speech written out, safely deposited in his coat pocket, with the gestures appropriate to the sentiments carefully marked by himself or some sympathizing friend. Few find time for such preparation, and, consequently, the great body neglect our Societies altogether; and it is not to be wondered at. No wonder that our assembling together is the "humbug" it is called and believed to be, when the life, the spirit, the soul of debate, has no existence, or is stifled if it dare to breathe. No wonder that Wednesday evening in our Societies is stupid and dull, when those who can lead our thinking, and enliven the hard struggle after proficiency, stay away, and sneer at everything but prize debates. No wonder, in fine, that our Literary Societies exist for us only in name.

We have written bluntly and honestly of the state of things among us; simply to say what we feel should be said. The cures for these evils are in our own hands. Shall we not use them?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

THE poetry of Mrs. Browning is not calculated to win a speedy popularity. For her faults are prominent and evident to the meanest critic, while her extraordinary merits, to be fully appreciated, require considerable literary cultivation, as well as a careful study of her poems. Hence, as we might expect, she has suffered the twofold misfortune of meeting with bitter and contemptuous criticism on the one hand, and indiscriminate praise on the other. Yet her reputation is rising, slowly indeed,

but surely, and ere the close of this century, she will no doubt be acknowledged and crowned as the queen of all that bright sisterhood, the female poets of England.

There is a genuineness in her writings; to use her own words, "they have her heart and life in them, they are not empty shells." This is sustained by abundant internal evidence. We see that they are but the reflection of the deep heart and cultivated intellect of the accomplished authoress. As its fragrance reveals the flower, as her bearing betrays the princess, though in disguise, so do Mrs. Browning's poems reveal to us the leading features of her life and character.

Little is known of her life. We are told that she was for years confined to her room by sickness, often passing weeks in total darkness, shut out from all the sights and sounds of external life, which she loved so ardently, and secluded even from her friends. Having afterwards married a man and a poet, worthy of her, she is living quietly in the old palace of Casa Guidi, at Florence.

Few have been privileged with seeing or corresponding with her. Probably less is known of her than of any other living author. During her seclusion, and in spite of her long continued illness, she has made attainments, perhaps unparalleled by any one of her sex, which take us back in fancy to the times of Lady Jane Grey, and Sir Roger Ascham. The whole circle of modern literature has been traversed by her, while a vivid and accurate translation of the Prometheus Vinctus, and learned papers on the Greek poetry of the primitive Church, attest her scholarship. She pleasantly alludes to her Grecian studies, in a poem entitled "Wine of Cyprus," addressed to her former instructor. The leading characteristics of her poetry harmonize perfectly with what we know of her life.

Her poetry is pervaded by a profound religious feeling, and seems to be haunted by a life-long sorrow. We feel that we are reading the writings of one who has felt and suffered deeply, of one to whose mind the awful mysteries that brood over life and death are ever present realities. She seems fond of dwelling on the view of our Saviour as the man suffering and dying, and to be peculiarly alive to the oriental beauty of the Gospels. It was feelings like these that inspired the painters whose works adorned the Cathedrals of the Middle Ages. Her mind, indeed, resembles one of those wonderful structures, with its "dim religious light," and "long drawn aisles," with the emblems of Christ's Passion and Resurrection, that meet the eye on every side, while crosses, and mounting arches, and soaring spires all point heavenward. Such feelings

and who by

we would expect of one who had undergone much sorrow, long sickness had been accustomed to the thought of death. Her genius is essentially tragic. No attempt at anything like comedy is to be found in any of her poems. The ideas of human weakness, human guilt, and human dependence are prominent throughout. The poem entitled "The Cry of the Human," is, as has been remarked, but a commentary on the prayer, "God be merciful to us sinners." The same feelings are strikingly expressed in the "Romaunt of Margaret," and the verses called “A Valediction."

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Mrs. Browning's writings, as we might expect, abound in the most passionate and delicate pathos. The ballad, "Bertha in the Lane," is the most exquisite picture of a broken heart that ever drew tears from the eye of man or woman. The Cry of the Children" is as eloquent a plea for the factory children, as was the "Song of the Shirt" for the poor seamstresses of London. There are many passages in these poems which none but a woman, and one of rare sensibilities, could have written. No man could have written "Bertha in the Lane," or the sonnet entitled "Comfort." Besides, it is rare for a man to unite to intellect such as hers, a faith so pure and so unwavering. Here we see the marked difference between her and the author of "In Memoriam." The latter, though a reflective, earnest poet, has evidently been harassed by doubts, which seem never to have cast even a passing shadow across the mind of the former. For faith, as the greatest minds acknowledge, is a matter of the heart. We accept the mysteries of revelation, "believing where we cannot prove." When our weak reason becomes bewildered, the heart can yet witness to what it has felt. And woman, being far more a creature of feeling than man, being endowed with a nicer intuition and finer sensibilities, has clearer perceptions of duty, and a more unwavering faith.

Mrs. Browning's poetry is characterized by a rich and radiant imagination. What a glowing yet ethereal fancy is displayed in the "Lay of the Brown Rosarie," or the "Romaunt of Margaret." No one can fail to be struck by the many apt and beautiful images which sparkle on every page of her writings. She often shows a deep "psychological insight," derived, probably, from a long cultivated habit of watching her own consciousness. It is natural for the mind in solitude to recoil on itself, and to turn from the study of the outer to that of the inner world. This peculiarity of our authoress is exemplified in some of her sonnets, in the poem entitled "The Four-fold Aspect," in the ballad "Bertha in the Lane," etc. Some may sneer at such passages as exhibitions of a morbid fancy," but there are others who feel their depth and truth.

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An ignorance of mankind and the world is betrayed in her writings, owing, no doubt, to her long seclusion from them. This deficiency especially shows itself in her dramatic efforts. Take the characters in her “Drama of Exile." Lucifer is a "milk and water fiend," a weak, metaphysical prater. Adam and Eve make no distinct impression on us; they are mere mouth pieces for the authoress; quite destitute of individuality. As for the Earth Spirits, Flower Spirits, etc., they are the most intangible abstractions. Yet there are passages in "Lady Geraldine's Courtship," and elsewhere, which show considerable skill in drawing character, a different thing, however, from developing it.

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Her poems are characterized by a singularity, a recklessness, as it were, of expression, which also we are inclined to ascribe to her long seclusion. This peculiarity becomes at times a serious fault. There is an obtrusive, but we hope, unconscious display of learning. There is a profusion of words that were never seen in poetry before, such as "nympholeptic," oenomel," "hyaline," etc. Every one notices her employment of adjectives as nouns. Thus we find the phrases "Cry of the Human," "Melt not yet to its divine," "Falling off from your Created," etc. The word "divine" is used in this way, ad nauseam. Few of Mrs. Browning's poems possess that unity of effect, that harmony, and that finish, which belong to the works of a great artist. They are remarkably unequal. We sometimes seem to be reading the raw material" of poetry. Her versification is often harsh. Besides, she employs the most wretched apologies for rhyme, e. g., "eagles" and "vigils," "poems" and "interflowings," "branch" and "grange," &c. She is one who much oftener sacrifices sound to sense, than the contrary. This is owing less, we think, to a defective ear than to negligence, or a want of command of our language; for her verse is occasionally very musical, as in the "Brown Rosarie," or particularly in the conclusion of the "Lady Geraldine's Courtship."

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It is a little remarkable that nothing has been written on the resemblance between this conclusion and Poe's "Raven." This resemblance is so striking as to render it absolutely certain that one poem was suggested by the other. Poe's "Raven" appeared in the American Whig Review, in Feb. 1845, while Mrs. Browning's "Lady Geraldine's Courtship" was published in England the year before. The peculiar metre, the employment of double rhyme, and of alliteration, and the quaint repetitions, were probably suggested to the author of the "Raven" by this poem. There are other points of resemblance. Both poems describe a student in his lonely chamber at night, addressing with somewhat of awe a mys