We deeply regret to record the death of Robert Browning,
which took place at Venice on Thursday night. He was attacked sharply by bronchitis a week or two ago, and the attack left him with a very much weakened heart, from the failure of which he never rallied. His new volume of " Facts and Fancies," which has just appeared, suggests any- thing but old age,—Mr. Browning was seventy-seven,—or even weak health. To us they resemble nothing so much as the vivid sparks struck out of flint by an iron heel. Perhaps the most unique things in the volume are the four "Bad Dreams," dashed off with that brusque vivacity and strength which suits so well a subject of this kind, though it sometimes jars the reader when the poet is delineating the more ideal mood in which he delighted,—for Mr. Browning was a thorough idealist at heart, and loved nothing better than to pour forth his contempt for vulgar and selfish aims. The great writer we have lost was a devotee of music, and understood its technique thoroughly; yet the more he loved harmony, the more, like Wagner, he enjoyed the contrast between harmony and discord. He was the most rousing of our poets.
