When we see a gnarled and sprawling oak, we do not say that it is fine although it is twisted.  When we see a mountain, we do not say that it is impressive although it is rugged, nor do we say apologetically that it never meant to be rugged, but became so in its striving after strength.  Now, to say that Browning’s poems, artistically considered, are fine although they are rugged, is quite as absurd as to say that a rock, artistically considered, is fine although it is rugged.  Ruggedness being an essential quality in the universe, there is that in man which responds to it as to the striking of any other chord of the eternal harmonies.  As the children of nature, we are akin not only to the stars and flowers, but also to the toad-stools and the monstrous tropical birds.  And it is to be repeated as the essential of the question that on this side of our nature we do emphatically love the form of the toad-stools, and not merely some complicated botanical and moral lessons which the philosopher may draw from them.  For example, just as there is such a thing as a poetical metre being beautifully light or beautifully grave and haunting, so there is such a thing as a poetical metre being beautifully rugged.  In the old ballads, for instance, every person of literary taste will be struck by a certain attractiveness in the bold, varying, irregular verse—­

    “He is either himsell a devil frae hell,
    Or else his mother a witch maun be;
    I wadna have ridden that wan water
    For a’ the gowd in Christentie,”

is quite as pleasing to the ear in its own way as

    “There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer stream,
    And the nightingale sings in it all the night long,”

is in another way.  Browning had an unrivalled ear for this particular kind of staccato music.  The absurd notion that he had no sense of melody in verse is only possible to people who think that there is no melody in verse which is not an imitation of Swinburne.  To give a satisfactory idea of Browning’s rhythmic originality would be impossible without quotations more copious than entertaining.  But the essential point has been suggested.

    “They were purple of raiment and golden,
    Filled full of thee, fiery with wine,
    Thy lovers in haunts unbeholden,
    In marvellous chambers of thine,”

is beautiful language, but not the only sort of beautiful language.  This, for instance, has also a tune in it—­

“I—­’next poet.’  No, my hearties,
I nor am, nor fain would be! 
Choose your chiefs and pick your parties,
Not one soul revolt to me!
* * * * *
Which of you did I enable
Once to slip inside my breast,
There to catalogue and label
What I like least, what love best,
Hope and fear, believe and doubt of,
Seek and shun, respect, deride,
Who has right to make a rout of
Rarities he found inside?”