Now, I am prepared to admit the force of this objection, and I shall endeavour in the sequel to prove that, in order to establish optimism, more is needed than Browning can give, even when interpreted in the most sympathetic way.  His doctrine is offered in terms of art, and it cannot have any demonstrative force without violating the limits of art.  In some of his poems, however,—­for instance, in La Saisiaz, Ferishtatis Fancies and the Parleyings, Browning sought to advance definite proofs of the theories which he held.  He appears before us at times armed cap-a-pie, like a philosopher.  Still, it is not when he argues that Browning proves:  it is when he sees, as a poet sees.  It is not by means of logical demonstrations that he helps us to meet the despair of Carlyle, or contributes to the establishment of a better faith.  Browning’s proofs are least convincing when he was most aware of his philosophical presuppositions; and a philosophical critic could well afford to agree with the critic of art, in relegating the demonstrating portions of his poems to the chaotic limbo lying between philosophy and poetry.

When, however, he forgets his philosophy, and speaks as poet and religious man, when he is dominated by that sovereign thought which gave unity to his life-work, and which, therefore, seemed to lie deeper in him than the necessities of his art and to determine his poetic function, his utterances have a far higher significance.  For he so lifts the artistic object into the region of pure thought, and makes sense and reason so to interpenetrate, that the old metaphors of “the noble lie” and “the truth beneath the veil” seem no longer to help.  He seems to show us the truth so vividly and simply, that we are less willing to make art and philosophy mutually exclusive, although their methods differ.  Like some of the greatest philosophers, and notably Plato and Hegel, he constrains us to doubt, whether the distinction penetrates low beneath the surface; for philosophy, too, when at its best, is a thinking of things together.  In their light we begin to ask, whether it is not possible that the interpretation of the world in terms of spirit, which is the common feature of both Hegel’s philosophy and Browning’s poetry, does not necessarily bring with it a settlement of the ancient feud between these two modes of thought.

But, in any case, Browning’s utterances, especially those which he makes when he is most poet and least philosopher, have something of the convincing impressiveness of a reasoned system of optimism.  And this comes, as already suggested, from his loyalty to a single idea, which gives unity to all his work.  That idea we may, in the end, be obliged to treat not only as a hypothesis—­for all principles of reconciliation, even those of the sciences, as long as knowledge is incomplete, must be regarded as hypotheses—­but also as a hypothesis which he had no right to assume.  It may be that in the end we shall be obliged to say of him, as of so many others—­