Had it not been for the defectiveness, the sin and pain, we should have had nothing of the interest of the long evolution of science, law and government, of the charm of discovery, of pursuit, of the slow upbuilding of moral right, of the vast variety of philosophy.
Above all, we should have had none of the great art men love so well, no _Odyssey_, _Divine Comedy_ no _Hamlet_, no _Oedipus_, no Handel, no Beethoven, no painting or sculpture where the love and sorrow of the soul breathe in canvas, fresco, marble and bronze, no, nor any of the great and loving lives who suffered and overcame, from Christ to the poor woman who dies for love in a London lane.

All these are made through the struggle and the sorrow.

We should not have had, I repeat, humanity; and provided no soul perishes for ever but lives to find union with undying love, the game, with all its terrible sorrow, pays for the candle.

We may find out, some day, that the existence and work of humanity, crucified as it has been, are of untold interest and use to the universe--which things the angels desire to look into.

If Browning had listened to that view, he would, I think, have accepted it.
_Old Pictures in Florence_ touches another side of his theory.
In itself, it is one of Browning's half-humorous poems; a pleasantly-composed piece, glancing here and glancing there, as a man's mind does when leaning over a hill-villa's parapet on a sunny morning in Florence.