him in grace of execution. We doubt, indeed, if a more perfect artist in words" than Tennyson ever lived. If it could be true, as it cannot be, that a great poet is made, not born, it would be true of him. But Browning is a born poet, and only lacks the sense or the modesty to see that something else is wanting to him to be among the greatest. For want of artistic cutting, his diamonds often show but dully beside the paste of other men. For want of artistic development, the thought that should have been starry is often simply nebulous.

Mr. Browning was strolling about Florence, as he tells us, one fine day in June, when he picked up from a stall in the Square of Lorenzo, and bought for "just eightpence,”* a small quarto volume-the "Book "; to wit, on which he has written four volumes-containing, partly in print and partly in manuscript, the account of a "Roman murder-case," for which crime a certain Count Guido Franceschini, of Arezzo, with four accomplices, was executed at Rome on the 22nd of February, in the year 1698. The documents comprised in the volume consisted of the depositions and pleadings in the cause, printed by proper authority, with some letters, explanatory of, and supplementary to them, from a Roman lawyer concerned in the case, to a friend at Florence. Thus we have the Book-" pure crude fact," as its purchaser calls it but what of the "Ring"? That is a poetic illustration (with which this work commences) gracefully conceived and expressed :

Do you see this Ring?

'Tis Rome-work, made to match

(By Castellani's imitative craft)

Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn,
After a dropping April; found alive

Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side fig-tree roots
That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see,
Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There's one trick
(Craftsmen instruct me), one approved device,
And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold
As this was,-such mere oozings from the mine,
Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear

At bee-hive edge when ripened combs o'erflow,-
To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap :

We had thought that a lira was of as much value as a franc-that is, about tenpence-but we take Mr. Browning's authority for the depreciation of the Italian currency.

Since hammer needs must widen out the round,
And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers,
Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear.
That trick is, the artificer melts up wax
With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold
With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both,
Effects a manageable mass, then works.
But his work ended, once the thing a ring,
Oh, there's repristination! Just a spirt
O' the proper fiery acid o'er its face,
And forth the alloy unfastened flies in fume;
While, self-sufficient now, the shape remains,
The rondure brave, the lilied loveliness,
Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore :
Prime nature with an added artistry—
No carat lost, and you have gained a ring.
What of it? "Tis a figure, a symbol, say;

A thing's sign now for the thing signified. (pp. 1-3)

The author does himself less than justice in implying, by this comparison, that his share in the workmanship of the tale constructed out of the materials with which the "Book" supplied him is merely that of "alloy." The original plot is sensational enough. So deeply did it impress Mr. Browning, so unceasingly haunt and irresistibly fascinate him for four long years, that it did not let his fancy rest until it had thrown off a poem much longer (as others have remarked) than the Iliad, and nearly twice the length of the Eneid. Reduced to the briefest outline, this is what it comes to.-Count Guido Franceschini, of a very old family but very reduced estate, finds himself about fifty years of age, with slender worldly prospects, having in vain haunted saloons and antechambers in Rome for thirty years. In this plight, he is minded to better his condition by marrying into a wealthy plebeian family, and is introduced by a clerical friend to Pietro Comparini and his wife Violante, in whose reputed daughter, Pompilia, the gifts of fortune are united with rare beauty of person and perfect innocence of soul. Pietro, discovering the fortune-hunter's sordid motive, would save Pompilia, whom he believes to be really his child, from such an ill-assorted union; but the match-making instinct of womankind is too strong in his wife; the marriage is hurried on, and then all parties set off for Arezzo, which is Guido's home. If Pompilia had been Pietro's child, she would be heiress to a large fortune in her own right, presuming upon which her husband, with the co-operation of his two rascally brothers (priests, of courseas the "Ring" makes them, if not the "Book") and a most

unamiable mother-treats his wife and her parents as badly as possible. The Comparinis fly from Arezzo and return to Rome, where Violante, whom revenge and conscience combine in stimulating to do an act of justice, reveals the fact that Pompilia is not her child, but the daughter of a woman of the worst repute, purchased in early infancy with the view of keeping in the family the inheritance that must otherwise have passed to collateral heirs. Litigation ensues, and Guido, getting the worst of it, treats his young wife more brutally than ever; until, at last, she flies from his house in company with Giuseppe Caponsacchi, a young and noble priest of Arezzo, and travels by forced journeys towards Rome, to take refuge with the guardians of her childhood. Not only is her husband quite aware of her flight, but he has even as far as possible contrived it, and follows in instant pursuit, hoping to find a justifiable pretext for proclaiming his wife to the world as an adulteress, and killing her and her protector. In this, however, he is disappointed; for, overtaking them at an inn where Pompilia had been forced to halt from sheer exhaustion, while Caponsacchi keeps watch and ward at the inn-door, the young Countess is found buried in deep and tranquil sleep, alone, upstairs. The inevitable scandal resulting from even so comparatively harmless a discovery, and the proceedings in the ecclesiastical courts connected with it, have the effect of sending Pompilia to a convent of Convertite Nuns, and Caponsacchi into banishment at Civita. Before long, however, the worthy Guido, still fretting at Arezzo for the inheritance of which he has been balked, hears from his brother, Abate Paolo, at Rome, that Pompilia has left the convent, has returned to the villa of the Comparinis, and has given birth to a son, who is consequently his heir. Thereupon he forms another plot to murder the Comparinis and his wife, and, having hired four peasants to aid him in its accomplishment, carries it out most truculently. But he fails to make his escape he and his accomplices are seized red-handed, and, after many pleas of denial, exculpation, and abatement of punishment, are sentenced and executed.

Manifestly this is a complicated business enough as it stands, and Mr. Browning's mode of treatment certainly does not err on the side of simplicity. First, he gives a summary of the story, at very considerable length, by way of introduction. Secondly, assuming with great probability that public opinion at Rome was somewhat divided on the question whether the Count should be put to death or not, he gives the view of the whole case as taken by "Half-Rome." Thirdly, he gives a different view of the case, taken by the "other

Half-Rome." Fourthly, Tertium Quid (whose acquaintance we have already had the honour of making) puts in his distinguished appearance, and tells it all over again in his own way. Fifthly, Count Guido, after being put to the "vigil-torture," is brought before the judges, and goes over the whole affair in such a way as to make, without much regard for truth, the best defence of himself possible under all the circumstances. Sixthly, Canon Caponsacchi, recalled from banishment, begins by "blowing up" the Court for sending him there, and then favours them with passages of his autobiography, going fully into the history of his flight with Pompilia. Seventhly, poor Pompilia herself, surviving as if by miracle for four days the mortal wounds received at the villa, gives on her deathbed an account of the whole matter from her point of view. Eighthly, Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator, and advocate for the accused, after an interminable quantity of doting parental drivel about his son, Hyacinth junior, draws up his pleas for the defence. Ninthly, Juris Doctor Johannes Baptista Bottinius, Advocate of the Fisc and the Rev. Apostolic Chamber, replies for the prosecution. Tenthly, the Pope, appealed to for a remission of the sentence, maturely ponders the whole proceedings, analyzes the characters and motives of all the actors, and decides upon letting justice have its course. Eleventhly, Guido, being waited upon before execution by a cardinal and an abate, with the hope of moving him to repentance, makes a second defence of himself on necessitarian principles, and reveals with hideous frankness the diabolical features of his character. Then there are half a dozen distinct windings-up of the tale, on the part of as many different interlocutors. If all this be not enough to test Mr. Browning's dramatic power to the utmost, we, at least, cannot conceive any test more severe. We dare not say, however, that he stands it triumphantly. Of such a method of narration it would be flattery to say that repetition does not "stale its infinite variety." Why it has been adopted by the author, it is hard for us to decide. If we were to guess, the result of our conjectures would not be complimentary, and might possibly be unjust. In dealing with a modern public, British or otherwise, an author is obliged to bear in mind that the times are changed from those when an emperor's sister paid for a few touching lines with a pile of sesterces. No doubt we have some modern instances almost parallel, in the liberality of the public, or at least the publisher. These are exceptions, however, that only prove the rule; and, indeed, an author ought to be highly remunerated for standing "on a tower in the wet," seeing how likely it is that his reputation

will catch cold of such a rash exposure. But ordinarily the public likes to get the value of its money, and, being naturally a better judge of quantity than of quality, the bulk of what it buys goes a great way with it. Isocrates put into his Panegyric "just what rushed into his head." Doctor Johannes Baptista Bottinius (who makes the comparison) had “to prune and pare and print," because "it paid." Probably it pays Mr. Browning better to do as Isocrates did.

The "subjective-objectivity" of his characters is well brought out on the whole, but "the voice of Jacob" is too distinguishable everywhere. The irrepressible Browning cannot help obtruding himself into the utterances of the hot and impulsive Caponsacchi as well as of the aged and meditative Innocent; into the last speech of the atrocious Guido as well as the dying declaration of the gentle Pompilia. His best-drawn character is Guido. Villains are very abundant in Italian history, and the crop of them in actual Italian life must be almost inexhaustible. Mr. Browning has turned his studies and his experience to great account in delineating so powerfully a character such as no country, perhaps, but Italy could supply. The wolf is the best type of such a nature— stealthy, ferocious, crafty, cruel. We certainly get rather too much of him: partridge surfeits, and surely so should wolf's flesh; but in many things his part is perfect. Let us take the beginning of his speech to the judges, after he has suffered torture:

Thanks, Sir, but should it please the reverend Court,

I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down

Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of . . . . why, 'tis wine,

Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,

So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind sir!

Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head

To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.

How cautious and considerate.

aie, aie, aie,

Not your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.

Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,

From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack all's over now,
And neither wrist-what men style-out of joint:
If any harm be, 'tis the shoulder-blade,

The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,-Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short I thank you,-yes, and mean the word.