which is barely mentioned by Guido, is fully detailed by Caponsacchi. Pompilia, no doubt, dwells upon it too-but from a different point of view, as illustrative of the pure and tender loyalty of her soldier-priest, and the incidents which she recalls are not those which had impressed the mind of her companion. And, lastly, the motives of the actors are presented to us in every conceivable light, with such inexhaustible ingenuity that merely to follow this subtle fence involves a keen intellectual excitement. Still the poem is too long, and I venture to think that a considerable portion of the introductory section, and the whole of the sections entitled 'Half Rome,' 'The Other Half Rome,' 'Tertium quid' might without much injury be omitted. Had we had nothing else from Mr. Browning about this Guido Franceschini trial we should be sorry to part with any of these-all of them being extremely clever; but they form the least essential portion of the poem, and anything essential to the narrative which they contain might be included in the introduction. The Ring and the Book is in one aspect a tragic drama, but we don't get to the actors till far on in the second volume. The first speakers are simply critics,-hitting the mark more or less closely; their talk may be likened to the conversation of the subordinate characters with which the historical plays of Shakespeare open, and in which the heroes and heroines who are to figure later on are described for the benefit of the audience. This, I think, is a mistake, and Mr. Browning himself appears to feel that it is so; for not till we reach Caponsacchi does he put forth his whole strength, and throw himself heart and hand, into the conflict. The vital or essential parts of the book, considered as a tragic poem, are 'Caponsacchi,' Pompilia,' The Pope,' and Guido' in vo 6 lume four. There is a Guido in volume two which, were retrenchment to such extent inevitable, might be dispensed with,—I am far from saying should be, for this Count Guido is a marvellously clever rascal, at once plausible and savage his stealthy barbarism thinly coated over by the refinements of the corrupt Roman life-who owes obedience to the cruel licentious code of the Italian Church-aristocrat and to no law beside. Still the first Guido is not the real Guido who appears later the man when originally presented to us is on his defence, and the character he assumes is feigned to propitiate his judges, although it is true that even then the genuine wolf-face does at times look out at us from behind the mask. So that up to this time we are listening at best to the babble of partisans. Not till we come to Caponsacchi does the naked truth blaze out upon us. With Giuseppe Caponsacchi, therefore, the drama strictly speaking begins. We believe in the handsome canon at once. At last we have come to reality. There is a fire of conviction in word and look and gesture which makes it just clean impossible that he should lie. He makes no secret indeed of the pure love with which Pompilia has inspired him,-attempts no disguise. All things sweet and beautiful are in his mind associated withThe snow-white soul that angels fear to take Untenderly. A lady, 'young, tall, beautiful, strange and sad,' is the Rafael of his gallery, It was as when in our cathedral once, There was the Rafael! She is sad as our Lady of Sorrow, the same grave grief-full air As stands i' the dusk, on altar, that I know, I do but play with an imagined life Evolve themselves if the world, change wrong to right: The good, the eternal-and these, not alone In the main current of the general life, But small experiences of every day, Concerns of the particular hearth and home: But a rose's birth,-not by the grandeur, God-- Of Roman, Grecian; draws the patched gown close, To the old solitary nothingness. So I, from such communion, pass content . . Pompilia follows: Then a soul sighs its lowest and its last The Pompilia poem is lovely throughout, and the gradual rise from the simple child-like life and associations to the sad solemn serenity of the last hour, when the light of death breaks upon her face, is highly pathetic: One cannot judge Of what has been the ill or well of life, I do see strangeness but scarce misery, My child is safe; there seems not so much pain. Then she addresses herself to her husband, For that most woeful man my husband once, Washes the parchment white, and thanks the blow. Then to her two-weeks' old boy : Even for my babe, my boy, there's safety thence-- I was already using up my life,—— This portion, now, should do him such a good, So is detached, so left all by itself So seems so much else not explained but known. And last of all to Caponsacchi: 'Tis now, when I am most upon the move, The face, again the eyes, again through all, Here alone would be failure, loss to me- How much more loss to him, with life debarred The day-star stopped its task that makes night morn! No work begun shall ever pause for death! I' the coming course, the new path I must tread, My weak hand in thy strong hand, strong for that! That's the world's insight! Oh he understands! He is at Civita-do I once doubt The world again is holding us apart? He had been here, displayed in my behalf The broad brow that reverberates the truth, And flashed the word God gave him, back to man! So, let him wait God's instant We may dispute about what is or I must pass almost without comment the exquisite comedy of the two advocates, Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, and Juris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius -which follows, noting here only the utter wordiness of both, the want of any close hold on real life, the absence of any essential insight into the truth even on the part of him who is retained to speak for the truth. I have heard it said that an approach to farce at this point-im mediately after the beautiful words last quoted-must be out of place. I do not feel it to be so. Shakespeare I think would have seen that it was eminently fitting that a criminal trial should take the usual course through the courts, should fall into the hands of Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, and his learned brother, and in doing so should reflect the very remarkable idiosyncrasies of these Roman Chancery lawyers. Behind the lawyers comes the Pope-a man bland, gentle, garrulous, yet firm as adamant, who brings the ripe experience of eighty years to bear upon the difficult issue submitted to his judgment. He still appears to dally with the verdict, though he has in truth quite made up his mind that Guido must die. The prolonged self-communion of this gracious old man (in the course of which, all the problems forced upon the mind of any thoughtful priest of God, are one by one passed in review), is very interest ing. The deliberate argument is a marvel of quiet strength and dig. nity (of course he entirely exonerates the pure soul who cannot take pollution Ermine like Armed from dishonour by its own soft snow) -the closing passage, indeed, being one of the most striking in the book: For the main criminal I have no hope But the night's black was burst through by a blaze- The revelation of Guido's soul in the ness, the essential cowardice of the brute's nature, which is, indeed, the key to his character, breaks out at last in the terror-stricken moment when he hears' the accursed psalm, and realises that the scaffold and the angry crowd wait for him, Who are these you have let descend my stair? Not one word! All was folly-I laughed and mocked! So the play ends, a dramatic poem in twelve acts, which might be effectively reduced to the five of the legitimate drama, and we bid farewell to Mr. Browning. We have been in contact with a great work, and leave it with the impress which a great work makes the mind,-still touched by a certain awe and sense of spiritual force. upon SHIRLEY. |