l. 21, where God says to the wicked, "thou thoughtest that I was

altogether such an one as thyself," and the object of the poem is to rebuke the anthropomorphic idea of God as it exists in minds of a narrow and unloving type. It is not a satire upon Christianity, as has been sometimes declared, but is an attempt to trace the evolution of the concrete idea of God in a coarse and brutal type of mind. Man from his advent on the earth has everywhere occupied himself in creating God in his own image and likeness:

"Make us a god, said man: Power first the voice obeyed; And soon a monstrous form Its worshippers dismayed."

The motto of the poem shows us how much nobler was the Hebrew conception of God than that of the nations who knew Him not. The poem opens with Caliban talking to himself in the third person, while he sprawls in the mire and is cheating Prospero and Miranda, who think he is at work for them. He begins to speculate on the Supreme Being--Setebos: he thinks His dwelling-place is the moon, thinks He made the sun and moon, but not the stars--the clouds and the island on which he dwells; he has no idea of any land beyond that which is bounded by the sea. He thinks creation was the result of God being ill at ease. The cold which He hated and which He was powerless to change impelled Him. So He made the trees, the birds and beasts and creeping things, and made everything in spite. He could not make a second self to be His mate, but made in envy, listlessness or sport all the things which filled the island as playthings. If Caliban could make a live bird out of clay, he would laugh if the creature broke his brittle clay leg; he would play with him, being his and merely clay. So he (Setebos). It would neither be right nor wrong in him, neither kind nor cruel--merely an act of the Divine Sovereignty. If Caliban saw a procession of crabs marching to the sea, in mere indifferent playfulness he might feel inclined to let twenty pass and then stone the twenty-first, pull off a claw from one with purple spots, give a worm to a third fellow, and two to another whose nippers end in red, all the while "Loving not, hating not, just choosing so!" [Apart from revelation, mankind has not reached the conception of the Fatherhood of God, whose tender mercies are over all His works. The gods of the heathen are gods of caprice, of malice and purposeless interference with creatures who are not the sheep of their pastures, but the playthings of unloving Lords.] But he will suppose God is good in the main; He has even made things which are better than Himself, and is envious that they are so, but consoles Himself that they can do nothing without Him. If the pipe which, blown through, makes a scream like a bird, were to boast that it caught the birds, and made the cry the maker could not make, he would smash it with his foot. That is just what God Setebos does; so Caliban must be humble, or pretend to be. But why is Setebos cold and ill at ease? Well, Caliban thinks there may be a something over Setebos, that made Him, something quiet, impassible--call it The Quiet. Beyond the stars he imagines The Quiet to reside, but is not much concerned about It. He plays at being simple in his way--makes believe: so does Setebos. His mother, Sycorax, thought The Quiet made all things, and Setebos only troubled what The Quiet made. Caliban does not agree with that. If things were made weak and subject to pain they were made by a devil, not by a good or indifferent being. No! weakness and pain meant sport to Him who created creatures subject to them. Setebos makes things to amuse himself, just as Caliban does; makes a pile of turfs and knocks it over again. So Setebos. But He is a terrible as well as a malicious being; His hurricanes, His high waves, His lightnings are destructive, and Caliban cannot contend with His force, neither can he tell that what pleases Him to-day will do so to-morrow. We must all live in fear of Him therefore, till haply The Quiet may conquer Him. All at once a storm comes, and Caliban feels that he was a fool to gibe at Setebos. He will lie flat and love Him, will do penance, will eat no whelks for a month to appease Him.

There are few, if any, systems of theology which escape one or other of the arrows of this satire. Anthropomorphism in greater or less degree is inseparable from our conceptions of the Supreme. The abstract idea of God is impossible to us, the concrete conception is certain to err in making God to be like ourselves. That the Almighty must in Himself include all that is highest and noblest in the soul of man is a right conception, when we attribute to Him our weaknesses and failings we are but as Caliban. The doctrine of election, and the hideous doctrine of reprobation, are most certainly aimed at in the line--

"Loving not, hating not, just choosing so."

The doctrine of reprobation is thus stated in the Westminster Confession of Faith, iii. 7. "The rest of mankind [_i.e._ all but the elect] God was pleased, according to the unsearchable counsel of His own will, whereby He extendeth or withholdeth mercy as He pleaseth, for the glory of His sovereign power over His creatures to pass by, and to ordain them to dishonour and wrath for their sin, to the praise of His glorious grace." Calvin, in his _Institutes of the Christian Religion_, taught that "God has predestinated some to eternal life, while the rest of mankind are predestinated to condemnation and eternal death" (_Encyc. Brit._ iv., art. "Calvin," p. 720).

=Camel Driver, A.= (Punishment by Man and by God: _Ferishtah's Fancies_, 7.) A murderer had been executed, the criminal acknowledging the justice of his punishment, but lamenting that the man who prompted him to evil had escaped; the murderer reflected with satisfaction that God had reserved a hell for him. But punishment is only man's trick to teach; if he could see true repentance in the sinner's soul, the fault would not be repeated. God's process in teaching or punishing nowise resembles man's. Man lumps his kind in the mass, God deals with each individual soul as though they two were alone in the universe, "Ask thy lone soul what laws are plain to thee," said Ferishtah, "then stand or fall by them!" Ignorance that sins is safe,--our greatest punishment is knowledge. No other hell will be needed for any man than the reflection that he deliberately spurned the steps which would have raised him to the regard of the Supreme. In the Lyric it is complained that mankind is over-severe with mere imperfections, which it magnifies into crimes; but the greater faults, which should have been crushed in the egg, are either not suspected at all or actually praised as virtues.

=Caponsacchi= (_The Ring and the Book_), the chivalrous priest, Canon of Arezzo, who aided Pompilia in her flight to Rome from the tyranny of Count Guido.

=Cardinal and the Dog, The.= (_Asolando_, 1889.) The Papal Legate, at the later sessions of the Council of Trent in 1551 and 1552, was Marcel Crescenzio, who came of a noble Roman family. At the fifteenth session of the Council (March 20th, 1552) he was writing to the Pope nearly the whole night, although he was ill at the time; and as he rose from his seat he saw a black dog of great size, with flaming eyes and ears hanging down to the ground, which sprang into the chamber, making straight for him, and then stretched himself under the table where Crescenzio wrote. He called his servants and ordered them to turn out the beast, but they found none. Then the Cardinal fell melancholy, took to his bed and died. As he lay on his death-bed at Verona he cried aloud to every one to drive away the dog that leapt on his bed, and so passed away in horror. The poem was written at the request of William Macready, the eldest son of the great actor. He asked the poet to write something which he might illustrate. This was in 1840, but the work was only published in the _Asolando_ volume in 1889. Howling dogs have from remote times been connected with death. In Ossian we have: "The mother of Culmin remains in the hall--his dogs are howling in their place--'Art thou fallen, my fair-haired son, in Erin's dismal war?'" There is no doubt that the howling of the wind suggested the idea of a great dog of death. The wind itself was a magnified dog, heard but not seen. Burton, in _The Anatomy of Melancholy_, says (Part I., sect ii., mem. 1, subs. 2): "Spirits often foretell men's death by several signs, as knockings, groanings, etc., though Rich. Argentine, c. 18, _De præstigiis dæmonum_, will ascribe these predictions to good angels, out of the authority of Ficinus and others; prodigies frequently occur at the deaths of illustrious men, as in the Lateran Church in Rome the popes' deaths are foretold by Sylvester's tomb. Many families in Europe are so put in mind of their last by such predictions; and many men are forewarned (if we may believe Paracelsus) by familiar spirits in divers shapes--as cocks, crows, owls--which often hover about sick men's chambers." The dog is such a faithful friend of man that we are unwilling to believe him, even in spirit-form, the harbinger of evil to any one. Cardinal Crescenzio, had he been a vivisector, would have been very appropriately summoned to his doom in the manner described in the poem. If the men who, like Professor Rutherford of Edinburgh University, boast of their ruthless torturing of dogs by hundreds, should ever find themselves in Cardinal Crescenzio's plight, there would be a fitness in things we could readily appreciate. The devil in the form of a great black dog is a familiar subject with mediæval historians. Not all black dogs were evil, though--for example, the black dog which St. Dominic's mother saw before the birth of the saint. Some of the animals called dogs were probably wolves; but even these appeared not entirely past redemption, such as the one of which we read in the _Golden Legend_, who was converted by the preaching of St. Francis, and shed tears of repentance, and became as meek as a lamb, following the saint to every town where he preached! Such is the power of love. In May 1551 the eleventh session of the Council of Trent was held, under the presidency of Cardinal Crescenzio, sole legate in title, but with two nuncios--Pighini and Lippomani. It was merely formal, as was also the twelfth session, in September 1551. It was Crescenzio who refused all concession, even going so far as to abstract the Conciliar seal, lest the safe-conduct to the Protestant theologians should be granted. He was, however, forced to yield to pressure, and had to receive the Protestant envoys in a private session at his own house. The legate in April 1552 was compelled to suspend the Council for two years, in consequence of the perils of war. There was a general stampede from Trent at once, and the legate Crescenzio, then very ill, had just strength to reach Verona, where he died three days after his arrival (_Encyc. Brit._, art. "Trent," vol. xxiii.). Moreri (_Dict. Hist._) tells the story in almost the same way as Mr. Browning has given it, and adds: "It could have been invented only by ill-meaning people, who lacked respect for the Council."

=Carlisle, Lady.= (_Strafford._) Mr. Browning says: "The character of Lady Carlisle in the play is wholly imaginary," but history points clearly enough to the truth of Mr. Browning's conception.

=Cavalier Tunes.= (Published first in _Bells and Pomegranates_ in 1842.) Their titles are: "Marching Along," "Give a Rouse," and "Boot and Saddle." Villiers Stanford set them to music.

=Cenciaja.= (_Pacchiarotto, with other Poems_, London, 1876.)

"Ogni cencio vuol entrare in bucato."

The explanation of the title of this poem, as also of the Italian motto which stands at its head, is given in the following letter written by the poet to Mr. Buxton Forman:--

"19, WARWICK CRESCENT, W., _July 27th, '76_.

"DEAR MR. BUXTON FORMAN,--There can be no objection to such a simple statement as you have inserted, if it seems worth inserting. 'Fact,' it is. Next: 'Aia' is generally an accumulative yet depreciative termination. 'Cenciaja,' a bundle of rags--a trifle. The proverb means 'every poor creature will be pressing into the company of his betters,' and I used it to deprecate the notion that I intended anything of the kind. Is it any contribution to 'all connected with Shelley,' if I mention that my 'Book' (_The Ring and the Book_) [rather the 'old square yellow book,' from which the details were taken] has a reference to the reason given by Farinacci, the advocate of the Cenci, of his failure in the defence of Beatrice? 'Fuisse punitam Beatricem' (he declares) 'poenâ ultimi supplicii, non quia ex intervallo occidi mandavit insidiantem suo honori, sed quia ejus exceptionem non probavi tibi. Prout, et idem firmiter sperabatur de sorore Beatrice si propositam excusationem probasset, prout non probavit.' That is, she expected to avow the main outrage, and did not; in conformity with her words, 'That which I ought to confess, that will I confess; that to which I ought to assent, to that I assent; and that which I ought to deny, that will I deny.' Here is another Cenciaja!

"Yours very sincerely, ROBERT BROWNING."

The opening lines of the poem refer to Shelley's terrible tragedy, _The Cenci_, in the preface to which the story on which the work is founded, is briefly told as follows: "A manuscript was communicated to me during my travels in Italy, which was copied from the archives of the Cenci Palace at Rome, and contains a detailed account of the horrors which ended in the extinction of one of the noblest and richest families of that city, during the pontificate of Clement VIII., in the year 1599. The story is, that an old man, having spent his life in debauchery and wickedness, conceived at length an implacable hatred towards his children; which showed itself towards one daughter under the form of an incestuous passion, aggravated by every circumstance of cruelty and violence. This daughter, after long and vain attempts to escape from what she considered a perpetual contamination both of body and mind, at length plotted with her mother-in-law and brother to murder their common tyrant. The young maiden, who was urged to this tremendous deed by an impulse which overpowered its horror, was evidently a most gentle and amiable being; a creature formed to adorn and be admired, and thus violently thwarted from her nature by the necessity of circumstances and opinion. The deed was quickly discovered; and, in spite of the most earnest prayers made to the Pope by the highest persons in Rome, the criminals were put to death. The old man had, during his life, repeatedly bought his pardon from the Pope for capital crimes of the most enormous and unspeakable kind, at the price of a hundred thousand crowns; the death, therefore, of his victims can scarcely be accounted for by the love of justice. The Pope, among other motives for severity, probably felt that whosoever killed the Count Cenci deprived his treasury of a certain and copious source of revenue." This explanation is exactly what might be expected from a priest-hater and religion-despiser like Shelley. The _Encyclopædia Britannica_, in the article on Clement VIII., says: "Clement was an able ruler and a sagacious statesman. He died in March 1605, leaving a high character for prudence, munificence, and capacity for business." Mr. Browning's contribution to the Cenci literature affords a more reasonable motive for refusing to spare the lives of the Cenci. Sir John Simeon lent the poet a copy of an old chronicle, of which he made liberal use in the poem we are considering. According to this account, the Pope would probably have pardoned Beatrice had not a case of matricide occurred in Rome at the time, which determined him to make an example of the Cenci. The Marchesa dell' Oriolo, a widow, had just been murdered by her younger son, Paolo Santa Croce. He had quarrelled with his mother about the family rights of his elder brother, and killed her because she refused to aid him in an act of injustice. Having made his escape, he endeavoured to involve his brother in the crime, and the unfortunate young man was beheaded, although he was perfectly innocent. In _Cenciaja_ Mr. Browning throws light on the tragic events of the Cenci story. When Clement was petitioned on behalf of the family, he said: "She must die. Paolo Santa Croce murdered his mother, and he is fled; she shall not flee at least!"

=Charles Avison.= [THE MAN.] (_Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in their Day._ 1887. No. VII.) "Charles Avison, a musician, was born in Newcastle about 1710, and died in the same town in 1770. He studied in Italy, and on his return to England became a pupil of Geminiani. He was appointed organist of St. Nicholas' Church, Newcastle, in 1736. In 1752 appeared his celebrated _Essay on Musical Expression_, which startled the world by the boldness with which it put the French and Italian schools of music above the German, headed by Handel himself. This book led to a controversy with Dr. Hayes, in which, according to the _Dictionary of National Biography_, from which we take the facts, 'Hayes had the best of the argument, though Avison was superior from a literary point of view.' Avison, who is reported to have been a man of great culture and polish, published several sets of sonatas and concertos, but there are probably few persons at the present day who have ever heard any of his music." (_Pall Mall Gazette_, Jan. 18th, 1887.)

[THE POEM.] This is a criticism of the province and office of music in its influence on the mind of man.

"There is no truer truth obtainable By man, than comes of music,"

says Mr. Browning. Underneath Mind rolls the unsounded sea--the Soul. Feeling from out its deeps emerges in flower and foam.

"Who tells of, tracks to source the founts of Soul?"

Music essays to solve how we feel, to match feeling with knowledge. Manifest Soul's work on Mind's work, how and whence come the hates, loves, joys, hopes and fears that rise and sink ceaselessly within us? Of these things Music seeks to tell. Art may arrest some of the transient moods of Soul; Poetry discerns, Painting is aware of the seething within the gulf, but Music outdoes both: dredging deeper yet, it drags into day the abysmal bottom growths of Soul's deep sea.

NOTES.--ii., "_March_": Avison's _Grand March_ was possessed in MS. by Browning's father. The music of the march is added to the poem. iv., "_Great John Relfe_": Browning's music master--a celebrated contrapuntist. _Buononcini, Giovanni Battista_, Italian musician. He was a gifted composer, declared by his clique to be infinitely superior to Handel, with whom he wrote at one time in conjunction. _Geminiani, Francesco_, Italian violinist (1680-1762). He came to London under the protection of the Earl of Essex in 1714. His musical opinions are said to have had no foundation in truth or principle. _Pepusch, John Christopher_, an eminent theoretical musician, born at Berlin about 1667. He performed at Drury Lane in about 1700. He took the degree of Mus. Doc. at Oxford at the same time with Croft, 1713. He was organist at the Charter-House, and died in 1752. v., _Hesperus_. The song to the Evening Star in _Tannhauser_, "O Du mein holder Abendstern," is referred to here (Mr. A. Symons). viii., "_Radamista_," the name of an opera by Handel, first performed at the Haymarket in 1720. "_Rinaldo_," the name of the opera composed by Handel, and performed under his direction at the Haymarket for the first time on Feb. 24th, 1711. xv., "_Little Ease_," an uncomfortable punishment similar to the stocks or the pillory.

=Charles I.= (_Strafford._) The character of this king, who basely sacrifices his best friend Strafford, is founded in fact, but his weakness and meanness are doubtless exaggerated by the poet--to show his meaning, as the artists say.

=Cherries.= (_Ferishtah's Fancies_, 9.) "On Praise and Thanksgiving." All things are great and small in their degree. A disciple objects to Ferishtah that man is too weak to praise worthily the All-mighty One; he is too mean to offer fit praise to Heaven,--let the stars do that! The dervish tells a little story of a subject of the Shah who came from a distant part of the realm, and wandered about the palace wonderingly, till all at once he was surprised to find a nest-like little chamber with his own name on the entry, and everything arranged exactly to his own peculiar taste. Yet to him it was as nothing: he had not faith enough to enter into the good things provided for him. He tells another story. Two beggars owed a great sum to the Shah. This one brought a few berries from his currant-bush, some heads of garlic, and five pippins from a seedling tree. This was his whole wealth; he offered that in payment of his debt. It was graciously received; teaching us that if we offer God all the love and thanks we can, it will gratify the Giver of all good none the less because our offering is small, and lessened by admixture with lower human motives. For the grateful flavour of the cherry let us lift up our thankful hearts to Him who made that, the stars, and us. We know why He made the cherry,--why He made Jupiter we do not know. The Lyric compares verse-making with love-making. Verse-making is praising God by the stars, too great a task for man's short life; but love-making has no depths to explore, no heights to ascend; love now will be love evermore: let us give thanks for love, if we cannot offer praise the poet's own great way.

=Chiappino.= (_A Soul's Tragedy._) The bragging friend of Luitolfo, who was compelled to be noble against his inclination, and who became "the twenty-fourth leader of a revolt" ridiculed by the legate.

="Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came."= (_Men and Women_, 1855; _Romances_, 1863; _Dramatic Romances_, 1868.) The story of a knight who has undertaken a pilgrimage to a certain dark tower, the way to which was full of difficulties and dangers, and the right road quite unknown to the seeker. Those who had preceded him on the path had all failed, and he himself is no sooner fairly engaged in the quest than he is filled with despair, but is impelled to go on. At the stage of his journey which is described in the poem he meets a hoary cripple, who gives him directions which he consents to follow, though with misgivings. The day was drawing to a close, the road by which he entered on the path to the tower was gone; when he looked back, nothing remained but to proceed. Nature all around was starved and ignoble: flowers there were none; some weeds that seemed to thrive in the wilderness only added to its desolation; dock leaves with holes and rents, grass as hair in leprosy; and wandering on the gloomy plain, one stiff, blind horse, all starved and stupefied, looking as if he were thrust out of the devil's stud. The pilgrim tried to think of earlier, happier sights: of his friend Cuthbert--alas! one night's disgrace left him without that friend; of Giles, the soul of honour, who became a traitor, spit upon and curst. The present horror was better than these reflections on the past. And now he approached a petty, yet spiteful river, over which black scrubby alders hung, with willows that seemed suicidal. He forded the stream, fearing to set his foot on some dead man's cheek; the cry of the water-rat sounded as the shriek of a baby. And as he toiled on he saw that ugly heights (mountains seemed too good a name to give such hideous heaps) had given place to the plain, and two hills in particular, couched like two bulls in fight, seemed to indicate the place of the tower. Yes! in their midst was the round, squat turret, without a counterpart in the whole world. The sight was as that of the rock which the sailor sees too late to avoid the crash that wrecks his ship. The very hills seemed watching him; he seemed to hear them cry, "Stab and end the creature!" A noise was everywhere, tolling like a bell; he could hear the names of the lost adventurers who had preceded him. There they stood to see the last of him. He saw and knew them all, yet dauntless set the horn to his lips and blew, "_Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came_."

NOTES.--At the head of the poem is a note: "See Edgar's song in _Lear_." In Act III., scene iv., Edgar, disguised as a madman, says, while the storm rages: "Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, over bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow and halters in his pew; set ratsbane by his porridge; made him proud of heart to ride on a bay trotting-horse over four-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor.--Bless thy five wits! Tom's a-cold.--O do de, do de, do, de.----Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes." At the end of the scene Edgar sings:--

"Childe Rowland to the dark tower came, His word was still,--Fie, foh, and fum I smell the blood of a British man."

"Childe Roland was the youngest brother of Helen. Under the guidance of Merlin he undertook to bring back his sister from elf-land, whither the fairies had carried her, and he succeeded in his perilous exploit."--Dr. Brewer. (See the ancient Ballade of _Burd Helen_.) _Childe_ was a term specially applied to the scions of knightly families before their admission to the degree of knighthood, as "Chyld Waweyn, Loty's Sone" (_Robert of Gloucester_).

This wonderful poem, one of the grandest pieces of word-painting in our language, has exercised the ingenuity of Browning students more than any other of the poet's works. _Sordello_ is difficult to understand, but it was intended by the poet to convey a definite meaning and important lessons, but _Childe Roland_, we have been warned again and again, was written without any moral purpose whatever. "We may see in it," says Mrs. Orr, "a poetic vision of life.... The thing we may not do is to imagine that we are meant to recognise it." A paper was read at the Browning Society on this poem by Mr. Kirkman (_Browning Society Papers_, Part iii., p. 21) suggesting an interpretation of the allegory. In the discussion which followed, Dr. Furnivall said "he had asked Browning if it was an allegory, and in answer had, on three separate occasions, received an emphatic 'no'; that it was simply a dramatic creation called forth by a line of Shakespeare's. Browning had written it one day in Paris, as a vivid picture suggested by Edgar's line; the horse was suggested by the figure of a red horse in a piece of tapestry in Browning's house.... Still, Dr. Furnivall thought, it was quite justifiable that any one should use the poem to signify whatever image it called up in his own mind. But he must not confuse the poet's mind with his. The poem was _not_ an allegory, and was never meant to be one." The Hon. Roden Noel, who was in the chair on this occasion, said "he himself had never regarded _Childe Roland_ as having any hidden meaning; nor had cared so to regard it. But words are mystic symbols: they mean more, very often, than the utterer of them, poet or puppet, intended." When some one asked Mendelssohn what he meant by his _Lieder ohne Worte_, the musician replied that "they meant what they said." A poem so consistent as a whole, with a narrative in which every detail follows in a perfectly regular and natural sequence, must inevitably convey to the thinking mind some great and powerful idea, suiting itself to his view of life considered as a journey or pilgrimage. The wanderings of the children of Israel from Egypt to the Promised Land may be considered simply as a historical event, like the migrations of the Tartars or the Northmen; or they may be viewed as an allegory of the Christian life, like Bunyan's immortal dream. The historian of the Exodus could never have had in his mind all the interpretations put upon the incidents which he recorded; yet we have the warrant of St. Paul for allegorising the story. Any narrative of a journey through a desert to a definite end held in view throughout the way, is certain to be pounced upon as an allegory; and it is impossible but that Mr. Browning must have had some notion of a "central purpose" in his poem. Indeed, when the Rev. John W. Chadwick visited the poet, and asked him if constancy to an ideal--"He that endureth to the end shall be saved"--was not a sufficient understanding of the central purpose of the poem, he said, "Yes, just about that." Mr. Kirkman, in the paper already referred to, says, "There are overwhelming reasons for concluding that this poem describes, after the manner of an allegory, the sensations of a sick man very near to death--_Rabbi Ben Ezra_ and _Prospice_--are the two angels that lead on to _Childe Roland_." Mr. Nettleship, in his well-known essay on the poem, says the central idea is this: "Take some great end which men have proposed to themselves in life, which seemed to have truth in it, and power to spread freedom and happiness on others; but as it comes in sight, it falls strangely short of preconceived ideas, and stands up in hideous prosaicness." Mrs. James L. Bagg, in the _Interpretation of Childe Roland_, read to the Syracuse (U.S.) Browning Club, gives the following on the lesson of the poem:--"The secrets of the universe are not to be discovered by exercise of reason, nor are they to be reached by flights of fancy, nor are duties loyally done to be recompensed by revealment. A life of _becoming_, _being_, and _doing_, is not loss, nor failure, nor discomfiture, though the dark tower for ever tantalise and for ever withhold." Some have seen in the poem an allegory of _Love_, others of _the Search after Truth_. Others, again, understand the Dark Tower to represent Unfaith, and the obscure land that of Doubt--Doubting Castle and the By-Path Meadow of John Bunyan, in short. For my own part, I see in the allegory--for I can consider it no other--a picture of the Age of Materialistic Science, a "science falsely so called," which aims at the destruction of all our noblest ideals of religion and faith in the unseen. The pilgrim is a truth-seeker, misdirected by the lying spirit--the hoary cripple, unable to be or do anything good or noble himself; in him I see the cynical, destructive critic, who sits at our universities and colleges, our medical schools and our firesides, to point our youth to the desolate path of Atheistic Science, a science which strews the ghastly landscape with wreck and ruthless ruin, with the blanching bones of animals tortured to death by its "engines and wheels, with rusty teeth of steel"--a science which has invaded the healing art, and is sending students of medicine daily down the road where surgeons become cancer-grafters (as the Paris and Berlin medical scandals have revealed), and where physicians gloat over their animal victims--

"Toads in a poisoned tank, Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage,"

in their passion to reach the dark tower of Knowledge, which to them has neither door nor window. The lost adventurers are the men who, having followed this false path, have failed, and who look eagerly for the next fool who comes to join the band of the lost ones. "In the Paris School of Medicine," says Mr. Lilly in his _Right and Wrong_, "it has lately been prophesied that, 'when the rest of the world has risen to the intellectual level of France, the present crude and vulgar notions regarding morality, religion, Divine providence, and so forth, will be swept entirely away, and the dicta of science will remain the sole guide of sane and educated men.'" Had Mr. Browning intended to write for us an allegory in aid of our crusade, a sort of medical Pilgrim's Progress, he could scarcely have given the world a more faithful picture of the spiritual ruin and desolation which await the student of medicine who sets forth on the fatal course of an experimental torturer. I have good authority for saying that, had Mr. Browning seen this interpretation of his poem, he would have cordially accepted it as at least one legitimate explanation. Most of the commentators agree that when Childe Roland "dauntless set the slug horn to his lips and blew '_Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came_,'" he did so as a warning to others that he had failed in his quest, and that the way of the Dark Tower was the way of destruction and death.

=Christmas Eve.= (_Christmas Eve and Easter Day_: London, 1850.) Two poems on the same subject from different points of view. The scene is a country chapel, a barnlike structure, from which ornament has been rigorously excluded, not so much on account of want of funds as horror of anything which should detract from "Gospel simplicity." The night is stormy, and Christmas Day must have fallen on a Monday that year, or surely no worshippers in that building would have troubled themselves about keeping the vigil of such a "Popish feast" as Christmas. It must have been Sunday night as well as Christmas Eve, that year of '49. The congregation eyed the stranger "much as some wild beast," for "not many wise" were called to worship in their particular way, and the stranger was evidently not of their faith or class. In came the flock: the fat woman with a wreck of an umbrella; the little old-faced, battered woman with the baby, wringing the ends of her poor shawl soaking with the rain; then a "female something" in dingy satins; next a tall, yellow man, like the Penitent Thief; and from him, as from all, the interloper got the same surprised glance. "What, you, Gallio, here!" it expressed. And so, after a shoemaker's lad, with a wet apron round his body and a bad cough inside it, had passed in, the interloper followed and took his place, waiting for his portion of New Testament meat, like the rest of them. What with the hot smell of greasy coats and frowsy gowns, combined with the preacher's stupidity, the visitor soon had enough of it, and he "flung out of the little chapel" in disgust. As he passed out he found there was a lull in the rain and wind. The moon was up, and he walked on, glad to be in the open air, his mind full of the scene he had left. After all, why should he be hard on this case? In many modes the same thing was going on everywhere--the endeavour to make you believe--and with much about the same effect. He had his own church; Nature had early led him to its door; he had found God visibly present in the immensities, and with the power had recognised his love too as the nobler dower. Quite true was it that God stood apart from man--apart, that he might have room to act and use his gifts of brain and heart. Man was not perfect, not a machine, not unaware of his fitness to pray and praise. He looked up to God, recognised how infinitely He surpassed man in power and wisdom, and was convinced He would never in His love bestow less than man requires. In this great way _he_ would seek to press towards God; let men seek Him in a narrow shrine if they would. And as he mused thus, suddenly the rain ceased and the moon shone out, the black clouds falling beneath her feet; a moon rainbow, vast and perfect, rose in its chorded colours. Then from out the world of men the worshipper of God in Nature was called, and at once and with terror he saw Him with His human air, the back of Him--no more. He had been present in the poor chapel--He, with His sweeping garment, vast and white, whose hem could just be recognised by the awed beholder, He who had promised to be where two or three should meet to pray--and He had been present as the friend of these poor folk! He was leaving him who had despised the friends of the Human-Divine. Then he clung to the salvation of His vesture, and told Him how he had thought it best He should be worshipped in spirit and becoming beauty; the uncouth worship he had just left was scarcely fitted for Him. Then the Lord turned His whole face upon him, and he was caught up in the whirl of the vestment, and was up-borne through the darkness and the cold, and held awful converse with his God; and then he came to know who registers the cup of cold water given for His sake, and who disdains not to slake His Divine thirst for love at the poorest love ever offered--came to know it was for this he was permitted to cling to the vesture himself. And so they crossed the world till they stopped at the miraculous dome of God, St. Peter's Church at Rome, with its colonnade like outstretched arms, as if desiring to embrace all mankind. The whole interior of the vast basilica is alive with worshippers this Christmas Eve. It is the midnight mass of the Feast of the Nativity under Rome's great dome. The incense rises in clouds; the organ holds its breath and grovels latent, as if hushed by the touch of God's finger. The silence is broken only by the shrill tinkling of a silver bell. Very man and Very God upon the altar lies, and Christ has entered, and the man whom He brought clinging to His garment's fold is left outside the door, for He must be within, where so much of love remains, though the man without is to wait till He return:

"He will not bid me enter too, But rather sit as I now do."

He muses as he remains in the night air, shut out from the glory and the worship within, and he desires to enter. He thinks he can see the error of the worshippers; but he is sure also that he can see the love, the power of the Crucified One, which swept away the poetry, rhetoric and art of old Rome and Greece, "till filthy saints rebuked the gust" which gave them the glimpse of a naked Aphrodite. Love shut the world's eyes, and love sufficed. Again he is caught up in the vesture's fold, and transferred this time to a lecture-hall in a university town in Germany, where a hawk-nosed, high-cheek-boned professor, with a hacking cough, is giving a Christmas Eve discourse on the Christ myth. He was just discussing the point whether there ever was a Christ or not, and the Saviour had entered here also; but He would not bid His companion enter "the exhausted air-bell of the critic." Where Papist with Dissenter struggles the air may become mephitic; but the German left no air to poison at all. He rejects Christ as known to Christians; yet he retains somewhat. Is it His intellect that we must reverence? But Christ taught nothing which other sages had not taught before, and who did not damage their claim by assuming to be one with the Creator. Are we to worship Christ, then, for His goodness? But goodness is due from man to man, still more to God, and does not confer on its possessor the right to rule the race. Besides, the goodness of Christ was either self-gained or inspired by God. On neither ground could it substantiate His claim to put Himself above us. We praise Nature, not Harvey, for the circulation of the blood; so we look from the gift to the Giver--from man's dust to God's divinity. What is the point of stress in Christ's teaching? "Believe in goodness and truth, now understood for the first time"? or "Believe in Me, who lived and died, yet am Lord of Life"? And all the time Christ remains inside this lecture-room. Could it be that there was anything which a Christian could be in accord with there? The professor has pounded the pearl of price to dust and ashes, yet he does not bid his hearers sweep the dust away. No; he actually gives it back to his hearers, and bids them carefully treasure the precious remains, venerate the myth, adore the man as before! And so the listener resolved to value religion for itself, be very careless as to its sects, and thus cultivate a mild indifferentism; when, lo! the storm began afresh, and the black night caught him and whirled him up and flung him prone on the college-step. Christ was gone, and the vesture fast receding. It is borne in upon him then that there must be one best way of worship. This he will strive to find and make other men share, for man is linked with man, and no gain of his must remain unshared by the race. He caught at the vanishing robe, and, once more lapped in its fold, was seated in the little chapel again, as if he had never left it, never seen St. Peter's successor nor the professor's laboratory. The poor folk were all there as before--a disagreeable company, and the sermon had just reached its "tenthly and lastly." The English was ungrammatical; in a word, the water of life was being dispensed with a strong taint of the soil in a poor earthen vessel. This, he thinks, is his place; here, to his mind, is "Gospel simplicity"; he will criticise no more.

NOTES.--Sect. ii., "_a carer for none of it, a Gallio_": "And Gallio cared for none of these things" (Acts xviii. 17). "_A Saint John's candlestick_" (see Rev. i. 20). "_Christmas Eve of 'Forty-nine_": Dissenters do not keep Christmas Eve, nor Christmas Day itself; they would not, therefore, have been found at chapel unless Christmas happened to fall on a Sunday. In 1849 Christmas Eve fell on a Monday. Sect. x., _the baldachin_: the canopy over the high altar of St. Peter's at Rome is supported by magnificent twisted brazen columns, from designs by Bernini. It is 95 feet in height, and weighs about 93 tons. The high altar stands immediately over the tomb of St. Peter. Sect. xiv., "_Göttingen, most likely_": a celebrated university of Germany, which has produced many eminent Biblical critics. Neander and Ewald were natives of Göttingen. Sect. xvi.,--

"_When A got leave an Ox to be, No Camel (quoth the Jews) like G._"

The letter Aleph, in Hebrew, was suggested by an ox's head and horns. Gimel, the Hebrew letter G, means camel. Sect. xviii., "_anapæsts in comic-trimeter_": in prosody an _anapæst_ is a foot consisting of three syllables; the first two short, and the third long. A _trimeter_ is a division of verse consisting of three measures of two feet each. "_The halt and maimed 'Iketides'_": _The Suppliants_, an incomplete play of Æschylus, called "maimed" because we have only a portion of it extant. Sect. xxii., _breccia_, a kind of marble.

=Christopher Smart.= (_Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in their Day._ 1887.) [THE MAN.] (1722-1771.) It has only recently been discovered that Smart was anything more than a writer of second-rate eighteenth-century poetry. He was born at Shipbourne, in Kent, in 1722. He was a clever youth, and the Duchess of Cleveland sent him to Cambridge, and allowed him £40 a year till her death in 1742. He did well at college, and became a fellow of Pembroke, gaining the Seaton prize five times. When he came to London he mixed in the literary society adorned by Dr. Johnson, Garrick, Dr. James, and Dr. Burney--all of whom helped him in his constant difficulties. He married a daughter of Mr. Newbery, the publisher. He became a Bohemian man of letters, but the only work by which he will be remembered is the _Song to David_, the history of which is sufficiently remarkable. It was written while he was in confinement as a person of unsound mind, and was--it is said, though we know not if the fact be precisely as usually stated--written with a nail on the wall of the cell in which he was detained. The poem bears no evidence of the melancholy circumstances under which it was composed: it is powerful and healthy in every line, and is evidently the work of a sincerely religious mind. He was unfortunately a man of dissipated habits, and his insanity was probably largely due to intemperance. He died in 1771 from the effects of poverty and disease. His _Song to David_ was published in 1763, and is quite unlike any other production of the century. The poem in full consists of eighty-six verses, of which Mr. Palgrave, in the _Golden Treasury_, gives the following:--

"He sang of God--the mighty Source Of all things, the stupendous force On which all strength depends; From Whose right arm, beneath Whose eyes, All period, power, and enterprise Commences, reigns, and ends.

"The world,--the clustering spheres, He made, The glorious light, the soothing shade, Dale, champaign, grove, and hill: The multitudinous abyss. Where Secrecy remains in bliss, And Wisdom hides her skill.

"Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said To Moses, while earth heard in dread, And, smitten to the heart, At once above, beneath, around, All Nature, without voice or sound, Replied, O LORD, THOU ART."

[THE POEM.] "How did this happen?" asks Mr. Browning. He imagined that he was exploring a large house, had gone through the decently-furnished rooms, which exhibited in their arrangement good taste without extravagance, till, on pushing open a door, he found himself in a chapel which was

"From floor to roof one evidence Of how far earth may rival heaven."

Prisoned glory in every niche, it glowed with colour and gleamed with carving: it was "Art's response to earth's despair." He leaves the chapel big with expectation of what might be in store for him in other rooms in the mansion, but there was nothing but the same dead level of indifferent work everywhere, just as in the rooms which he had passed through on his way to the exquisite chapel: nothing anywhere but calm Common-Place. Browning says this is a diagnosis of Smart's case: he was sound and sure at starting, then caught up in a fireball. Heaven let earth understand how heaven at need can operate; then the flame fell, and the untransfigured man resumed his wonted sobriety. But what Browning wants to know is, How was it this happened but once? Here was a poet who always could but never did but once! Once he saw Nature naked; once only Truth found vent in words from him. Once the veil was pulled back, then the world darkened into the repository of show and hide.

=Clara de Millefleurs.= (_Red Cotton Night-Cap Country._) The mistress of Miranda, the jeweller of Paris.

=Claret.= See "Nationality in Drinks" (_Dramatic Lyrics_).

=Classification.= Mr. Nettleship's classification of Browning is the best I know. It is no easy matter to table the poet's works: they do not readily accommodate themselves to classification. Such poems as the great Art and Music works, the Dramas, Love, and Religious poems are to be found in this book under the respective subjects.

=Cleon.= (_Men and Women_, 1855.) The speculation of this poem may be compared with a picture in a magic lantern slowly dissolving into another view, and losing itself in that which is succeeding it. We have the latest utterances of the beautiful Greek thought, saddened as they were by the despairing note of the sense of hopelessness which marred the highest effort of man, and which was never so acutely felt as at the period when the Sun of Christianity was rising and about to fill the world with the Spirit of Eternal Hope. The old heathenism is dissolving away, the first faint outlines of the gospel glory are detected by the philosopher who has heard of the fame of Paul, and is not sure he is not the same as the Christ preached by some slaves whose doctrine "could be held by no sane man." The quotation with which the poem is headed is from Acts of the Apostles, chap. xvii. 28: "As certain also of your own poets have said, 'For we are also his offspring.'" The quotation is from the _Phænomena_ of Aratus, a poet of _Tarsus_, in Cilicia, St. Paul's own city. There is also a very similar passage in a hymn of the Stoic Cleanthes: "Zeus, thou crown of creation, Hail!--We are thy offspring." The persons of the poem are not historical, though the thought expressed is highly characteristic of that of the Greek philosophers of the time. As the old national creeds disappeared under the advancing tide of Roman conquest, and as philosophers calmly discussed the truth or falsity of their dying religions, an easy tolerance arose, all religions were permitted because "indifference had eaten the heart out of them." Four hundred years before our era Eastern philosophy, through the Greek conquests in Asia, had begun to influence European thinkers by its strange and subtle attempts to solve the mystery of existence. A spirit of inquiry, and a restless craving for some undefined faith which should take the place of that which was everywhere dying out, prepared the way for the progress of the simple, love-compelling religion of Christ, and made every one's heart more or less suitable soil for the good seed. Cleon is a poet from the isles of Greece who has received a letter from his royal patron and many costly gifts, which crowd his court and portico. He writes to thank his king for his munificence, and in his reply says it is true that he has written that epic on the hundred plates of gold; true that he composed the chant which the mariners will learn to sing as they haul their nets; true that the image of the sun-god on the lighthouse is his also; that the Poecile--the portico at Athens painted with battle pictures by Polygnotus the Thasian, has been adorned, too, with his own works. He knows the plastic anatomy of man and woman and their proportions, not observed before; he has moreover

"Written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again."

He has combined the moods for music, and invented one:--

"In brief, all arts are mine."

All this is known; it is not so marvellous either, because men's minds in these latter days are greater than those of olden time because more composite. Life, he finds reason to believe, is intended to be viewed eventually as a great whole, not analysed to parts, but each having reference to all: the true judge of man's life must see the whole, not merely one way of it at once; the artist who designed the chequered pavement did not superimpose the figures, putting the last design over the old and blotting it out,--he made a picture and used every stone, whatever its figure, in the composition of his work. So he conceives that perfect, separate forms which make the portions of mankind were created at first, afterwards these were combined, and so came progress. Mankind is a synthesis--a putting together of all the single men. Zeus had a plan in all, and our souls know this, and cry to him--

"To vindicate his purpose in our life."

As for himself he is not a poet like Homer, such a musician as Terpander, nor a sculptor like Phidias; point by point he fails to reach their height, but in sympathy he is the equal of them all. So much for the first part of the king's letter: it is all true which has been reported of him. Next he addresses himself to the questions asked by the king: "has he not attained the very crown and proper end of life?" and having so abundantly succeeded, does he fear death as do lower men? Cleon replies that if his questioner could have been present on the earth before the advent of man, and seen all its tenantry, from worm to bird, he would have seen them perfect. Had Zeus asked him if he should do more for creatures than he had done, he would have replied, "Yes, make each grow conscious in himself"; he chooses then for man, his last premeditated work, that a quality may arise within his soul which may view itself and so be happy. "Let him learn how he lives." Cleon would, however, tell the king it would have been better had man made no step beyond the better beast. Man is the only creature in whom there is failure; it is called advance that man should climb to a height which overlooks lower forms of creation simply that he may perish there. Our vast capabilities for joy, our craving souls, our struggles, only serve to show us that man is inadequate to joy, as the soul sees joy. "Man can use but a man's joy while he sees God's." He agrees with the king in his profound discouragement: most progress is most failure. As to the next question which the letter asks: "Does he, the poet, artist, musician, fear death as common men? Will it not comfort him to know that his works will live, though he may perish?" Not at all, he protests--he, sleeping in his urn while men sing his songs and tell his praise! "It is so horrible." And so he sometimes imagines Zeus may intend for us some future state where the capability for joy is as unlimited as is our present desire for joy. But no: "Zeus has not yet revealed it. He would have done so were it possible!" Nothing can more faithfully portray the desolation of the soul "without God," the sense of loss in man, whose soul, emanating from the Divine, refuses to be satisfied with anything short of God Himself. Art, wealth, learning, honours, serve not to dissipate for a moment the infinite sadness of this soul "without God and without hope in the world." And, as he wrote, Paul, the Apostle of the Gentiles, had turned to the Pagan world with the Gospel which the Jews had rejected. To the very island in the Grecian sea whence arose this sad wail of despair the echo of the angel-song of Bethlehem had been borne, "Peace on earth, good-will towards men." Round the coasts of the Ægean Sea, through Philippi, Troas, Mitylene, Chios, and Miletus, "the mere barbarian Jew Paulus" had sown the seeds of a faith which should grow up and shelter under its branches the weary truth-seekers who knew too well what was the utter hopelessness of "art for art's sake" for satisfying the infinite yearning of the human heart. In the crypt of the church of San Marziano at Syracuse is the primitive church of Sicily, constructed on the spot where St. Paul is said to have preached during his three days' sojourn on the island. Here is shown the rude stone altar where St. Paul broke the bread of life; and as we stand on this sacred spot and recall the past in this strange city of a hundred memorials of antiquity--the temples of the gods, the amphitheatre, the vast altar, the Greek theatre, the walls of Epipolæ, the aqueducts, the forts, the harbour, the quarries, the Ear of Dionysius, the tombs, the streams and fountains famed in classic story and sung by poets--all fade into insignificance before the hallowed spot whence issued the fertilising influences of the Gospel preached by this same Paulus to a few poor slaves. The time would come, and not so far distant either, when the doctrines of Christ and Paul would be rejected "by no sane man."

=Clive.= (_Dramatic Idyls_, Series II., 1880.) The poem deals with a well-known incident in the life of Lord Clive, who founded the empire of British India and created for it a pure and strong administration. Robert Clive was born in 1725 at Styche, near Market Drayton, Shropshire. The Clives formed one of the oldest families in the county. Young Clive was negligent of his books, and devoted to boyish adventures of the wildest sort. However, he managed to acquire a good education, though probably by means which schoolmasters considered irregular. He was a born leader, and held death as nothing in comparison with loss of honour. He often suffered, even in youth, from fits of depression, and twice attempted his own life. He went out to Madras as a "writer" in the East India Company's civil service. Always in some trouble or other with his companions, he one day fought the duel which forms the subject of Mr. Browning's poem. In 1746 he became disgusted with a civilian's life, and obtained an ensign's commission. At this time a crisis in Indian affairs opened up to a man of high courage, daring and administrative ability, like Clive, a brilliant path to fortune. Clive seized his opportunity, and won India for us. His bold attack upon the city of Arcot terminated in a complete victory for our arms; and in 1753, when he sailed to England for the recovery of his health, his services were suitably rewarded by the East India Company. He won the battle of Plassey in 1757. Notwithstanding his great services to his country, his conduct in India was severely criticised, and he was impeached in consequence, but was acquitted in 1773. He committed suicide in 1774, his mind having been unhinged by the charges brought against him after the great things he had done for an ungrateful country. He was addicted to the use of opium; this is referred to in the poem in the line "noticed how the furtive fingers went where a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor." Lord Macaulay in his Essay on Clive, says he had a "restless and intrepid spirit. His personal courage, of which he had, while still a writer, given signal proof by a desperate duel with a military bully who was the terror of Fort St. David, speedily made him conspicuous even among hundreds of brave men." The duel took place under the following circumstances. He lost money at cards to an officer who was proved to have cheated. Other losers were so in terror of this cheating bully that they paid. Clive refused to pay, and was challenged. They went out with pistols; no seconds were employed, and Clive missed his opponent, who, coming close up to him, held his pistol to his head and told him he would spare his life if he were asked to do so. Clive complied. He was next required to retract his charge of cheating. This demand being refused, his antagonist threatened to fire. "Fire, and be damned!" replied Clive. "I said you cheated; I say so still, and will never pay you!" The officer was so amazed at his bravery that he threw away his pistol. Chatting, with a friend, a week before he committed suicide, he tells the story of this duel as the one occasion when he felt fear, and that not of death, but lest his adversary should contemptuously permit him to keep his life. Under such circumstances he could have done nothing but use his weapon on himself. This part of the story is, of course, imaginary.

=Colombe of Ravenstein.= (_Colombe's Birthday._) Duchess of Juliers and Cleves. When in danger of losing her sovereignty by the operation of the Salic Law, she has an offer of marriage from Prince Berthold, who could have dispossessed her. Colombe loves Valence, an advocate, and he loves her. The prince does not even pretend that love has prompted his offer, and so Colombe sacrifices power at the shrine of love.

=Comparini, The.= (_The Ring and the Book._) Violatne and Pietro Comparini were the foster-parents of Pompilia, who, with her, were murdered by Count Guido Franceschini.

=Confessional, The.= (_Dramatic Romances_ in _Bells and Pomegranates_, 1845.) The scene is in Spain, in the time of the Inquisition. A girl has confessed to an aged priest some sinful conduct with her lover Bertram; as a penance, she has been desired to extract from him some secrets relating to matters of which he has been suspected. As a proof of his love, he tells the girl things which, if known, would imperil his life. The confidant, as requested, carries the story to the priest. She sees her lover no more till she beholds him under the executioner's hands on the scaffold. Passionately denouncing Church and priests, she is herself at the mercy of the Inquisition, and the poem opens with her exclamations against the system which has killed her lover and ruined her life.

=Confessions.= (_Dramatis Personæ_, 1864.) A man lies dying. A clergyman asks him if he has not found the world "a vale of tears"?--a suggestion which is indignantly repudiated. As the man looks at the row of medicine bottles ranged before him, he sees in his fancy the lane where lived the girl he loved, and where, in the June weather, she stood watching for him at that farther bottle labelled "Ether"--

"How sad and bad and mad it was!-- But then, how it was sweet!"

=Constance= (_In a Balcony_), a relative of the Queen in this dramatic fragment. She is loved by Norbert, and returns his love. The queen, however, loves the handsome young courtier herself, and her jealousy is the ruin of the young couple's happiness.

=Corregidor, The.= (_How it strikes a Contemporary._) In Spain the corregidor is the chief magistrate of a town; the name is derived from _corregir_, to correct--one who corrects. He is represented as going about the city, observing everything that takes place, and is consequently suspected as a spy in the employment of the Government. He is, in fact, but a harmless poet of very observant habits, and is exceedingly poor.

=Count Gismond.= AIX IN PROVENCE. Published in _Dramatic Lyrics_ under the title "_France_," in 1842. An orphan maiden is to be queen of the tourney to-day. She lives at her uncle's home with her two girl cousins, each a queen by her beauty, not needing to be crowned. The maiden thought they loved her. They brought her to the canopy and complimented her as she took her place. The time came when she was to present the victor's crown. All eyes were bent upon her, when at that proud moment Count Gauthier thundered "Stay! Bring no crown! bring torches and a penance sheet; let her shun the chaste!" He accuses her of licentious behaviour with himself; and as the girl hears the horrible lie, paralysed at the baseness of the accusation, she never dreams that answer is possible to make. Then out strode Count Gismond. Never had she met him before, but in his face she saw God preparing to do battle with Satan. He strode to Gauthier, gave him the lie, and struck his mouth with his mailed hand: the lie was damned, truth upstanding in its place. They fought. Gismond flew at him, clove out the truth from his breast with his sword, then dragging him dying to the maiden's feet, said "Here die, but first say that thou hast lied." And the liar said, "To God and her I have lied," and gave up the ghost. Gismond knelt to the maiden and whispered in her ear; then rose, flung his arm over her head, and led her from the crowd. Soon they were married, and the happy bride cried:

"Christ God who savest man, save most Of men Count Gismond who saved me!"

=Count Guido Franceschini.= (_The Ring and the Book._) The wicked nobleman of Arezzo who marries Pompilia for her dowry, and treats her so cruelly that she flies from his home to Rome, in company with Caponsacchi, who chivalrously and innocently devotes himself to her assistance. While they rest on the way they are overtaken by the Count, who eventually kills Pompilia and her foster-parents.

=Courts Of Love= (_Sordello_) "were judicial courts for deciding affairs of the heart, established in Provence during the palmy days of the Troubadours. The following is a case submitted to their judgment: A lady listened to one admirer, squeezed the hand of another, and touched with her toe the foot of a third. Query, Which of these three was the favoured suitor?" (_Dr. Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable._) It was at a Court of Love at which Palma presided, that Sordello outdid Eglamour in song, and received the prize from the lady's hand. At these courts, Sismondi tells us, _tensons_ or _jeux partis_ were sung, which were dialogues between the speakers in which each interlocutor recited successively a stanza with the same rhymes. Sismondi introduces a translation of a _tenson_ between Sordello and Bertrand, adding that this "may, perhaps, give an idea of those poetical contests which were the great ornament of all festivals. When the haughty baron invited to his court the neighbouring lords and the knights his vassals, three days were devoted to jousts and tourneys, the mimicry of war. The youthful gentlemen, who, under the name of pages, exercised themselves in the profession of arms, combated the first day; the second was set apart for the newly-dubbed knights; and the third, for the old warriors. The lady of the castle, surrounded by youthful beauties, distributed crowns to those who were declared by the judges of the combat to be the conquerors. She then, in her turn, opened her court, constituted in imitation of the seignorial tribunals, and as her baron collected his peers around him when he dispensed justice, so did she form her Court of Love, consisting of young, beautiful, and lively women. A new career was opened to those who dared the combat--not of arms, but of verse; and the name of _tenson_, which was given to these dramatic skirmishes, in fact signified a contest. It frequently happened that the knights who had gained the prize of valour became candidates for the poetical honours. One of the two, with his harp upon his arm, after a prelude, proposed the subject of the dispute. The other then advancing, and singing to the same air, answered him in a stanza of the same measure, and very frequently having the same rhymes. This extempore composition was usually comprised in five stanzas. The Court of Love then entered upon a grave deliberation, and discussed not only the claims of the two poets, but the merits of the question; and a judgment or _arrêt d'amour_ was given, frequently in verse, by which the dispute was supposed to be decided. At the present day we feel inclined to believe that these dialogues, though little resembling those of Tityrus and Melibæus, were yet, like those, the production of the poet sitting at ease in his closet. But, besides the historical evidence which we possess of the troubadours having been gifted with those improvisatorial talents which the Italians have preserved to the present time, many of the _tensons_ extant bear evident traces of the rivalry and animosity of the two interlocutors. The mutual respect with which the refinements of civilisation have taught us to regard one another, was at this time little known. There existed not the same delicacy upon questions of honour, and injury returned for injury was supposed to cancel all insults. We have a _tenson_ extant between the Marquis Albert Malespina and Rambaud de Vaqueiras, two of the most powerful lords and valiant captains at the commencement of the thirteenth century, in which they mutually accuse one another of having robbed on the highway and deceived their allies by false oaths. We must charitably suppose that the perplexities of versification and the heat of their poetical inspiration compelled them to overlook sarcasms which they could never have suffered to pass in plain prose. Many of the ladies who sat in the Courts of Love were able to reply to the verses which they inspired. A few of their compositions only remain, but they have always the advantage over those of the Troubadours. Poetry, at that time, aspired neither to creative energy nor to sublimity of thought, nor to variety. Those powerful conceptions of genius which, at a later period, have given birth to the drama and the epic, were yet unknown; and, in the expression of sentiment, a tenderer and more delicate inspiration naturally endowed the productions of these poetesses with a more lyrical character." (Sismondi, _Lit. Mod. Europe_, vol. i., pp. 106-7.)

=Cristina= (or =Christina=). _Dramatic Lyrics_ (_Bells and Pomegranates_ No. III.), 1842.--Maria Christina of Naples is the lady of the poem. She was born in 1806, and in 1829 became the fourth wife of Ferdinand VII., King of Spain. She became Regent of Spain on the death of her husband, in 1833. Her daughter was Queen Isabella II. She was the dissolute mother of a still more dissolute daughter. Lord Malmesbury's _Memoirs of an Ex-Minister_, 1884, vol. i., p. 30, have the following reference to the Christina of the poem: "Mr. Hill presented me at Court before I left Naples [in 1829].... The Queen [Maria Isabella, second wife of Francis I., King of the Two Sicilies] and the young and handsome Princess Christina, afterwards Queen of Spain, were present. The latter was said at the time to be the cause of more than one inflammable victim languishing in prison for having too openly admired this royal coquette, whose manners with men foretold her future life after her marriage to old Ferdinand [VII., King of Spain]. When she came up to me in the circle, walking behind her mother, she stopped, and took hold of one of the buttons of my uniform--to see, as she said, the inscription upon it, the Queen indignantly calling to her to come on." The passion of love, throughout Mr. Browning's works, is treated as the most sacred thing in the human soul. We are here for the chance of loving and of being loved; nothing on earth is dearer than this; to trifle with love is, in Browning's eyes, the sin against that Divine Emanation which sanctifies the heart of man. The man or woman who dissipates the capacity for love is the destroyer of his or her own soul; the flirt and the coquette are the losers,--the forsaken one has saved his own soul and gained the other's as well.

=Cristina and Monaldeschi.= (_Jocoseria_, 1883.)--I am indebted to the valuable paper which Mrs. Alexander Ireland contributed to the Browning Society on Feb. 27th, 1891, for the facts relating to the subject of this poem. Queen Cristina of Sweden was the daughter of Gustavus Adolphus. She was born in 1626, and came to the throne on the death of her father, in 1632. She was highly educated and brilliantly accomplished. She was perfectly acquainted with Greek, Latin, French, German, English, Italian, and Spanish. In due time she had batches of royal suitors, but she refused to bind herself by the marriage tie; rather than marry, she decided to abdicate, choosing as her successor her cousin Charles Gustavus. The formal and unusual ceremony of abdication took place in the cathedral of Upsala, in June 1654. Proceeding to Rome, she renounced the Protestant religion, and publicly embraced that of the Catholic Church. The officers of her household were exclusively Italian. Among these was the Marquis Monaldeschi, nominated "Master of the Horse," described by Cristina in her own memoirs as "a gentleman of most handsome person and fine manners, who from the first moment reigned exclusively over my heart." Cristina abandoned herself to this man, who proved a traitor and a scoundrel. He took every advantage of his position as favourite, and having reaped honour and riches, Monaldeschi wearied of his royal mistress and sought new attractions. The closing scene of Queen Cristina's _liaison_ with the Grand Equerry inspired Mr. Browning's poem. He has chosen the moment when all the treachery of Monaldeschi has revealed itself to the Queen. The scene is at Fontainebleau, whither Cristina has removed from Rome; here the letters came into her hands which broke her life. A Cardinal Azzolino had obtained possession of a wretched and dangerous correspondence. The packet included the Queen's own letters to her lover--letters written in the fulness of perfect trust, telling much that the unhappy lady could have told to no other living being. Monaldeschi's letters to his young Roman beauty made a jest, a mockery of the Queen's exceeding fondness for him. They were letters of unsparing and wounding ridicule; and, while acting thus, Monaldeschi had steadily adhered to the show of unaltered attachment to the Queen and deep respect for his royal mistress. Cristina's emotions on seeing the whole hateful, cowardly treachery laid bare were doubtless maddening. She arranged an interview with the Marquis in the picture gallery in the Palace of Fontainebleau. She was accompanied by an official of her Court, and had at hand a priest from the neighbouring convent of the Maturins, armed with copies of the letters which were to serve as the death-warrant of the Marquis. They had been placed by Cardinal Azzolino in Cristina's hands through the medium of her "Major-Domo," with the knowledge that the Cardinal had already seen their infamous contents. The _originals_ she had on her own person. Added to this, she had in the background her Captain of the Guard, Sentinelli, with two other officers. In the Galerie des Cerfs hung a picture of François I. and Diane de Poictiers. To this picture the Queen now led the Marquis, pointing out the motto on the frame--"Quis separabit?" The Queen reminds her lover how they were vowed to each other. The Marquis had vowed, at a tomb in the park of Fontainebleau, that, as the grave kept a silence over the corpse beneath, so would his love and trust hold fast the secret of Cristina's love to all eternity. Now the woman's spirit was wounded to death. She was scorned, her pride outraged; but she was a queen, and the man a subject, and she felt she must assert her dignity at least once more. The Marquis doubtless tottered as he stood. "Kneel," she says. This was the final scene of the tragedy. Cristina now calls forth the priest and the assassins, having granted herself the bitter pleasure of such personal revenge as was possible for her, poor woman!

"Friends, my four! You, Priest, confess him! I have judged the culprit there: my sentence! Care For no mail such cowards wear! Done, Priest? Then, absolve and bless him! Now--you three, stab thick and fast, Deep and deeper! Dead at last?"

In October 1657 Cristina already felt suspicious of Monaldeschi. Keenly watching his actions, she had found him guilty of a double perfidy, and had led him on to a conversation touching a similar unfaithfulness. "What," the Queen had said, "does the man deserve who should so have betrayed a woman?" "Instant death," said Monaldeschi; "'twould be an act of justice." "It is well," said she; "I will remember your words." As to the right of the Queen to execute Monaldeschi, it must be remembered that, by a special clause in the Act of Abdication, she retained absolute and sovereign jurisdiction over her servants of all kinds. The only objection made by the French Court was, that she ought not to have permitted the murder to take place at Fontainebleau. After this crime Cristina was compelled to leave France, and finally retired to Rome, giving herself up to her artistic tastes, science, chemistry and idleness. She died on April 19th, 1689; her epitaph on her tomb in St. Peter's at Rome was chosen by herself--"Cristina lived sixty-three years."

NOTES.--"_Quis separabit?_" who shall separate? _King Francis_--François I. The gallery of this king is the most striking one in the palace. _Diane_, the gallery of Diana, the goddess. _Primatice_ == Primaticcio, who designed some of the decorations of the _Galerie de François I._ _Salamander sign_: the emblem of Francis I., often repeated in the decorations. _Florentine Le Roux_ == Rossi, the Florentine artist. _Fontainebleau_: its Château Royal is very famous. "_Juno strikes Ixion_," who attempted to seduce her. _Avon_, a village near Fontainebleau.

=Croisic.= The scene of the _Two Poets of Croisic_. Le Croisic is a seaport on the southern coast of Brittany, with about 2500 inhabitants, and is a fashionable watering-place. It has a considerable industry in sardine fishing.

=Cunizza=, called Palma in _Sordello_, till, at the close of the poem the heroine's historical name is given. She was the sister of Ezzelino III. Dante places her in _Paradise_ (ix. 32). Longfellow, in his translation of the _Divine Comedy_, has the following note concerning her: "Cunizza was the sister of Azzolino di Romano. Her story is told by Rolandino, _Liber Chronicorum_, in Muratori (_Rer. Ital. Script._, viii. 173). He says that she was first married to Richard of St. Boniface; and soon after had an intrigue with Sordello--as already mentioned (_Purg._ vi., Note 74). Afterwards she wandered about the world with a soldier of Treviso, named Bonius, 'taking much solace,' says the old chronicler, 'and spending much money' (_multa habendo solatia, et maximas faciendo expensas_). After the death of Bonius, she was married to a nobleman of Braganza; and finally, and for a third time, to a gentleman of Verona. The _Ottimo_ alone among the commentators takes up the defence of Cunizza, and says: 'This lady lived lovingly in dress, song, and sport; but consented not to any impropriety or unlawful act; and she passed her life in enjoyment, as Solomon says in Ecclesiastes,' alluding probably to the first verse of the second chapter--"I said in my heart, Go to now, I will prove thee with mirth; therefore enjoy pleasure; and behold, this is also vanity."

="Dance, Yellows and Whites and Reds."= A beautiful lyric at the end of "Gerard de Lairesse," in _Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in their Day_, begins with this line. It originally appeared in a little book published for the Edinburgh University Union Fancy Fair, in 1886.

=Daniel Bartoli.= _Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in their Day_: 1887. [THE MAN.] "Born at Ferrara in 1608, died at Rome in 1685. He was a learned Jesuit, and his great work was a history of his Order, in six volumes, published at various times. It is enriched with facts drawn from the Vatican records, from English colleges, and from memoirs sent him by friends in England; and is crowded with stories of miracles which are difficult of digestion by ordinary readers. His style is highly esteemed by Italians for its purity and precision, and his life was perfectly correct and virtuous" (_Pall Mall Gazette_, Jan. 18th, 1887). "His eloquence was wonderful, and his renown as a sacred orator became universal. He wrote many essays on scientific subjects; and although some of his theories have been refuted by Galileo, they are still cited as models of the didactic style, in which he excelled. His works on moral science and philology are numerous. Died 1684." (_Imp. Dict. Biog._)

[THE POEM.] The poet tells the narrator of saintly legends that he has a saint worth worshipping whose history is not legendary at all, but very plain fact. It is her story which is told in the poem, and not that of Bartoli. The minister of a certain king had managed to induce a certain duke to yield two of his dukedoms to the king at his death. The promise was a verbal one, but the duke was to sign the deed of gift which deprived him of his rights when it was duly prepared by the lawyers. While this was in progress the duke met at his sister's house a good and beautiful girl, the daughter of an apothecary. He proposed to marry her, and was accepted, notwithstanding the opposition of his family. The banns were duly published, and the marriage ceremony was soon to follow. Meanwhile this turn in the duke's affairs came to the ear of the crafty minister of the king, who promptly informed his royal master that the assignment of the dukedoms might not proceed so smoothly under the altered circumstances. "I bar the abomination--nuptial me no such nuptials!" exclaimed the king. The minister hinted that caution must be used, lest by offending the duke the dukedoms might be lost. The next day the preliminary banquet, at which all the lady's friends were present, took place; when lo--a thunderclap!--the king's minister was announced, and the lady was requested to meet him at a private interview. She was informed that the duke must at once sign the paper which the minister held in his hand, ceding to the king the promised estates, or the king would withhold his consent to the marriage and the lady would be placed in strict seclusion. Should he, however, sign the deed of gift without delay, the king would give his consent to the marriage, and accord the bride a high place at court; and the druggist's daughter would become not only the duke's wife but the king's favourite. They returned to the dining-room, and the lady, addressing the duke, who sat in mute bewilderment at the head of the table, made known the king's commands. She told him that she knew he loved her for herself alone, and was conscious that her own love was equal to his. She bade him read the shameful document which the king had sent, and begged him to bid her destroy it. She implored him not to part with his dukedoms, which had been given him by God, though by doing so he might make her his wife: if, however, he could so far forget his duty as to yield to these demands, he would, in doing so, forfeit her love. The duke was furious, but could not be brought to yield to the lady's request, and she left the place never to meet again. Next day she sent him back the jewellery he had given her. This story was told to a fervid, noble-hearted lord, who forthwith in a boyish way loved the lady. When he grew to be a man he married her, dropped from camp and court into obscurity, but was happy, till ere long his lady died. He would gladly have followed, but had to be content with turning saint, like those of whom Bartoli wrote. The poet next philosophises on the life which the duke might have led after this crisis in his history. He would sooner or later reflect sadly on the beautiful luminary which had once illumined his path: he could fancy her mocking him as false to Love; he would reflect how, with all his lineage and his bravery, he had failed at the test, but would recognise that it was not the true man who failed, not the ducal self which quailed before the monarch's frown while the more royal Love stood near him to inspire him;--some day that true self would, by the strength of that good woman's love, be raised from the grave of shame which covered it, and he would be hers once more.

NOTES.--vi., _Pari passu_: with equal pace, together. xv., "_Saint Scholastica ... in Paynimrie_": she lived about the year 543. She was sister to St. Benedict, and consecrated herself to God from her earliest youth. The legend referred to is not given, either in Butler's _Lives of the Saints_, or Mrs. Jameson's _Legends of the Monastic Orders_. _Paynimrie_ means the land of the infidel. xvi., _Trogalia_: sweetmeats and candies.

=Dante= is magnificently described in _Sordello_ (Book I., lines 374-80):--

"Dante, pacer of the shore Where glutted hell disgorgeth filthiest gloom, Unbitten by its whirring sulphur-spume-- Or whence the grieved and obscure waters slope Into a darkness quieted by hope; Plucker of amaranths grown beneath God's eye In gracious twilights where His chosen lie."

=Date et Dabitur.= "Give, and it shall be given unto you." (See _The Twins_.)

=David.= (See _Saul_, and Epilogue to _Dramatis Personæ_: First Speaker).

=Deaf and Dumb.= A group by Woolner (1862). How a glory may arise from a defect is the keynote of this poem. A prism interposed in the course of a ray of sunlight breaks it into the glory of the seven colours of the spectrum; the prism is an obstruction to the white light, but the rainbow tints which are seen in consequence of the obstacle reveal to us the secret of the sunbeam. So the obstruction of deafness or dumbness often greatly enhances the beauty of the features, as in the group of statuary which forms the subject of the poem, and which was exhibited at the International Exhibition of 1862. The children were Constance and Arthur, the son and daughter of Sir Thomas Fairbairn.

=Death in the Desert, A.= (_Dramatis Personæ_, 1864.) John, the disciple whom Jesus loved, who lay on His breast at the last sad paschal supper, who stood by the cross, and received from the lips of his Lord His only earthly possession--His mother; John, the writer of the Gospel which bears his name, and of the letters which breathe the spirit of the incarnated love which was to transform a world lying in wickedness; the seer of the awful visions of Patmos--the tremendous Apocalypse which closes the Christian revelation--lay dying in the desert; recalled from exile after the death of Domitian from the isle of the Sporades, the volcanic formation of which, with its daily scenes of smoke, brimstone, fire, and streams of molten lava, had aided the apostle to imagine the day of doom, when the angel should cry, "Time shall be no longer." The beloved disciple, who had borne the message of Divine love through the cities of Asia Minor, had founded churches, established bishoprics, and had laboured by spoken and written word, and even more effectually by his beautiful and gentle life, to extend the kingdom of God and of His Christ, now worn out with incessant labours, and bent with the weight of well-nigh a hundred years, the last of the men who had seen the Lord, the final link which bound the youthful Church to its apostolic days, lies dying in a cave, hiding from the bloody hands of those who breathed out threatenings and slaughter against the followers of Christ. Companioned by five converts who tenderly nursed the dying saint, he had been brought from the secret recess in the rock where they had hidden him from the pursuers into the midmost grotto, where the light of noon just reached a little, and enabled them to watch

"The last of what might happen on his face."

And at the entrance of the cave there kept faithful watch the Bactrian convert, pretending to graze a goat, so that if thief or soldier passed they might have booty without prying into the cave. The dying man lies unconscious, but his attendants think it possible to rouse him that he may speak to them before he departs: they wet his lips with wine, cool his forehead with water, chafe his hands, diffuse the aromatic odour of the spikenard through the cave, and pray; but still he sleeps. Then the boy, inspired by a happy thought, brings the plate of graven lead on which are the words of John's gospel, "I am the Resurrection and the Life," and having found the place, he presses the aged man's finger on the line, and repeats it in his ear. Then he opened his eyes, sat up, and looked at them; and no one spoke, save the watcher without, signalling from time to time that they were safe. And first, the beloved one said, "If one told me there were James and Peter, I could believe! So is my soul withdrawn into its depths."--"Let be awhile!"--And then--

"It is long Since James and Peter had release by death, And I am only he, your brother John, Who saw and heard, and could remember all."

He reminds them how in Patmos isle he had seen the Lord in His awful splendour; how in his early life he saw and handled with his hands the Word of Life. Soon it will be that none will say "I saw." And already--for the years were long--men had disputed, murmured and misbelieved, or had set up antichrists; and remembering what had happened to the faith in his own days, he could well foresee that unborn people in strange lands would one day ask--

"Was John at all, and did he say he saw?"

"What can I say to assure them?" he asks; the story of Christ's life and death was not mere history to him: "_It is_," he cries,--"_is, here and now_." Not only are the events of the gospel history present before his eyes, so that he apprehends nought else; but not less plainly, not less firmly printed on his soul, are the more mysterious truths of God's eternal presence in the world visibly contending with wrong and sin; and, as the wrong and sin are manifest to his soul-sight, so equally does he see the need, yet transiency of both. But matters, which to his spiritualised vision were clear, must be placed before his followers through some medium which shall, like an optic glass, segregate them, diminish them into clearness; and so he bids them stand before that fact, that Life and Death of Jesus Christ, till it spreads apart like a star, growing and opening out on all sides till it becomes their only world, as it is his. "For all of life," he says, "is summed up in the prize of learning love, and having learnt it, to hold it and truth, despite the world in arms against the holder. We can need no second proof of God's love for man. Man having once learned the use of fire, would not part with the gift for purple or for gold. Were the worth of Christ as plain, he could not give up Christ. To test man, the proofs of Christianity shift; he cannot grasp that fact as he grasps the fact of fire and its worth." He asks his disciples why they say it was easier to believe in Christ once than now--easier when He walked the earth with those He loved? "But," says John, who had seen all,--the transfiguration, the walking on the sea, the raising of the dead to life,--"could it be possible the man who had seen these things should ever part from them?" Yes, it was! The torchlight, the noise, the sudden inrush of the Roman soldiers, on the night of the betrayal, caused even him, John, the beloved disciple, to forsake Him and fly. Yet he had gained the truth, and the truth grew in his soul, so that he was enabled to impress it so indelibly on others, that children and women who had never seen the least of the sights he had seen would clasp their cross with a light laugh, and wrap the burning robe of martyrdom round them, giving thanks to God the while. But in the mind of man the laws of development are ever at work, and questioners of the truth arose, and it was necessary that he should re-state the Lord's life and work in various ways, to rectify mistakes. God has operated in the way of Power, later in the way of Love, and last of all in Influence on Soul: men do not ask now, "Where is the promise of His coming?" but--

"Was He revealed in any of His lives, As Power, as Love, as Influencing Soul?"

"Miracles, to prove doctrine," John says, "go for nought, but love remains." Then men ask, "Did not we ourselves imagine and make this love?" (That is to say, love having been discovered by mankind to be the noblest thing on earth, have not men created a God of Infinite Love, out of their own passionate imagining of what man's love would be if perfectly developed?) "The mind of man can only receive what it holds--no more." Man projects his own love heavenward, it falls back upon him in another shape--with another name and story added; this, he straightway says, is a gift from heaven. Man of old peopled heaven with gods, all of whom possessed man's attributes; horses drew the sun from east to west. Now, we say the sun rises and sets as if impelled by a hand and will, and it is only thought of as so impelled because we ourselves have hands and wills. But the sun must be driven by some force which we do not understand; will and love we do understand. As man grows wiser the passions and faculties with which he adorned his deities are taken away: Jove of old had a brow, Juno had eyes; gradually there remained only Jove's wrath and Juno's pride; in process of time these went also, till now we recognise will and power and love alone. All these are at bottom the same--mere projections from the mind of the man himself. Having then stated the objections brought against the faith of Christ, St. John proceeds to meet them. "Man," he says, "was made to grow, not stop; the help he needed in the earlier stages, being no longer required, is withdrawn; his new needs require new helps. When we plant seed in the ground we place twigs to show the spots where the germs lie hidden, so that they may not be trodden upon by careless steps. When the plants spring up we take the twigs away; they no longer have any use. It was thus with the growth of the gospel seed: miracles were required at first, but, when the plant had sprung up and borne fruit, had produced martyrs and heroes of the faith, what was the use of miracles any more? The fruit itself was surely sufficient testimony to the vitality of the seed. Minds at first must be spoon-fed with truth, as babes with milk; a boy we bid feed himself, or starve. So, at first, I wrought miracles that men might believe in Christ, because no faith were otherwise possible; miracles now would compel, not help. I say the way to solve all questions is to accept by the reason the Christ of God; the sole death is when a man's loss comes to him from his gain, when--from the light given to him--he extracts darkness; from the knowledge poured upon him he produces ignorance; and from the manifestation of love elaborates the lack of love. Too much oil is the lamp's death; it chokes with what would otherwise feed the flame. An overcharged stomach starves. The man who rejects Christ because he thinks the love of Christ is only a projection of his own is like a lamp that overswims with oil, a stomach overloaded with nurture; that man's soul dies." "But," the objector may say, "You told your Christ-story incorrectly: what is the good of giving knowledge at all if you give it in a manner which will not stop the after-doubt? Why breed in us perplexity? why not tell the whole truth in proper words?" To this St. John replies, "Man of necessity must pass from mistake to fact; he is not perfect as God is, nor as is the beast; lower than God, he is higher than the beast, and higher because he progresses,--he yearns to gain truth, catching at mistake. The statuary has the idea in his mind, aspires to produce it, and so calls his shape from out the clay:

"Cries ever, 'Now I have the thing I see': Yet all the while goes changing what was wrought, From falsehood like the truth, to truth itself."

Suppose he had complained, 'I see no face, no breast, no feet'? It is only God who makes the live shape at a jet. Striving to reach his ideals, man grows; ceasing to strive, he forfeits his highest privileges, and entails the certainty of destruction. Progress is the essential law of man's being, and progress by mistake, by failure, by unceasing effort, will lead him,

"Where law, life, joy, impulse are one thing!"

Such is the difficulty of the latest time; so does the aged saint answer it. He would remain on earth another hundred years, he says, to lend his struggling brothers his help to save them from the abyss. But even as he utters the loving desire, he is dead,

"Breast to breast with God, as once he lay."

They buried him that night, and the teller of the story returned, disguised, to Ephesus. St. John is said to have been banished into the Isle of Patmos, A.D. 97, by the order of Domitian. After this emperor had reigned fifteen years Nerva succeeded him (A.D. 99), and historians of the period wrote that "the Roman senate decreed that the honours paid to Domitian should cease, and such as were injuriously exiled should return to their native land and receive their substance again. It is also among the ancient traditions, that then John the Apostle returned from banishment and dwelt again at Ephesus." Eusebius, quoting from Irenæus, says that John after his return from Patmos governed the churches in Asia, and remained with them in the time of Trajan. Irenæus also says that the Apostle carried on at Ephesus the work begun by Paul; Clement of Alexandria records the same thing. It is said that St. John died in peace at Ephesus in the third year of Trajan--that is, the hundredth of the Christian era, or the sixty-sixth from our Lord's crucifixion, the saint being then about ninety-four years old; he was buried on a mountain without the town. A stately church stood formerly over this tomb, which is at present a Turkish mosque. The sojourn of the Apostle in Asia, a country governed by Magi and imbued with Zoroastrian ideas, and in those days full of Buddhist missionaries, may account for many things found in the Book of Revelation. Mr. Browning refers to this in the bracketed portion of the poem, commencing:--

"This is the doctrine he was wont to teach, How divers persons witness in each man, Three souls which make up one soul."

They are described by Theosophists as "(1) The fluidic perisoul or astral body; (2) The soul or individual; and (3) The spirit, or Divine Father and life of his system." (See _The Perfect Way_, Lecture I., 9.) These three souls make up, with the material body, the fourfold nature of man.

NOTES.--_Pamphylax the Antiochene_, an imaginary person. _Epsilon_, _Mu_, _Xi_, letters of the Greek alphabet--e, m, and ch respectively. _Xanthus_ and _Valens_, disciples of St. John. _Bactrian_, of Bactria, a province in Persia. "_A ball of nard_," an unguent of spikenard, odorous and highly aromatic and restorative. _Glossa_, a commentary. _Theotypas_, a fictitious character. _Prometheus_, son of the Titan Iapetus and the Ocean-nymph Clymene, brother of Atlas, Menoetius, and Epimetheus, and father of Deucalion. When Zeus refused to mortals the use of fire, Prometheus stole it from Olympus, and brought it to men in a hollow reed. Zeus bound him to a pillar, with an eagle to consume in the daytime his liver, which grew again in the night. _Æschylus_, the earliest of the three great tragic poets of Greece, born at Eleusis, near Athens, B.C. 525. He wrote the _Prometheus Bound_. _Ebion_, the founder of the early sect of heretics called Ebionites. They held that the Mosaic law was binding on Christians, and believed Jesus to have been a mere man, though an ambassador from God and possessed of Divine power (_Encyc. Dict._). _Cerinthus_ raised great disturbances in obstinately defending an obligation of circumcision, and of abstaining from unclean meats in the New Law, and in extolling the angels as the authors of nature: this was before St. Paul wrote his Epistle to the Colossians, etc. He pretended that the God of the Jews was only an angel; that Jesus was born of Joseph and Mary, like other men. He taught that Christ flew away at the time of the crucifixion, and that Jesus in the human part of His nature alone suffered and rose again, Christ continuing always immortal and impassible. St. Irenæus relates that on one occasion, when St. John went to the public baths, he found that this heretic was within, and he refused to remain lest the bath which contained Cerinthus should fall upon his head.

="De Gustibus----"= [_De Gustibus non disputandum_--"there is no accounting for tastes."] (_Men and Women_, 1855; _Lyrics_, 1863; _Dramatic Lyrics_, 1868.) Every lover of Nature finds some particular kind of scenery which most appeals to his heart, and to which his thoughts revert in moments of reflection and meditation. The poet tells the lover of trees that after death (if loves persist) his ghost will be found wandering in an English lane by a hazel coppice in beanflower and blackbird time. For his own part, he loves best in all the world the scenery of his beloved Italy--a castle on a precipice in "the wind-grieved Apennine"; and if ever he gets his head out of the grave and his spirit soars free, he will be away to the sunny South, by the cypress guarding the seaside home, where scorpions sprawl on frescoed walls; in "Italy, my Italy,"--which beloved name he declares will be found graven on his heart.

=De Lorge.= (_The Glove._) Sir de Lorge was the knight who recovered his lady's glove from the lions, amongst which she had cast it to test his courage, and then threw it in her face.

=Development.= (_Asolando_, 1889.) Mr. Sharp, in his admirable _Life of Browning_, says that the poet's father was a man of exceptional powers. He was a poet both in sentiment and expression; and he understood, as well as enjoyed, the excellent in art. He was a scholar, too, in a reputable fashion; not indifferent to what he had learnt in his youth, nor heedless of the high opinion generally entertained for the greatest writers of antiquity, but with a particular care himself for Horace and Anacreon. As his son once told a friend, "The old gentleman's brain was a storehouse of literary and philosophical antiquities. He was completely versed in mediæval legend, and seemed to have known Paracelsus, Faustus, and even Talmudic personages, personally." Development, indeed! That the embryonic mediæval lore of the banker's clerk should have potentially contained the treasures of _Paracelsus_, _Sordello_, and _Rabbi Ben Hakkadosh_, is as wonderful as that the primary cell should contain the force which gathers to itself the man.

NOTES.--_Philip Karl Buttmann_ was a distinguished German philologist, born at Frankfort-on-the-Main, 1764, and died at Berlin, 1829. He studied at Göttingen, and in 1796 was appointed secretary of the Royal Library at Berlin. His fame rests on his _Griechische Grammatik_, the _Ausführliche Griechische Sprachlehre_, and the _Lexilogus oder Beiträge zur Griechischen Worterklärung_. These works are ranked highly for their exact criticism. He brought out valuable editions of Plato's _Dialogues_ and the _Meidias_ of Demosthenes. _Friedrich August Wolf_, the great critic, was born at Haynrode, near Nordhausen, in 1759; he died in 1824. He studied philology at Göttingen, and published an edition of Shakespeare's _Macbeth_, with notes, in 1778. He filled the chair of philology and pedagogial science at Halle for twenty-three years. In 1806 he repaired to Berlin. His fame chiefly rests on his _Prolegomena in Homerum_, which was devoted to the argument that the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ are not the work of one single and individual Homer, but a much later compilation of _hymns_ sung and handed down by oral tradition. Its effect was overwhelming. _Stagirite_ == Aristotle. "_The Ethics_" == the _Nicomachean Ethics_, the great work of Aristotle. "_Battle of the Frogs and Mice_," a mock epic attributed to Homer. "_The Margites_," a humorous poem, which kept its ground down to the time of Aristotle as the work of Homer; it began with the words, "There came to Colophon an old man, a divine singer, servant of the Muses and Apollo."

=Dîs Aliter Visum=; or, =Le Byron de Nos Jours=. "Dîs aliter visum" is from Virgil, Æn. ii. 428, and means "Heaven thought not so." (_Dramatis Personæ_, 1864.) The poem describes a meeting of two friends after a parting of ten years. They should have been more than friends: they were made for each other's love; but love came in a guise which was not acceptable, and the heart which the man might have won, and the love which would have blessed him and ennobled his life, was for reasons of prudence disregarded, and both lovers went their way, having missed their life's chance. It is the woman who speaks--the "poor, pretty, thoughtful thing" of other days; a woman who tried to love and understand art and literature--to love all, at any rate, that was great and good and beautiful. She wonders if he--the man who might have completed his partial life with a great love--ever for a moment valued her rightly, and determined that "love found, gained and kept," was for him beyond art and sense and fame? She was young and inexperienced in the world's ways; he was old and full of wisdom: too wise, perhaps, to see where his best interests lay. It would never do, he thought--a match "'twixt one bent, wigged and lamed----and this young beauty, round and sound as a mountain apple." And so they parted. He chose a lower ideal, she married where she could not love; so the devil laughed in his sleeve, for not two only, but four souls were in jeopardy.

The poem is a good example of the poet's way of drawing from a half-serious, half-bantering and indifferent confession of thoughts and feelings one of his great moral lessons. It has been compared to what is termed _vers de société_, and as such, up to stanza xxiii., it may be fitly described; then comes Mr. Browning's sudden uprising to his highest power. It is as though he had lightly touched on the ways of men, and discussed them half-playfully with some light-hearted, not to say frivolous, audience in a drawing-room. The listeners stand smiling, and speculating as to his real meaning, when all at once he rises from his chair and brings in a moment before the thoughtless group of listeners the great and awful import of life, and the real meaning of the things which men call trifles, but which in God's sight are big with the interests of Eternity. So, in this poem he leads us from pretty talk of "Heine for songs and kisses," "gout, glory, and love freaks, love's dues, and consols," to one of his grandest life-lessons--the necessary incompleteness of all human existence here, because heaven must finish what earth can never complete,--the supreme evolution of the soul of man. Earth completes her star-fishes; Heaven itself could make no more perfect or more beautiful star-fish:

"He, whole in body and soul, outstrips Man, found with either in default."

The star-fish is whole. What is whole can increase no more. It has nothing to do but waste and die, and there is an end of it.

"Leave Now for dogs and apes! Man has Forever."

On the side of the man in the poem it could be fairly argued that a more unreasonable match could hardly be imagined than one between a "bent, wigged and lame" old gentleman and a "poor, pretty, thoughtful" young beauty, notwithstanding her offer of body and soul.

NOTES.--viii., _Robert Schumann_, musical critic and composer: was born 1810, died 1856. _Jean August Dominique Ingres_ (born 1780, died 1867). "The modern man that paints," a celebrated historical painter, a pupil of David. He was opposed to the Romantic School, and depended for success on form and line. "His paintings, with all their cleverness, appear to English eyes deficient in originality of conception, coarse, hard and artificial in manner, and untrue in colour" (_Imp. Dict. Biog._), xii., "_The Fortieth spare Arm-chair_." This refers to the French Academy, founded by Richelieu in 1635. When one of the forty members dies a new one is elected to fill his place.

=Djabal.= (_Return of the Druses._) The son of the Emir, who seeks revenge for the murder of his family, and declares himself to be the Hakim--who is to set the Druse people free. He loves the maiden Anael, and when she dies stabs himself on her dead body.

=Doctor ----.= (_Dramatic Idyls_, Second Series, 1880.) A Rabbinical story. Satan, as in the opening scene of Job, stands with the angels before God to make his complaints. Asked "What is the fault now?" he declares that he has found something on earth which interferes with his prerogatives:--

"Death is the strongest-born of Hell, and yet Stronger than Death is a Bad Wife, we know."

Satan protests that this robs him of his rights, as he claims to be Strongest. He is commanded to descend to earth in mortal shape and get married, and so try for himself the bitter draught. It was Solomon who said that "a woman whose heart is snares and nets is more bitter than death" (Ecclesiastes vii. 27), and some commentators on the poem have thought the Rabbinical legend was suggested by this verse. Satan, married, in due time has a son who arrives at maturity, and then the question arises of a profession for him: "I needs must teach my son a trade." Shall he be a soldier? That is too cowardly. A lawyer would be better, but there is too much hard work for the sluggard. There's divinity, but that is Satan's own special line, and that be far from his poor offspring! At last he thinks of the profession of medicine. Physic is the very thing! So _Medicus_ he is appointed; and it is arranged that a special power shall be given to the young doctor's eyes, so that when on his rounds he shall behold the spirit-person of his father at his side. Doctor once dubbed, ignorance shall be no barrier to his success; cash shall follow, whatever the treatment, and fees shall pour in. Satan tells his son that the reason he has endowed him with power to recognise his spirit-form is that he may judge by Death's position in the sick room what are the prospects of the patient's recovery. If he perceive his father lingering by the door, whatever the nature of the illness recovery will be speedy; if higher up the room, death will not be the sufferer's doom; but if he is discovered standing by the head of the bed's the patient's doom is sealed. It happened that of a sudden the emperor himself was smitten with sore disease. Of course Dr. ---- was called in and promised large rewards if he saved the imperial life. As he entered the room he saw at once that all was lost: there stood his father Death as sentry at the bed's head. Gold was offered in abundance; the doctor begged his father to go away and let him win his fee. "No inch I budge!" is the response. Then honours are offered him whom apparently wealth failed to tempt. The result is the same. Then Love: "Take my daughter as thy bride--save me for this reward!" The Doctor again implores a respite from his father, who is obdurate as ever. A thought strikes the physician: "Reverse the bed, so that Death no longer stands at the head;" but "the Antic passed from couch-foot back to pillow," and is master of the situation again. The son now curses his father, and declares that he will go over to the other side. He sends to his home for the mystic Jacob's-staff--a knobstick of proved efficacy in such cases. "Go, bid my mother (Satan's wife, be it remembered) bring the stick herself." The servant rushes off to do his errand, and all the anxious while the emperor sinks lower and lower, as the icy breath of Death freezes him to the marrow. All at once the door of the sick room opens, and there enters to Satan "Who but his Wife the Bad?" The devil goes off through the ceiling, leaving a sulphury smell behind; and, "Hail to the Doctor!" the imperial patient straightway recovers. In gratitude he offers him the promised daughter and her dowry; but the Doctor refuses the fee--"No dowry, no bad wife!" If this Talmudic legend has any relation to Solomon, it is well to bear in mind that his bitter experience, as St. Jerome says, was due to the fact that no one ever fell a victim to impurer loves than he. He married strange women, was deluded by them, and erected temples to their respective idols. His opinion, therefore, on marriage as we understand it is of little importance to us.

=Dominus Hyacinthus De Archangelis.= (_The Ring and the Book._) The procurator or counsel for the poor, who defends Count Guido in the eighth book of the poem.

=Domizia= (_Luria_), a noble lady of Florence. She is loved by the Moorish captain Luria, who commanded the army of the Florentines. Domizia was greatly embittered against the republic for its ingratitude to her two brothers--Porzio and Berto--and hoped to be revenged for their deaths.

=Don Juan.= (_Fifine at the Fair._) The husband of the poem is a philosophical study of the Don Juan of Molière. He is full of sophistries, and an adept in the art of making the worse appear the better reason. In Molière's play Juan's valet thus describes his master: "You see in Don Juan the greatest scoundrel the earth has ever borne--a madman, a dog, a demon, a Turk, a heretic--who believes neither in heaven, hell, nor devil, who passes his life simply as a brute beast, a pig of an epicure, a true Sardanapalus; who closes his ear to every remonstrance which can be made to him, and treats as idle talk all that we hold sacred."

=Donald.= (_Jocoseria_, 1883.) The story of the poem is a true one, and is told by Sir Walter Scott, in _The Keepsake_ for 1832, pp. 283-6. The following abridgement of the account is from the Browning Society's _Notes and Queries_, No. 209, p. 328: "... The story is an old but not an ancient one: the actor and sufferer was not a very aged man, when I heard the anecdote in my early youth. Duncan (for so I shall call him) had been engaged in the affair of 1746, with others of his clan; ... on the one side of his body he retained the proportions and firmness of an active mountaineer; on the other he was a disabled cripple, scarce able to limp along the streets. The cause which reduced him to this state of infirmity was singular. Twenty years or more before I knew Duncan he assisted his brothers in farming a large grazing in the Highlands.... It chanced that a sheep or goat was missed from the flock, and Duncan ... went himself in quest of the fugitive. In the course of his researches he was induced to ascend a small and narrow path, leading to the top of a high precipice.... It was not much more than two feet broad, so rugged and difficult, and at the same time so terrible, that it would have been impracticable to any but the light step and steady brain of the Highlander. The precipice on the right rose like a wall, and on the left sank to a depth which it was giddy to look down upon.... He had more than half ascended the precipice, when in midway ... he encountered a buck of the red-deer species coming down the cliff by the same path in an opposite direction.... Neither party had the power of retreating, for the stag had not room to turn himself in the narrow path, and if Duncan had turned his back to go down, he knew enough of the creature's habits to be certain that he would rush upon him while engaged in the difficulties of the retreat. They stood therefore perfectly still, and looked at each other in mutual embarrassment for some space. At length the deer, which was of the largest size, began to lower his formidable antlers, as they do when they are brought to bay.... Duncan saw the danger ... and, as a last resource, stretched himself on the little ledge of rock ... not making the least motion, for fear of alarming the animal. They remained in this posture for three or four hours.... At length the buck ... approached towards Duncan very slowly ... he came close to the Highlander ... when the devil, or the untameable love of sport, ... began to overcome Duncan's fears. Seeing the animal proceed so gently, he totally forgot not only the dangers of his position, but the implicit compact which certainly might have been inferred from the circumstances of the situation. With one hand Duncan seized the deer's horn, whilst with the other he drew his dirk. But in the same instant the buck bounded over the precipice, carrying the Highlander along with him.... Fortune ... ordered that the deer should fall undermost, and be killed on the spot, while Duncan escaped with life, but with the fracture of a leg, an arm, and three ribs.... I never could approve of Duncan's conduct towards the deer in a moral point of view, ... but the temptation of a hart of grease offering, as it were, his throat to the knife, would have subdued the virtue of almost any deer stalker.... I have given you the story exactly as I recollect it." As the practice of medicine does not necessarily make a man merciful, so neither does sport necessarily imply manliness and nobility of soul. In both cases there is a strong tendency for the professional to be considered the right view. In the story we have the stag, after four hours' consideration, offering terms of agreement which Donald accepted and then treacherously broke. The animal broke Donald's fall, yet he has no gratitude for its having thus saved his life. As one of the poems covered by the question in the prologue, "_Wanting is----What?_" we should reply, Honour and humanity.

=D'Ormea.= (_King Victor and King Charles._) He was the unscrupulous minister of King Victor. He became necessary to King Charles when he received the crown on his father's abdication, and was active in defeating the attempt of the latter to recover his crown.

=Dramas.= For the Stage: _A Blot in the 'Scutcheon_, _Colombe's Birthday_, _Strafford_, _Luria_, _In a Balcony_, _The Return of the Druses_. For the Study: _Pippa Passes_, _King Victor and King Charles_, _A Soul's Tragedy_, and _Paracelsus_. _A Blot in the 'Scutcheon_, _Strafford_, _Colombe's Birthday_, and _In a Balcony_, have all been recently performed in London, under the direction of the Browning Society, greatly to the gratification of the spectators who were privileged to attend these special performances. Whether such dramas would be likely to attract audiences from the general public for any length of time is, however, extremely problematical. Mr. Browning's poetry is of too subjective and psychological a character to be popular on the stage.

=Dramatic Idyls= (1879-80). _Series I._: Martin Relph, Pheidippides, Halbert and Hob, Ivan Ivanovitch, Tray, Ned Bratts; _Series II._: Proem, Echetlos, Clive, Muléykeh, Pietro of Abano, Doctor ----, Pan and Luna, Epilogue.

=Dramatic Lyrics.= (_Bells and Pomegranates_, No. III., 1842.) Cavalier Tunes: i., Marching Along; ii., Give a Rouse; iii., My Wife Gertrude. Italy and France: i., Italy; ii., France. Camp and Cloister: i., Camp (French); ii., Cloister (Spanish); In a Gondola, Artemis Prologizes, Waring. Queen Worship: i., Rudel and the Lady of Tripoli; ii., Cristina. Madhouse Cells: i., Johannes Agricola; ii., Porphyria. Through the Metidja, The Pied Piper of Hamelin.

=Dramatic Monologue.= Mr. Browning has so excelled in this particular kind of poetry that it may be fitly called a novelty of his invention. The dramatic monologue is quite different from the soliloquy. In the latter case the speaker delivers his own thoughts, uninterrupted by objections or the propositions of other persons. "In the dramatic monologue the presence of a silent second person is supposed, to whom the arguments of the speaker are addressed. It is obvious that the dramatic monologue gains over the soliloquy, in that it allows the artist greater room in which to work out his conceptions of character. The thoughts of a man in self-communion are apt to run in a certain circle, and to assume a monotony" (Professor Johnson, M.A.). This supposed second person serves to "draw out" the speaker and to stimulate the imagination of the reader. _Bishop Blougram's Apology_ is an admirable example of this form of literature, where Mr. Gigadibs, the critic of Bishop Blougram, is the silent second person above referred to.

=Dramatic Romances and Lyrics.= (_Bells and Pomegranates_, No. VII.: 1845.) How they Brought the Good News, Pictor Ignotus, Italy in England, England in Italy, The Lost Leader, The Lost Mistress, Home Thoughts from Abroad, The Tomb at St. Praxed's; Garden Fancies: i. The Flower's Name; ii. Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis. France and Spain: i. The Laboratory; ii. The Confessional. The Flight of the Duchess, Earth's Immortalities, Song, The Boy and the Angel, Night and Morning, Claret and Tokay, Saul, Time's Revenges, The Glove.

=Dramatis Personæ= (1864). James Lee, Gold Hair, The Worst of it, Dîs Aliter Visum, Too Late, Abt Vogler, Rabbi Ben Ezra, A Death in the Desert, Caliban upon Setebos, Confessions, May and Death, Prospice, Youth and Art, A Face, A Likeness, Mr. Sludge, Apparent Failure, Epilogue.

=Dubiety.= (_Asolando_, 1889.) Richardson said that "a state of dubiety and suspense is ever accompanied with uneasiness." Sleep, if sound, is restful; but the poet asks for comfort, and to be comfortable implies a certain amount of consciousness--a dreamy, hazy sense of being in "luxury's sofa-lap." An English lady once asked a British tar in the Bay of Malaga, one lovely November day, if he were not happy to think he was out of foggy England--at least in autumn? The sailor protested there was nothing he disliked so much as "the everlasting blue sky" of the Mediterranean, and there was nothing he longed for so much as "a good Thames fog." So the poet here demands,

"Just a cloud, Suffusing day too clear and bright."

He does not wish to be shrouded, as the sailor did, but his idea of comfort is that the world's busy thrust should be shaded by a "gauziness" at least. Vivid impressions are always more or less painful: they strike the senses too acutely, as "the eternal blue sky" of the south is too trying for English eyes. As such a light is sometimes too stimulating, so even too much intellectual light may be painful; a "gauziness," a "dreaming's vapour wreath" is to the overwrought brain of the thinker happiness "just for once." In the dim musings, neither dream nor vision, but just a memory, comes the face of the woman he had loved and lost, the memory of her kiss, the impress of the lips of Truth, "for love is Truth."

=Eagle, The.= (_Ferishtah's Fancies_: I. "On Divine Providence.") The story is taken from the fable of Pilpai (or Bidpai, as is the more correct form), called _The Dervish, the Falcon and the Raven_. A father told a young man that all effects have their causes, and he who relies upon Providence without considering these had need to be instructed by the following fable:--

"A certain dervish used to relate that, in his youth, once passing through a wood and admiring the works of the great Author of Nature, he spied a falcon that held a piece of flesh in his beak; and hovering about a tree, tore the flesh into bits, and gave it to a young raven that lay bald and featherless in its nest. The dervish, admiring the bounty of Providence, in a rapture of admiration cried out, 'Behold, this poor bird, that is not able to seek out sustenance for himself, is not, however, forsaken of its Creator, who spreads the whole world like a table, where all creatures have their food ready provided for them! He extends His liberality so far, that the serpent finds wherewith to live upon the mountain of Gahen. Why, then, am I so greedy? wherefore do I run to the ends of the earth, and plough up the ocean for bread? Is it not better that I should henceforward confine myself in repose to some little corner, and abandon myself to fortune?' Upon this he retired to his cell, where, without putting himself to any further trouble for anything in the world, he remained three days and three nights without victuals. At last, 'Servant of mine,' said the Creator to him in a dream, 'know thou that all things in this world have their causes; and though my providence can never be limited, my wisdom requires that men shall make use of the means that I have ordained them. If thou wouldst imitate any one of the birds thou hast seen to my glory, use the talents I have given thee, and imitate the falcon that feeds the raven, and not the raven that lies a sluggard in his nest, and expects his food from another.' This example shows us that we are not to lead idle and lazy lives upon the pretence of depending upon Providence."--_Fables of Pilpay_ (Chandos Classics), p. 53.

Ferishtah is in training for a dervish, and is anxious to feed hungry souls. Mr. Browning makes his charitable bird an eagle, and the moral is that man is not to play the helpless weakling, but to save the perishing by his helpful strength. The dervish, duly admonished, asks which lacks in him food the more--body or soul? He reflects that, as he starves in soul, so may mankind, wherefore he will go forth to help them; and this Mr. Browning proposes to do by the series of moral and philosophical lessons to be drawn from _Ferishtah's Fancies_. The lyric teaches that, though a life with nature is good for meditation and for lovers of solitude, we are human souls and our proper place is "up and down amid men," for God is soul, and it is the poet's business to speak to the divine principle existing under every squalid exterior and harsh and hateful personality.

=Earth's Immortalities.= (First published in _Dramatic Romances and Lyrics--Bells and Pomegranates_ No. VII.) The poet was famous, and not so very long since; but the gravestones above him are sinking, and the lichens are softening out his very name and date. So fades away his fame. And the lover who could be satisfied with nothing less than "for ever" has the fever of passion quenched in the snows that cover the tomb beside the poet's. One demanded to be remembered, the other to be loved, for ever. Thus do "Earth's immortalities" perish either under lichens or snows.

=Easter-Day.= (_Christmas Eve and Easter Day_: Florence, 1850.) The poem is a dialogue. The first speaker exclaims, "How very hard it is to be a Christian!" and says the difficulty does not so much consist in living up to the Christ-ideal,--hard enough, by the very terms, but hard to realise it with the moderate success with which we realise the ordinary aims of life. Of course the aim is greater, consequently the required effort harder: may it not be God's intention that the difficulty of being a Christian should seem unduly great? "Of course the chief difficulty is belief," says the second speaker: "once thoroughly believe, the rest is simple. Prove to me that the least command of God is really and truly God's command, and martyrdom itself is easy." Joint the finite into the infinite life, and fix yourself safely inside, no doubt all external things you would safely despise. The second speaker says, "But faith may be God's touchstone: God does not reward us with heaven because we see the sun shining, nor crown a man victor because he draws his breath duly. If you would have faith exist at all, there must perforce be some uncertainty with it. We love or hate people because either they do or do not believe in us. But the Creator's reign, we are apt to think, should be based on exacter laws: we desire God should geometrise." The first speaker says, "You would grow as a tree, stand as a rock, soar up like fire, be above faith. But creation groans, and out of its pains we have to make our music." The second speaker replies, "I confess a scientific faith is absurd; the end which it was meant to serve would be lost if faith were certainty. We may grant that, but may we not require at least probability? We do not hang a curtain flat along a wall; we prefer it to hang in folds from point to point. We would not mind the gaps and intervals, if at point and point we could pin our life upon God. It would be no hardship then to renounce the world. There are men who live merely to collect beetles, giving up all the pleasures of life to make a completer collection than has been hitherto formed. Another set lives to collect snuff-boxes, or in learning to play chess blindfold. It would not be hard to renounce the world if we had as much _certainty_ as these hermits obtain in their pleasures to inspire them in renouncing the vanities of life. Of course, as some will say, there is evidence enough of a sort: as is your turn of mind, so is your search--you will find just what you look for, and so you get your Christian evidences in a sense; you may comfort yourself in having found a scrap of papyrus in a mummy-case which declares there really was a living Moses, and you may even get over the difficulty of Jonah and the whale by turning the whale into an island or a rock and set your faith to clap her wings and crow accordingly. You may do better: you may make the human heart the minister of truth, and prove by its wants and needs and hopes and fears how aptly the creeds meet these:

"You wanted to believe; your pains Are crowned--you do!"

If once in the believing mood, the renunciation of pleasures adds a spice to life. Do you say that the Eternal became incarnate--

"Only to give our joys a zest, And prove our sorrows for the best?"

The believing man is convinced that to be a Christian the world's gain is to be accounted loss, and he asks the sceptic what he counsels in that case? The answer is, he would take the safe side--deny himself. The believer does not relish the idea of renouncing life for the sake of death. The collectors of curiosities at least had something for their pains, and the believer gets--well, hope! The sceptic claims that he lives in trusting ease. "Yes," says the believer, "blind hopes wherewith to flavour life--that is all;" and he proceeds to relate an incident which happened in his life one Easter night, three years ago. He was crossing the common near the chapel (spoken of in _Christmas Eve_), when he fell to musing on what was his personal relationship to Christianity, how it would be with him were he to fall dead that moment--would he lie faithful or faithless? It was always so with him from childhood; he always desired to know the worst of everything. "Common-sense" told him he had nothing to fear: if he were not a Christian, who was? All at once he had this vision. "Burn it!" was written in lines of fire across the sky; the dome of heaven was one vast rack of ripples, infinite and black; the whole earth was lit with the flames of the Judgment Day. In a moment he realised that he stood before the seat of Judgment, choosing the world--his naked choice, with all the disguises of old and all his trifling with conscience stripped away. A Voice beside him spoke:--

"Life is done, Time ends, Eternity's begun, And thou art judged for evermore."

The Christ stood before him, told him that, as he had deliberately chosen the world, the finite life in opposition to God, it should be his:--

"'Tis thine For ever--take it!"

For the world he had lived, for the things of time and sense he had fought and sighed; the ideal life, the truth of God, the best and noblest things, had interested him noway. His sentence, his awful doom--which at first he was so far from realising that he was thrilled with pleasure at the words--was that he should take and for ever keep the partial beauty for which he had struggled. Wedded for ever to the gross material life, in that he imagined he saw his highest happiness! "Mine--the World?" he cried, in transport. "Yes," said the awful Judge: "if you are satisfied with one rose, thrown to you over the Eden-barrier which excludes you from its glory--take it!" Our greatest punishment would be the gratification of our lowest aims. "All the world!" and the sense of infinite possession of all the beauty of earth, from fern leaf to Alpine heights, brought the warmth to the man's heart and extinguished the terror inspired by the Judgment-seat of God. And the great Judge saw the thought, told him he was welcome so to rate the mere hangings of the vestibule of the Palace of the Supreme; and in the scorn of the awful gift the man read his error, and asked for Art in place of Nature. And that, too, was conceded: he should obtain the one form the sculptors laboured to abstract, the one face the painters tried to draw, the perfection in their soul which these only hinted at. But "very good" as God pronounced earth to be, earth can only serve earth's ends; its completeness transferred to a future state would be the dreariest deficiency. The good, tried once, were bad retried. Then the judged man, seeing the World and the World of Art insufficient to satisfy his new condition, cried in anguish, "Mind is best--I will seize mind--forego the rest!" And again it was answered to him that all the best of mind on earth--the intuition, the grasps of guess, the efforts of the finite to comprehend the infinite, the gleams of heaven which come to sting with hunger for the full light of God, the inspiration of poetry, the truth hidden in fable,--all these were God's part, and in no wise to be considered as inherent to the mind of man. Losing God, he loses His inspirations; bereft of them in the world he had chosen, mind would not avail to light the cloud he had entered. And the bleeding spirit of the humbled man prays for love alone. And God said, "Is this thy final choice: Love is best? 'Tis somewhat late! Love was all about thee, curled in its mightiness around all thou hadst to do with. Take the show of love for the name's sake; but remember Who created thee to love, died for love of thee, and thou didst refuse to believe the story, on the ground that the love was too much." Cowering deprecatingly, the man, who now saw the whole truth of God, cried, "Thou Love of God! Let me not know that all is lost! Let me go on hoping to reach one eve the Better Land!" And the man awoke, and rejoiced that he was not left apart in God's contempt; thanking God that it is hard to be a Christian, and that he is not condemned to earth and ease for ever.

NOTES.--Stanza iv., "_In all Gods acts (as Plato cries He doth) He should geometrise_": see Plutarch, _Symposiacs_, viii. 2. "Diogenianas began and said, 'Let us admit Plato to the conference, and inquire upon what account he says--supposing it to be his sentence--that _God always plays the geometer_.' I said: 'This sentence was not plainly set down in any of his books; yet there are good arguments that it is his, and it is very much like his expression.' Tyndares presently subjoined: 'He praises geometry as a science that takes off men from sensible objects, and makes them apply themselves to the intelligible and Eternal Nature, the contemplation of which is the end of philosophy, as a view of the mysteries of initiation into holy rites.'" vi., "_My list of coleoptera_": in entomology, an order of insects having four wings--the beetle tribe. "_A Grignon with the Regent's crest_": Grignon was a famous snuff-box maker, and his name was used for the fashionable boxes. vii., "_Jonah's whale_": The latest theory is that the great deity of Nineveh was a "fish-god." Mr. Tylor considers the story to be a solar myth. Madame Blavatsky says (_Isis Unveiled_, vol. ii., p. 258), "'Big Fish' is Cetus, the latinised form of Keto--[Greek: kêtô], and Keto is Dagon, Poseidon." She suggests that Jonah simply went into the cell within the body of Dagon, the fish-god. _Orpheus_, the mythical poet, whose mother was the Muse Calliope. His song could move the rocks and tame wild beasts (see EURYDICE TO ORPHEUS). _Dionysius Zagrias._ Zagreus was a name given to Dionysus by the Orphic poets. The conception of the Winter-Dionysus originated in Crete: sacrifice was offered to him at Delphi on the shortest day. This is quite evidently one of the myths of winter. xii., _Æschylus_: "_the giving men blind hopes_." In the _Prometheus Chained_ of Æschylus the chorus of ocean nymphs ask Prometheus--

"_Chor._ But had th' offence no further aggravation? _Pro._ I hid from men the foresight of their fate. _Chor._ What couldst thou find to remedy that ill? _Pro._ I sent blind Hope t' inhabit in their hearts. _Chor._ A blessing hast thou given to mortal man." Morley's _Plays of Æschylus_, p. 18.

xiv., "_The kingcraft of the Lucomons_": Heads of ancient Etruscan families, and combining both priest and patriarch. The kings were drawn from them. (Dr. Furnivall.) _Fourier's scheme_: Fourierism was the system of Charles Fourier, a Frenchman, who recommended the reorganisation of society into small communities living in common. xx., "_Flesh refine to nerve_": this is a remarkable instance of the poet's scientific apprehension of the process of nerve formation five years before Herbert Spencer speculated on the evolution of the nervous system. (See my _Browning's Message to his Time_: "Browning as a Scientific Poet.") xxvi., _Buonarrotti_ == Michael Angelo.

=Eccelino da Romano III.= (_Sordello._) Known as Eccelin the Monk, or Ezzelin III. He was the Emperor Frederick's chief in North Italy, and was a powerful noble. He was termed "the Monk" because of his religious austerity. He is described by Mr. Browning in the poem as "the thin, grey, wizened, dwarfish devil Ecelin." He was the most prominent of Ghibelline leaders, was tyrant of Padua, and nicknamed "the Son of the Devil." Ariosto, _Orlando Furioso_, iii. 33, describes him as

"Fierce Ezelin, that most inhuman lord, Who shall be deemed by men a child of hell."

"His story," says Longfellow, in his notes to Dante's _Inferno_, "may be found in Sismondi's _Histoire des Républiques Italiennes_, chap. xix. He so outraged the religious sense of the people by his cruelties that a crusade was preached against him, and he died a prisoner in 1259, tearing the bandages from his wounds, and fierce and defiant to the last. 'Ezzelino was small of stature,' says Sismondi, 'but the whole aspect of his person, all his movements, indicated the soldier. His language was bitter, his countenance proud, and by a single look he made the boldest tremble. His soul, so greedy of all crimes, felt no attraction for sensual pleasures. Never had Ezzelino loved women; and this, perhaps, is the reason why in his punishments he was as pitiless against them as men. He was in his sixty-sixth year when he died; and his reign of blood had lasted thirty-four years.'"

=Eccelino IV.= was the elder of the two sons of Eccelino III., surnamed the Monk, who divided his little principality between them in 1223, and died in 1235. In 1226, at the head of the Ghibellines, he got possession of Verona, and was appointed Podesta. He became one of the most faithful servants of the Emperor Frederick II. In 1236 he invited Frederick to enter Italy to his assistance, and in August met him at Trent. Eccelino was soon after besieged in Verona by the Guelfs, and the siege was raised by the Emperor. Vicenza was next stormed and the government given to Eccelino. In 1237 he marched against Padua, which capitulated, when he behaved towards the people with great cruelty. He then besieged Mantua, and mastered the Trevisa. In 1239 he was excommunicated by the Pope and deprived of his estates. He behaved with such terrible cruelty that the Emperor would have gladly been rid of him. Dante, in the _Divina Commedia_, Inferno xii., places Eccelino in the lake of blood in the seventh circle of hell.

=Echetlos.= (_Dramatic Idyls_, Second Series: 1880.) A Greek legend (of which there are many) about the battle of Marathon, in which the Athenians and Platæans, under Miltiades, defeated the Persians, 490 B.C. Wherever the Greeks were hardest pressed in the fight a figure driving a ploughshare was seen mowing down the enemy's ranks. After the battle was over the Greeks were anxious to learn who was the man in the clown's dress who had done them this great service. They demanded of the oracles his name. But the oracles declined to tell: "Call him Echetlos, the Ploughshare-wielder," they said. "Let his deed be his name:

"The great deed ne'er grows small."

NOTES.--"_Not so the great name--Woe for Miltiades, woe for Themistokles!_" After the victory of Marathon, Miltiades sullied his honour by employing the fleet in an attempt to wreak a private grudge on the island of Paros. He was sentenced to a heavy fine, which he was unable to pay, and died in debt and dishonour. Themistocles was accused of having entered into a traitorous communication with the Persians in his own interest. He was banished from Greece, and died at Magnesia.

=Elcorte= (_Sordello_, Book ii.) was a poor archer who perished in saving a child of Eccelin's. He was supposed to be Sordello's father, but the poet discovered that he was not.

=Eglamour.= (_Sordello._) The minstrel defeated by Sordello at the contest of song in the Court of Love. He was the chief troubadour of Count Richard of St. Bonifacio. He died of grief at his discomfiture in the art of song by Sordello. "He was a typical troubadour, who loved art for its own sake; thought more of his songs than of the things about which he sang, or of the soul whose passion song should express" (Fotheringham, _Studies in Browning_, p. 116). Mrs. James L. Bagg, in a comparative study of Eglamour and Sordello, gives the following as the chief characteristics of this poet:--"He was a poet not without effort and often faltering; he exhibits the beautiful as the natural outburst of a heart full of a sense of beauty that possesses it. He loses himself in his song,--it absorbs his life; his art ends with his art, and is its own reward. He understands and loves nature; they are bound up together. He loves all beauty for its own sake, asking no reward. He craves nothing, takes no thought for the morrow. He lacks character, and is dreamy, inactive; and attempting little, fails in little. His life is barren of results as men reckon; he lives and loves, and sings and dies. His life is almost one unbroken strain of harmony--he is pleased to please and to serve. His nature is simple and easily understood; Eglamour is born and dies a creature of perceptions, never conscious that beyond these there lies a world of thought. His life goes out in tragic giving up of love, hope and heart."

=Elvire.= (_Fifine at the Fair._) The wife of Don Juan, who discusses with her husband the nature of conjugal love, after he has been fascinated by the gipsy girl at Pornic fair. She is the Donna Elvira of Molière's _Don Juan_, and the part she plays in this poem of _Fifine_ is suggested by her speech in Act i., Scene 3:--

"Why don't you arm your brow With noble impudence? Why don't you swear and vow No sort of change is come to any sentiment You ever had for me?"

=Englishman in Italy, The: Piano di Sorrento= (the Plain of Sorrento). (_Dramatic Romances_, published in _Bells and Pomegranates_, VII. 1845.)--Sorrento, in the province of Naples, is situated on the north side of the peninsula that separates the Bay of Naples from the Bay of Salerno. In the time of Augustus it was a finer city than Naples itself. The neighbourhood of this delightful summer resort is the realm of the olive tree, and its plain is clothed with orange and lemon groves. A deep blue sky above and a deep blue sea below, coast scenery unequalled for loveliness even in Italy, and an atmosphere breathing perfume and intoxicating the senses with the soft delights of a land of romance and gaiety, combine to make a residence in this earthly paradise almost too luxurious for a phlegmatic Englishman. It has a drawback in the form of the Scirocco--a hot, oppressive and most relaxing wind, crossing from North Africa over the Mediterranean, and the "long, hot, dry autumn" referred to in the poem. The Englishman is seated by the side of a dark-complexioned tarantella-dancing girl, whom he is sheltering from the approaching storm, and who is timidly saying her rosary, and to whom he is describing the incidents of Italian life which have most interested him--the ripening grapes, the quails and the curious nets arranged to catch them, the pomegranates splitting with ripeness on the trees, the yellow rock-flower on the road side, all the landscape parched with the fierce Southern heat, which the sudden rain-storm was about to cool and moisten. The quail nets are rapidly taken down, for protection; on the flat roofs, where the split figs lie in sieves drying in the sun, the girls are busy putting them under cover; the blue sea has changed to black with the coming storm; the fishing boat from Amalfi--loveliest spot in all the lovely landscape--sends ashore its harvest of the sea, to the delight of the naked brown children awaiting it. The grape harvest has begun, and in the great vats they are treading the grapes, dancing madly to keep the bunches under, while the rich juice runs from beneath; and still the laden girls pour basket after basket of fresh vine plunder into the vat, and still the red stream flows on. And under the hedges of aloe, where the tomatoes lie, the children are picking up the snails tempted out by the rain, which will be cooked and eaten for supper, when the grape gleaners will feast on great ropes of macaroni and slices of purple gourds. And as he dwells on all the Southern wealth of the land, he tempts the timid little maid with grape bunches, whose heavy blue bloom entices the wasps, which follow the spoil to the very lips of the eater; with cheese-balls, white wine, and the red flesh of the prickly pear. Now the Scirocco is loose--down come the olives like hail; fig trees snap under the power of the storm; they must keep under shelter till the tempest is over: and now he amuses the girl by telling her how in a few days they will have stripped all the vines of their leaves to feed the cattle, and the vineyards will look so bare. He rode over the mountains the previous night with her brother the guide, who feasted on the fruit-balls of the myrtles and sorbs, and while he ate the mule plodded on, now and then neighing as he recognised his mates, laden with faggots and with barrels, on the paths below. Higher they ascended till the woods ceased; as they mounted the path grew wilder, the chasms and piles of loose stones showed but the growth of grey fume reed, the ever-dying rosemary, and the lentisks, till they reached the summit of Calvano; then he says--

"God's own profound Was above me, and round me the mountains, and under, the sea."

The crystal of heaven and its blue solitudes; the "infinite movement" of the mountains, which seem, as they overlook the sensual landscape, to enslave it--filled him with a grave and solemn fear. And now he turns to the sea, wherein slumber the three isles of the siren, looking as they did in the days of Ulysses; he will sail among them, and visit with his companion their strangely coloured caves, and hear the secret sung to Ulysses ages ago. The sun breaks out over Calvano, the storm has passed; the gipsy tinker ventures out with his bellows and forge, and is hammering away there under the wall; the children watch him mischievously. He rouses his sleepy maiden, and bids her come with him to see the preparations at the church for the Feast of the Rosary; for the morrow is Rosary Sunday, and it was on that day the Catholic powers of Europe destroyed the Turkish fleet at the battle of Lepanto, and in every Catholic church the victory is annually commemorated by devotions to Our Lady of the Rosary, whose prayers, they say, won the contest for the Christian arms. The Dominican brother is to preach the sermon, and all the gay banners and decorations are being put up in the church. The altar will be ablaze with lights, the music is to be supplemented by a band, and the statue of the Virgin is to be borne in solemn procession through the plain. Bonfires, fireworks, and much trumpet-blowing will wind up the day; and the Englishman anticipates as great pleasure from the festival as any child, and more--for, "Such trifles!" says the girl. "Trifles!" he replies; "why, in England they are gravely debating if it be righteous to abolish the Corn Laws!"

=Epilogue to "Asolando"= (1889). The words of this poem have a peculiar significance: they are the last which the poet addressed to the world, and the volume in which they appeared was published in London on the very day on which he died in Venice. Had he known when he wrote them that these were the last lines of his message to the world--that he who had for so many years urged men to "strive and thrive--fight on!" would pass away as they were given to the world, would he have wished to close his life's work with braver, better, nobler words than these? All Browning is here. From _Pauline_ to this epilogue the message was ever the same, and the confidence in the ultimate and eternal triumph of right uniform throughout. In the _Pall Mall Gazette_ of February 1st, 1890, there appeared the following reference to this poem: "One evening, just before his death illness, the poet was reading this (the third verse) from a proof to his daughter-in-law and sister. He said, 'It almost looks like bragging to say this, and as if I ought to cancel it; but it's the simple truth; and as it's true, it shall stand.' His faith knew no doubting. In all trouble, against all evil, he stood firm."

=Epilogue to "Dramatic Idyls"= (Second Series). This poem combats the notion that a quick-receptive soil, on which no feather seed can fall without awakening vitalising virtue, is the hot-bed for a poet; rather must we hold that the real song-soil is the rock, hard and bare, exposed to sun and wind-storm, there in the clefts where few flowers awaken grows the pine tree--a nation's heritage. (Compare on this Emerson's _Woodnotes_ II.)

=Epilogue to "Dramatis Personæ."=--FIRST SPEAKER, as _David_. At the Feast of the Dedication of Solomon's Temple, when Priests and Levites in sacrificial robes attended with the multitude praising the Lord as a single man; when singers and trumpets sound and say, "Rejoice in God, whose mercy endureth for ever," then the presence of the Lord filled the house with the glory of His cloud. This is the highest point reached by the purest Theism of the Hebrew people.

SECOND SPEAKER, as _Renan_. A star had beamed from heaven's vault upon our world, then sharpened to a point in the dark, and died. We had loved and worshipped, and slowly we discovered it was vanishing from us. A face had looked from out the centuries upon our souls, had seemed to look upon and love us. We vainly searched the darkling sky for the dwindling star, faded from us now and gone from keenest sight. And so the face--the Christ-face--we had seen in the old records, the Gospels which had seemed to dower us with the Divine-human Friend, and which warmed our souls with love, has faded out, and we search the records and sadly fail to find the face at all, and our hope is vanished and the Friend is gone. The record searchers tell us we shall never more know ourselves are seen, never more speak and know that we are heard, never more hear response to our aspirations and our love. The searcher finds no god but himself, none higher than his own nature, no love but the reflection of his own, and realises that he is an orphan, and turning to his brethren cries, with Jean Paul, "There is no God! We are all orphans!"

THIRD SPEAKER is Mr. Browning himself, who offers us consolation in our bereavement; he asks us to see through his eyes. In head and heart every man differs utterly from his fellows; he asks how and why this difference arises; he bids us watch how even the heart of mankind may have some mysterious power of attracting Nature's influences round himself as a centre. In Arctic seas the water gathers round some rock-point as though the waste of waves sought this centre alone; for a minute this rock-point is king of this whirlpool current, then the waves oversweep and destroy it, hastening off to choose another peak to find, and flatter, and finish in the same way. Thus does Nature dance about each man of us, acting as if she meant to enhance his worth; then, when her display of simulated homage is done with, rolls elsewhere for the same performance. Nature leaves him when she has gained from him his product, his contribution to the active life of the time. The time forces have utilised the man as their pivot, he has served for the axis round which have whirled the energies which Nature employed at the moment. His quota has been contributed; he has not been a force, but the central point of the forces' revolution; as the play of waves demanded for their activity the rock-centre, so the mind forces required for their gyrations the passive man-centre; the rock stood still in the dance of the waves, but their dance could not have existed without its mysterious influence on their motion. The man was necessary to the mind-waves; the play of forces could not have been secured without just that soul-point standing idly as the centre of the dance of influences. The waves, having obtained the whirl they demanded, submerge the rock--the mind forces having gained such direction, such quality of rotation, dispense with the man; the force lives, however, and his contribution to its direction is not lost, hot husbanded. Now, there is no longer any use for the old Temple service of David, neither is the particular aspect of the Christ-face required as at first beheld. The face itself does not vanish, or but decomposes to recompose. The face grows; the Christ of to-day is a greater conception than that which Renan thinks he has decomposed. It is not the Christ of an idea that sufficed for old-world conception, but one which expands with the age and grows with the sentient universe.

=Epilogue to "Ferishtah's Fancies"= (VENICE, _December 1st, 1884_). This poem brings into a focus the rays of the fancies which compose the volume: the famous ones of old, the heroes whose deeds are celebrated in the different poems, were not actors merely, but soldiers, and fought God's battle; they were not cowards, because they had confidence in the supremacy of good, and fighting for the right knew they could leave results to the Leader. But a chill at the heart even in its supremest joy induces the question: What if all be error?--if love itself were responsible for a fallacy of vision?

=Epilogue to "Pacchiaratto and other Poems"= (1876). In this poem the author deals with his critics. "The poets pour us wine," and as they pour we demand the impracticable feat of producing for us wine that shall be sweet, yet strong and pure. One poet gives the world his potent man's draught; it is admitted to be strong and invigorating, yet is swallowed at a gulp, as evidently unpleasant to the taste. Another dispenses luscious sweetness, fragrant as a flower distillation; and men say contemptuously it is only fit for boys--is useless for nerving men to work. Now, it is easy to label a bottle as possessing body and bouquet both, but labels are not always absolute guarantees of that which they cover. Still there is wine to be had, by judicious blending, which combines these qualities of body and bouquet. How do we value such vintage when we do possess it? Go down to the vaults where stand the vats of Shakespeare and Milton wine: there in the cellar are forty barrels with Shakespeare's brand--some five or six of his works are duly appreciated, the rest neglected; there are four big butts of Milton's brew, and out of them we take a few drops, pretending that we highly esteem him the while! The fact is we hate our bard, or we should not leave him in the cellar. The critics say Browning brews stiff drink without any flavour of grape: would the public take more kindly to his wine if he gave it all the cowslip fragrance and bouquet of his meadow and hill side? The treatment received by Shakespeare and Milton proves that the public taste is vitiated, notwithstanding all the pretence of admiration of them. It is our furred tongue that is at fault; it is nettle-broth the world requires. Browning has some Thirty-four Port for those who can appreciate it; as for the multitude, let them stick to their nettle-broth till their taste improves.

NOTES.--Verse i., "_The Poets pour in wine_": the quotation is from Mrs. Browning's "Wine of Cyprus." V. 20, "_Let them 'lay, pray, bray'_": this in ridicule of Byron's grammar in verse clxxx. of Canto IV. of _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_:--"And dashest him again to earth;--there let him lay."

=Epilogue to the "Two Poets of Croisic"= (1878). (Published in the _Selections_, vol. ii., as A TALE). A bard had to sing for a prize before the judges, and to accompany his song on the lute. His listeners were so pleased with his melody that it seemed as though they would hasten to bestow the award even before the end of the song; when, just as the poet was at the climax of his trial, a string broke, and all would have been lost, had not a cricket "with its little heart on fire" alighted on the instrument, and flung its heart forth, sounding the missing note; and there the insect rested, ever at the right instant shrilling forth its F-sharp even more perfectly than the string could have done. The judges with one consent said, "Take the prize--we took your lyre for harp!" Did the conqueror despise the little creature who had helped him with all he had to offer? No: he had a statue of himself made in marble, life-size; on the lyre was "perched his partner in the prize." The author of the volume of poems of which this story forms the epilogue, says that he tells it to acknowledge the love which played the cricket's part, and gave the missing music; a girl's love coming aptly in when his singing became gruff. Love is ever waiting to supply the missing notes in the arrested harmony of our lives.

NOTES.--"_Music's Son_": Goethe. "_Lotte_," of the _Sorrows of Werther_, was Charlotte Buff, who married Kestner, Goethe's friend, the Albert of the novel. Goethe was in love with Charlotte Buff, and her marriage with Kestner roused the temper of his over-sensitive mind. (See _Dr. Brewer's Reader's Handbook_.)

=Epistle, An, Containing the Strange Medical Experience of Karshish, the Arab Physician.= (_Men and Women_, vol. i., 1855.) [The subject of the poem is the raising of Lazarus from the dead.] Karshish, a wandering scholar-physician, writing to the sage Abib, from whom he has learned his art, gives him an account of certain matters of medical interest which he has discovered in the course of his travels, and which, like a good student, he communicates to his venerable teacher. After informing him that he has sent him some samples of rare pharmaceutical substances, he says that his journeyings brought him to Jericho, on the dangerous road from which city to Jerusalem he had met with sundry misadventures, and noted several cases of clinical interest, all of which he reports in the matter-of-fact way which betokens the scientific practitioner of the period. Amongst his plague, ague, epileptic, scalp-disease, and leprosy cures, he particularly describes "a case of mania subinduced by epilepsy," which especially interested him. The disorder seemed to him of quite easy diagnosis: "Tis but a case of mania," complicated by trance and epilepsy, but well within his powers as a physician to account for, except in the after circumstances and the means of cure. "Some spell, exorcisation or trick of art" had evidently been employed by a Nazarene physician of his tribe, who bade him, when he seemed dead, "Rise!" and he did rise. He was "one Lazarus, a Jew"--of good habit of body, and indeed quite beyond ordinary men in point of health; and his three days' sleep had so brightened his body and soul that it would be a great thing if the medical art could always ensure such a result from the use of any drug. He has undergone such change of mental vision that he eyes the world now like a child, and puts all his old joys in the dust. He has lost his sense of the proportion of things: a great armament or a mule load of gourds are all the same to him, while some trifle will appear of infinite import; yet he is stupefied because his fellow-men do not view things with his opened eyes. He is so perplexed with impulses that his heart and brain seem occupied with another world while his feet stay here. He desires only perfectly to please God; he is entirely apathetic when told that Rome is on the march to destroy his town and tribe, yet he loves all things old and young, strong and weak, the flowers and birds, and is harmless as a lamb: only at ignorance and sin he is impatient, but promptly curbs himself. The physician would have sought out the Nazarene who worked the cure, and would have held a consultation with him on the case, but discovered that he perished in a tumult many years ago, accused of wizardry, rebellion, and of holding a prodigious creed. Lazarus--it is well, says the physician, to keep nothing back in writing to a brother in the craft--regards the curer as God the Creator and sustainer of the world, that dwelt in flesh amongst us for a while; but why write of trivial matters? He has more important things to tell.

"I noticed on the margin of a pool, Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange!"

He begs the sage's pardon for troubling him with this man's tedious case, but it has touched him with awe, it may be partly the effect of his weariness. But he cannot close his letter without returning to the tremendous suggestion once more. "Think, Abib! The very God!"--

"So the All-Great, were the All-Loving too,-- It is strange."

Professor Corson says this poem "is one of Browning's most remarkable psychological studies. It may be said to polarise the idea, so often presented in his poetry, that doubt is a condition of the vitality of faith. It is a subtle representation of a soul conceived with absolute spiritual standards, while obliged to live in a world where all standards are relative and determined by the circumstances and limitations of its situation." Lazarus has seen things as they are. "This show of things," so far as he is concerned, is done with. He now leads the _actual_ life; his wonder and his sorrow are drawn from the reflection that his fellow-men remain in the region of phantasm. He lives really in the world to come. How infinitely little he found the things of time and sense in the presence of the eternal verities is grandly shown in the poem. The attitude of Lazarus under his altered conditions affords an answer to those who demand that an All-Wise Being should not leave men to struggle in a region of phenomena but exhibit the actual to us in the present life. Under such conditions our probation would be impossible. As Browning shows in _La Saisiaz_, a condition of certainty would destroy the school-time value of life; the highest truths are insusceptible of scientific demonstration. Lazarus is the hero of the poem, not Karshish. As the Bishop of Durham says in his paper "On Browning's View of Life," Lazarus "is not a man, but a sign: he stands among men as a patient witness of the overwhelming reality of the divine--a witness whose authority is confessed, even against his inclination, by the student of nature, who turns again and again to the phenomena which he affects to disparage. In this crucial example Browning shows how the exclusive dominance of the spirit destroys the fulness of human life, its uses and powers, while it leaves a passive life, crowned with an unearthly beauty." The professional attitude of Karshish is drawn with marvellous fidelity. A paper in the _Lancet_ on such a "case" would be precisely on the same lines to-day, though the wandering off into side details would not be quite so obvious, and there would be an entire absence of any trifling with the idea that "the All-Great were the All-Loving too." This is "emotional," and modern science has nothing but contempt for that.

NOTES.--_Snake-stone_, a name applied to any substance used as a remedy for snake-bites. Professor Faraday once analysed several which had been used for this purpose in Ceylon. One turned out to be a piece of animal charcoal, another was chalk, and a third a vegetable substance like a bezoar. The animal charcoal might possibly have been useful if applied immediately. The others were valueless for the purpose. (Tennant, _Ceylon_, third ed., i., 200.) "_A spider that weaves no web._" Dr. H. McCook, a specialist in spider lore, has explained this passage in _Poet-Lore_, vol. i., p. 518. He says the spider referred to belongs to the Wandering group: they stalk their prey in the open field, or in divers lurking places, and are quite different in their habits from the web-spinners. The spider sprinkled with mottles he thinks is the Zebra spider (_Epiblemum scenicum_). It belongs to the Saltigrade tribe. The use of spiders in medicine is very ancient. Pliny describes many diseases for which they were used. Spiders were boiled in water and distilled for wounds by Sir Walter Raleigh. _Greek-fire_ was the precursor of gunpowder; it was the _oleum incendiarum_ of the Romans. Probably petroleum, tar, sulphur, and nitre were its chief ingredients. _Blue flowering borage_ (_Borago officinalis_). The ancients deemed this plant one of the four "cordial flowers" for cheering the spirits, the others being the rose, violet, and alkanet. Pliny says it produces very exhilarating effects. The stem contains nitre, and the whole plant readily gives its flavour even to cold water. (See Anne Pratt's _Flowering Plants_, vol. iv., p. 75.)

=Este.= (_Sordello._) A town of Lombardy, in the delegation of Padua, situated at the southern extremity of the Euganean hills. The Rocca or castle is a donjon tower occupying the site of the original fortress of Este.

=Este, The House of.= (_Sordello._) One of the oldest princely houses of Italy, called Este after the name of the town above mentioned. Albert Azzo II. first bore the title of Marquis of Este; he married a sister of Guelph III., who was duke of Carinthia. The Italian title and estates were inherited by Fulco I. (1060-1135), son of Albert Azzo II. In the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries the history of the house of Este is mixed up with that of the other noble houses of Italy in the struggles of the Guelphs and Ghibellines. The Estena were the head of the Guelph party, and at different times were princes of Ferrara, Modena and Reggio. "Obizzo I., son of Folco I., entered into a league against Frederick Barbarossa, and was comprehended in the Venetian treaty of 1177, by which municipal podestas (chief magistrates of great cities) were instituted" (_Encyc. Brit._). Strife existed between this house and that of the Torelli, which raged for two centuries, in consequence of Obizzo I. carrying off Marchesella, heiress of the Adelardi family, of Ferrara, and marrying her to his son Azzo V.

=Eulalia.= (_A Soul's Tragedy._) The shrewd woman who was betrothed to Luitolfo.

=Euripides.= The Greek tragic poet, who was born of Athenian parents in 480 B.C. He brought out his first play--_The Peliades_--at the age of twenty-five. At thirty-nine he gained the first prize, which honour he received only five times in his long career of fifty years. He was the mediator between the ancient and modern drama, and was regarded at Athens as an innovator. Aristophanes was an exceedingly hostile and witty critic of Euripides, and from his point of view his conduct was justified, taking as he did the standard of Æschylus and Sophocles as the only right model of tragedy. He is variously said to have written seventy-five, seventy-eight and ninety-two tragedies. Eighteen only have come down to us: _The Alcestis_, _Andromache_, _Bacchæ_, _Hecuba_, _Helena_, _Electra_, _Heraclidæ_, _Heracles in Madness_, _The Suppliants_, _Hippolytus_, _Iphigenia at Aulis_, _Iphigenia among the Tauri_, _Ion_, _Medea_, _Orestes_, _Rhesus_, the _Troades_, the _Phoenissæ_, and a satiric play, the _Cyclops_. "Aristophanes calls Euripides 'meteoric,' because he was always rising into the air; he was famous for allusions to the stars, the sea and the elements. Aristophanes uses the epithet sneeringly: Browning, praisingly" (_Br. P._ iii. 43).

=Eurydice to Orpheus. A Picture by Leighton.= (Published for the first time in the Royal Academy Catalogue, 1864. It was reprinted in the first volume of the _Selections_ in 1865.) Orpheus was a famous mythical poet, who was so powerful in song that he could move trees and rocks and tame wild beasts by the charms of his voice. His wife (the nymph Eurydice) died from the bite of a serpent, and Orpheus descended to the lower regions in search of her. He so influenced Persephone by his music that she gave him permission to take back his wife on the condition that he should not look round during his passage from the nether world to the regions above. In his impatience he disregarded the condition, and having turned his head to gaze back, Eurydice had to return for ever to Hades (Vergil, _Geor._ iv., v. 457, etc.). The poet has represented Eurydice speaking to Orpheus the passionate words of love which made him forget the commands of Pluto and Persephone not to look back on pain of losing his wife again.

=Euthukles.= (_Balaustion's Adventure_; _Aristophanes' Apology._) He was the man of Phokis who heard Balaustion recite _Alcestis_ at Syracuse, and who followed her when she returned to Athens, and married her. On their voyage to Rhodes, after the fall of Athens, Balaustion dictated to him the _Apology_ of Aristophanes, which he wrote down on board the vessel. It was Euthukles, according to Browning, who saved Athens from destruction by reciting at a critical moment the lines from Euripides' _Electra_ and _Agamemnon_.

=Evelyn Hope.= (_Men and Women_, 1855; _Lyrics_, 1863; _Dramatic Lyrics_, 1868.) The lament of a man who loved a young girl who died before she was old enough to appreciate his love. The maiden was sixteen, the man "thrice as old." He contemplates her as she lies in the beauty of death, and asks: "Is it too late then? Because you were so young and I so old, were we fellow-mortals and nought beside? Not so: God creates the love to reward the love," and he will claim her not in the next life alone, but, if need be, through lives and worlds many yet to come. His love will not be lost, for his gains of the ages and the climes will not satisfy him without his Evelyn Hope. He can wait. He will be more worthy of her in the worlds to come. Modern science has taught us that no atom of matter can ever be lost to the world, no infinitesimal measure of energy but is conserved, and the poet holds that there shall never be one lost good. The eternal atoms, the vibrations that cease not through the eternal years, shall not mock at the evanescence of human love.

=Face, A.= (_Dramatis Personæ_, 1864.) A portrait of a beautiful girl painted in words by a poet who had all the sympathies of an artist.

=Family, The.= (_Ferishtah's Fancies_, 4: "On the Lawfulness of Prayer.") Ferishtah has prayed for a dying man that he might recover. An objector asks why he does this: if God is all-wise and good, what He does must be right: "Two best wills cannot be." Man has only to acquiesce and be thankful. The dervish tells a tale. A man had three sons, and a wife who was bitten by a serpent. The husband called in a doctor, who said he must amputate the injured part. The husband assented. The eldest son said, "Pause, take a gentler way." The next in age said, "The doctor must and should save the limb." The youngest said, "The doctor knows best: let him operate!" He agreed with the doctor. Let God be the doctor; let us call the husband's acquiescence wise understanding, call the first son's opinion a wise humanity. In the second son we see rash but kind humanity; in the youngest one who apes wisdom above his years. "Let us be man and nothing more," says Ferishtah.--man hoping, fearing, loving and bidding God help him till he dies. The lyric bids us while on earth be content to be men. The wider sense of the angel cannot be expected while we remain under human conditions.

=Fancy and Reason=, in _La Saisiaz_, discuss the _pros_ and _cons_ of the probabilities of the existence of God, the soul, and future life, etc.

=Fears and Scruples.= (_Pacchiarotto and Other Poems_, 1876: "The Spiritual Uses of Uncertainty.") "Why does God never speak?" asks the doubter. The analogy of the poem compares this silence of the Divine Being with that of a man's friend, who wrote him many valued letters, but otherwise kept aloof from him. It is suggested by experts that the letters are forgeries. The man loves on. It is then suggested that his friend is acting as a spy upon him, sees him readily enough and knows all he does, and some day will show himself to punish him. But this is to make the friend a monster! Hush!--"What if this friend happen to be--God?" In explanation of this poem, Mr. Kingsland received from the poet the following letter:--"I think that the point I wanted to illustrate in the poem you mention was this: Where there is a genuine love of the 'letters' and 'actions' of the invisible 'friend,' however these may be disadvantaged by an inability to meet the objections to their authenticity or historical value urged by 'experts' who assume the privilege of learning over ignorance, it would indeed be a wrong to the wisdom and goodness of the 'friend' if he were supposed capable of overlooking the actual 'love' and only considering the 'ignorance' which, failing to in any degree affect 'love,' is really the highest evidence that 'love' exists. So I _meant_, whether the result be clear or no."

=Ferishtah's Fancies.= A criticism of Life: Browning's mellow wisdom. Published in 1884, with the following quotations as mottoes on the page facing the title:--

"His genius was jocular, but, when disposed, he could be very serious."--Article _Shakespeare_, Jeremy Collier's _Historical, etc., Dictionary_, 2nd edition, 1701. "You, sir, I entertain you for one of my Hundred; only, I do not like the fashion of your garments: you will say, they are Persian; but let them be changed."--_King Lear_, Act III., sc. vi.

The work embraces the following collection of poems:--Prologue. 1. "The Eagle." 2. "The Melon-seller." 3. "Shah Abbas." 4. "The Family." 5. "The Sun." 6. "Mihrab Shah." 7. "A Camel-driver." 8. "Two Camels." 9. "Cherries." 10. "Plot Culture." 11. "A Pillar at Sebzevah." 12. "A Bean Stripe: also Apple Eating." Epilogue. There was a real personage named Ferishtah, a celebrated Persian historian, born about 1570. He is one of the most trustworthy of the Oriental historians. Several portions of his work have been translated into English. He has, however, no connection with the subject-matter of Mr. Browning's book, but it is probable that his name suggested itself to the poet as a good one for his work. We have here Mr. Browning in a dervish's robe, philosophising in a Persian atmosphere, yet talking the most perfect Browningese, just as do the Pope in the _Ring and the Book_ and the rabbis in the Jewish poems. Age, experience, and the calm philosophy of a religious mind, are required for the poet's highest teaching. It matters little, these being given, whether the philosophers wear the tiara of the pope, the robe of the dervish, or the gaberdine of the Jew: the philosophy is the same. The aim is "to justify the ways of God to men," and to make reasonable an exalted Christian Theism. Three great Eastern classics--_The Fables of Bidpai_, Firdausi's _Sháh-Námeh_, and the Book of Job--are the sources of the inspiration of the pages of _Ferishtah's Fancies_. Both the _Sháh-Náhmeh_ and the _Fables of Bidpai_, or _Pilpay_ as they are commonly termed, are published in the _Chandos Classics_. Bidpai is supposed to be the author of a famous collection of Hindu fables. The name Bidpai occurs in their Arabic version. Their origin was doubtless the _Pantcha Tantra_, or "Five Sections," a great collection of fables. The _Hitopadesa_ is another such collection. The fables were translated into Pehlvi in the sixth century. Then the Persian fables were translated into Arabic, and were transmitted to Europe. They were translated into Greek in the eleventh century, then into Hebrew and Latin, afterwards into nearly every European tongue. We must go to Firdausi, the Persian author of that "standing wonder in poetic literature," the _Sháh Námeh_, for an explanation of several allusions in the poem. This great chronicle, the Persian Book of Kings, is a history of Persia in sixty thousand verses. The poem is as familiar to every Persian as our own great epics to us, and the use Mr. Browning makes of it in this work is managed in the most natural manner. This we shall notice more particularly in dealing with the separate poems which compose the volume. In a letter to a friend, Browning wrote:--"I hope and believe that one or two careful readings of the poem will make its sense clear enough. Above all, pray allow for the poet's inventiveness in any case, and do not suppose there is more than a thin disguise of a few Persian names and allusions. There was no such poet as Ferishtah--the stories are all inventions.... The Hebrew quotations are put in for a purpose, as a direct acknowledgment that certain doctrines may be found in the Old Book, which the concocters of novel schools of morality put forth as discoveries of their own."

=Festus.= (_Paracelsus._) The old and faithful friend of Paracelsus, who believes in him from the first. He is the husband of Michal, and both influence the mind of the hero of medicine for good at various stages of his career.

=Fifine at the Fair.= (1872.) The key-note of the work is given in the quotation before the Prologue, which is the motto of the poem, from Molière's _Don Juan_, Act I., Sc. 3. There is a certain historic basis for the character of the Don Juan of European legend. In Seville, in the time of Peter the Cruel, lived Don Juan Tenorio, the prince of libertines. He attempted to abduct Giralda, daughter of the governor of Seville: the consequence was a duel, in which the lady's father was killed. The sensual excesses of Don Juan had destroyed his faith, and he defied the spirit-world so far as to visit the tomb of the murdered man and challenge his statue to follow him to supper. The statue accepted the invitation, and appeared amongst the guests at the meal, and carried the blaspheming sceptic to hell. "As a dramatic type," says the author of the article "Don Juan," in the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, "Don Juan is essentially the impersonation of the scepticism that results from sensuality, and is thus the complement of Faust, whose scepticism is the result of speculation." The Prologue describes a swimmer far out at sea, disporting himself under the noon-sun; as he floats, a beautiful butterfly hovers above him, a creature of the sky, as he for the time a creature of the water; neither can unite with the other, for neither can exchange elements; still, if we cannot fly, the next best thing is to swim,--a half-way house, as it were, between the world of spirit and that of grosser earth. Poetry is in this sense, a substitute for heaven: whatever the heaven-dwellers are, the poets seem; what deeds they do, the poets dream. Does the soul of his departed wife hover over him in this way, and look with pity on the mimicry of her airy flight? he wonders. (Mrs. Browning died eleven years before _Fifine_ was published.)--The scenery of the poem is that of the neighbourhood of Pornic, a seaside town in the department of the Loire, in Brittany, the little town being twenty-seven miles distant from Nantes. It is noted for its sea bathing and mineral waters, and, like many other places in Brittany, possesses some curious Druidical and other architectural remains. Mr. Browning, while staying at Pornic with his family, saw the gipsy woman who suggested to him the idea of Fifine. He selected her as a type of the sensual woman, in contrast to the spiritual type of womanhood. The poem deals with incidents connected with Pornic fair. Don Juan, addressing his wife Elvire, says: "Let us see the strolling players and the fun of the fair! Who would have supposed that the night could effect such a change? Yesterday all was rough and raw--mere tubs, poles and hoarding; now this morning all is gay as a butterfly, the scaffolding has burst out in colour like a flower-bed in full bloom. Nobody saw them enter the village, but that is the way of these tumblers, they like to steal a march and exhibit their spectacle only when the show is ready. Had any one wandered about the place at night he would have seen the sober caravan which was the bud that blossomed to-day into all this gaiety. An airy structure pitched beneath the tower appeared in the morning surmounted by a red pennon fluttering in the air, and frantic to be free. To be free!--the fever of the flag finds a response in my soul, my heart fires up for liberty from the restraints of law, I would lead the bohemian life these players lead. Why is it that disgraced people, those who have burst the bonds of conventional life, always seem to enjoy their existence more than others? They seem conscious of possessing a secret which sets them out of reach of our praise or blame; now and again they return to us because they must have our money, just as a bird must bear off a bit of rag filched from mankind to work up into his nest. But why need they do that? We think much of our reputation and family honour, but these people for a penny or two will display themselves undraped to any visitor. You may tell the showman that his six-legged sheep is an imposition,--he does not care, he values his good name at nothing. But offer to make these mountebanks respectable, promise them any reward you like to forsake their ways, to work and live as the rest of the world, and your offer will not tempt them. What is the compensatory unknown joy which turns dross to gold in their case? You sigh," says the speaker to his wife, "you shake your head: what have I said to distress you? Fifine, the gipsy beauty of the show, will illustrate my meaning: this woman is to me a queen, a sexless, bloodless sprite; yet she has conquered me. I want to understand how. There is a honeyed intoxication in the Eastern lily, which lures insects to their death for its own nourishment: is that a flaw in the flower? Wiser are we not to be tempted by such dangerous delights; we may admire and keep clear of them: not poison lilies, but the rose, the daisy, or the violet, for me,--it is Elvire, not Fifine, I love. You ask how does this woman explain my thought? When Louis the Eleventh lay dying he had a procession of the famous women of all time made to pass before him: Helen of Troy, who magically brought men to acquiesce in their own destruction; next was Cleopatra, all the wonder of her body dominated by her high and haughty soul, and trampling on her lovers; then the saint of Pornic church who saves the shipwrecked sailors, and who thinks in her innocence that Cleopatra has given away her clothes to the poor; then comes my gipsy beauty Fifine, with her tambourine. Suppose you, Elvire, in spirit join this procession; then you confront yourself, and I will show you how you beat each personage there--even this Fifine, whom I will reward with a franc that you may study her. You draw back your skirts from such filth as you consider her to be; though, born perhaps as pure and sensitive as any other woman, she can afford to bear your scorn possibly,--we know such people often thus minister to age and the wants of sick parents. Her ogre husband, with his brute-beast face, takes the money she has earned by her exhibiting herself to us as she passes into the tent. I want to make you see the beauty of the mind underlying the form in all these women. No creature is made so mean but boasts an inward worth: this Fifine, a mere sand-grain on the shore, reflects some ray of sunshine. Say that there was no worst of degradation spared this woman, yet she makes no pretence--she is absolutely truthful, she assumes not to be Helen or the Pornic Saint, she only offers to exhibit herself to you for money." The wife is not deceived by all this sophistry; Fifine's attraction for the man lies in the fact, not that she possesses some hidden beauty of soul, but some unconcealed physical charms which awaken desire in him because they are not his own. What is one's own is safe, and so despised; any waif which is a neighbour's is for the time more desirable,--"Give you the sun to keep, you would want to steal a boor's rushlight or a child's squib." He explains that this is always women's way about such matters--they cannot be made to comprehend mental analysis. He reminds her how at great cost and a year's anxiety he had purchased a Rafael; he gloated over his prize for a week, and then had more relish in turning over leaf by leaf Doré's last picture-book. Suppose the picture reproached him with inconstancy, he would reply that he knew the picture was his own; anxiety had given place to confidence, and were the house on fire, he would risk his life to save it, though he were knee deep in Doré's engravings. He tells his wife she is to him as the Rafael, the Fifines are as Doré's wood engravings. Elvire is the precious wife, her face fits into the cleft in the heart of him, to him she is perfection; but is she perfect to her mirror? He thinks not. Where, then, is her beauty? In his soul. He cannot explain the reason, any more than naming the notes will explain a symphony or describing lines will call up the idea of a picture. Still there is reason in our choice of each other. It is principally the effort of one soul to seek its own completion--that which shall aid its development--in another's. As the artist's soul sees the form he is about to create in the marble block, so does the lover see in his choice that which will draw out his soul-picture into concrete perfection. The world of sense has no real value for any of us, save in so far as our souls can detect and appropriate it. It is the idea which gives worth to that on which it is exercised. The value of all externals to the soul is just in proportion to its own power of transmuting them into food for its own growth. The soul flame is maintained not only by gums and spices, but straw and rottenness may feed it; if the soul has power to extract from evil things that which supports its life, what matters the straw so long as the ash is left behind? and so of the conquests of the soul, its power to evoke the good from the ungainly and the partial, gives us courage to ignore the failures and the slips of our lives. The pupil does not all at once evoke the masterpiece from the marble--he puts his idea in plaster by the side of the Master's statue. If the scholar at last evoke Eidotheé, the Master is to thank. "To love" in its intensest form means to yearn to invest another soul with the accumulated treasures of our own. The chemic force exerted by one soul in transmuting coarse things to beautiful is aided by another's flame. Each may continue to supplement the other, till the red, green, blue and yellow imperfections may be fused into achromatic white, the perfect light-ray. Soul is discernible by soul, and soul is evoked by soul--Elvire by Don Juan. The wife objects that he abdicates soul's empire and accepts the rule of sense: man has left the monarch's throne, and lies in the kennel a brute. Searching for soul through all womankind, you find no face so vile but sense may extract from it some good for soul. This fine-spun theory, this elaborate sophistry, she declares, is merely an ingenious excuse for sensuality:--

"Be frank--who is it you deceive-- Yourself, or me, or God?"

Don Juan would reply by an illustration from music, which can penetrate more subtly than words: he would show how we may rise out of the false into the true, out of the dark into the brightness above the dense and dim regions where doubt is bred. Bathing in the sea that morning, out in mid-channel, he was standing in the water with head back, chin up, body and limbs below--he kept himself alive by breath in the nostrils, high and dry; ever and again a wavelet or a ripple would threaten life, then back went the head, and all was safe. But did he try to ascend breast high, wave arms free of tether, to be in the air and leave the water, under he went again; before he had mastered his lesson he had plenty of water in mouth and eyes. "I compare this," he says, "to the spirit's efforts to rise out of the medium which sustains it." He was upborne by that which he beat against, too gross an element to live in, were it not for the dose of life-breath in the soul. Our business is with the sea, not with the air, so we must endure the false below while we bathe in this life. It is by practice with the false that we reach the true. We gain confidence, and learn the trick of doing what we will--sink or rise. His senses do not reel when a billow breaks over him; he grasps at a wave that will not be grasped at all, but glides through the fingers--still the failure to grasp the water sends the head above, far beyond the wave he tried to hold:--

"So with this work o' the world,"

we try to grasp a soul, catch at it, think we have a prize; it eludes us, yet the soul helped ours to mount. He seizes Elvire by grasping at Fifine. Not even this specious reasoning deceives the wife. It is an ugly fact that the wave grasped at is a woman. He replies that a woman can be absorbed into the man: women _grow_ you, men at best _depend_ upon you. A rill that empties itself into the sea can never be separated from it. That is woman. Man takes all and gives nought. To raise men you must stoop to teach them, learn their ignorance, stifle your soul in their mediocrities; but to govern women you must abandon stratagem, cast away disguise, and reveal your best self at your uttermost. When the music of Arion attracted the dolphins to the doomed man, one of them bore him on its back to the coast, and so saved his life; revealing his best to this "true woman-creature," he was saved from the men who would have killed him for gain. A man never puts out his whole self in love--this is reserved for hate. You do not get the best out of a man by nourishing his root, but by pruning his branch; as wine came through goats, which, browsing on the tendrils of the grape, "stung the stock to fertility," and so gained "the indignant wine--wrath of the red press." Mites of men are sore that God made mites at all; love avails not from such men-animalculæ to coax a virile thought, but touch the elf with hate, and the insect swells to thrice its bulk "and cuckoo-spits some rose!" Nothing is to be gained from ruling men; women take nothing, and give all. Elvire and Fifine, in their degree, are alike in this respect. "To have secured a woman's faith in me is to have centred my soul on a fact. Falseness and change I see all around me; I expect truth because Fifine knows me much more than Elvire does." To this his wife replies, "Why not only she? There can be for each but one Best, which abolishes the simply Good and Better. Why not be content with the Elvire, who substitutes belief in truth, in your own soul, for the falseness which you fear? By toil and effort the boatman may do with pole and oars what by waiting a few hours the rising water would do for him without his labour; but men affect unusual ways,--Elvire could do far better for you all that you expect from Fifine." To this he replies that "a voyage may be too safe; there is no excitement, no experiment when wind and tide do all the needful work. Then may not our hate of falsehood be that which charms us in these actors who confess 'A lie is all we do or say'? Everything has a false outside, stage-play is honest cheating. The poet never dreams; prose-folk always do." Then he tells how his thought had recently sought expression in music rather than in words--as he played Schumann's _Carnival_, and reflected that in the masque of life and banquet of the world we have ever the same things in a new guise, the difficulty was ever to conquer commonplace and spice the same old viands and games. His fancies bore him to a pinnacle above St. Mark's at Venice, in Carnival time; he gazed down on a prodigious Fair, the men and women were disguised as beasts, birds, and fishes. Descending into the crowd, disgust gave way to pity; the people were not so beast-like, but much more human, than when he viewed them from the height, and he began to contemplate them with a delight akin to that which animates the chemist when he untwines the composite substance, traces effect back to cause, and then constructs from its elements the complex and complete. So did he get to know the thing he was, while contemplating in that Carnival the thing he was not. Thus Venice Square became the world, the masquerade was life, the disgust at the pageant was due to the distance from which it was contemplated, when he learned that the proper goal for wisdom is the ground and not the sky, he discovered how _wisely balanced are our hates and loves_, and how peace and good come from strife and evil. It is no business of ours to fret about what should be, but we should accept and welcome what is--_is_, that is to say, for the hour, for change is the law even of the religions by which man approaches God. His temples fade to recompose into other fanes. And not only temples, but the domes of learning and the seats of science are subject to the same law. Yet Religion has always her true temple-type; Truth, though founded in a rock, builds on sands; churches and colleges that grow to nothing always reappear as something; some building, round or square or polygonal, we shall always have. But leave the buildings, and let us look at the booths in the Fair. History keeps a stall, Morality and Art set up their shops. They acquiesce in law, and adapt themselves to the times; and so, as from a distance the scene is contemplated as a whole, the multiform subsides in haze, the buildings, distinct in the broad light of day, merge and lose their individuality in a common shape. See this Druid monument: how does its construction strike you? How came this cross here? Learning cannot enlighten us. It meant something when it was erected which is lost now, yet the people of the place respect it and are persuaded that what a thing meant once it must still mean. They thought it had some reference to the Creator of the world, and was there to remind them that the world came not of itself. And so, with all the change in religions, there is an imperial chord which subsists and underlies the mists of music. In all the change there is permanence as a substratum. Truth inside and truth outside, but falsehood is between each; it is the falsehood which is change, the truth is the permanence. There is an unchanging truth to which man in all his waverings is constant. This Druid monument said what it had to say to its own age; it never promised to help our dream. Don Juan and his wife having now completed their walk, he proposes to return home to end where they began; as we were nursed into life, death's bosom receives us at last, and that is final, for death is defeat. Our limbs came with our need of them, our souls grew by mastering the lessons of life; but when death comes, the soul, which ruled by right while the bodily powers remained, loses its right to rule. And so the soul has run its round. Love ends too where love began, and goes back to permanence; each step aside (from Elvire to Fifine, for example) proves divergency in vain:

"Inconstancy means raw, 'tis faith alone means ripe."

And as they reach their villa, he resolves to live and die a quiet married man, earning the approbation of the mayor, and unoccupied with soul problems, especially those of women. At that moment a letter is put into his hand: there has been some mistake, Fifine thinks--he has given her gold instead of silver; he will go and see about it, and is off. Five minutes was all the time he asked. He is absent much longer, and on his return Elvire has vanished.

The Epilogue describes the householder sitting desolate in his melancholy home, weary and stupid; he is suddenly surprised by the appearance of his lost wife, whose spirit has returned to claim him; he tells her how the time has dragged without her, "And was I so much better off up there?" quoth she. For decency, arrangements are made that the reunion may be in order; and so, the powers above and those below having been duly conciliated, husband and wife are once more united: "Love is all, and death is nought"--the final lesson of life.

The means whereby we may rise from the false to the true are never wanting to the earnest and faithful striver, this is the esoteric truth of _Fifine at the Fair_. The exoteric meaning may be "an apologia for the revolt of passion against social rules and fetters." "Frenetic to be free," like the pennon, is in this sense the concentration of its meaning. What was Browning's object in this difficult and remarkable work? The question is not so difficult to answer as it appears at first sight. The poet is a soul analyst first, and a teacher next. He teaches admirably in scores of passages in _Fifine_, but his main idea has been to interpret the mental processes which he supposed might underlie the actions of such a selfish and heartless voluptuary as Don Juan. Not, of course, was there any idea of rehabilitating the character of the historic personage; but, as Browning held that every soul has something to say for itself, every man some ideal soul-advance at which he aims, however mistaken may be his methods, so he imagined that even this selfish libertine had his golden ideal, however deeply bedded in mire. He has not--like the great dramatists--sunk himself in his character, and striven thus to present the real man on his stage, but he has lent Don Juan his Browning soul for a while, that he may make his Apologia to the wife, whom he finds it very hard to deceive. Dr. Furnivall once asked the poet what his idea really was in the poem. The poet replied that his "fancy was to show morally how a Don Juan might justify himself partly by truth, somewhat by sophistry." (_Browning Society Papers_, vol. ii., p. 242*.) See also vol. i., pp. 377, 379, pp. 18*, 61*, vol ii., p. 240*. Mr. Nettleship's exhaustive analysis leaves nothing to be desired. (_Essays_, p. 221.)

NOTES.--Verse ii., "_bateleurs and baladines_," conjurors and mountebanks. Verse iv., "_Gawain to gaze upon the Grail_": Gawain was the son of King Lot and Margause, in the Arthurian legend of the Holy Grail. Verse xv., _almandines_, a variety of garnet. Verse xix., _sick Louis_: King Louis XI. of France. Verse xxv., _tricot_: a knitted vest. Verse xxvii., _Helen_: she was declared by some of the Greeks never to have been really present at Troy, and that Paris only carried off a phantom created by Hera: the real Helen, they said, was wafted by Hermes to Proteus in Egypt, whence she was taken home by Menelaus. Verse xxxvi., _pochade_, a rough sketch. Verse xlii., _Razzi_, a corruption of Bazzi, or properly Il Sodona, the Italian painter (1479-1549). Verse xlvii., _Gerôme_, a French painter (born 1824): he exhibited a great picture at the Exposition of 1859, called "The Gladiators." Verse lii., _Eidotheé_: a sea-goddess, daughter of Proteus, the old man of the sea. Verse lix., _Glumdalclich_, in _Gulliver's Travels_, was a girl nine years old, and "only forty feet high." "_Theosutos e broteios eper kekramene_," Greek for "God, man, or both together mixed," from the _Prometheus Bound of Æschylus_. Verse lx., _Chrysopras_: a precious stone, a variety of chalcedony, or perhaps beryl. Verse lxvii. cannot be understood without reference to the fourth canto of Byron's _Childe Harold_: the lines and words between inverted commas are taken from verse clxxx., and the argument is directed against Byron's teaching as therein expressed: this verse was particularly obnoxious to Mr. Browning, both on account of its sentiments and grammar (see under LA SAISIAZ, p. 247). Verse lxix., _Thalassia_: sea-nymph, from the Greek word for the sea: _Triton_, a sea deity, a son of Neptune. Verse lxxviii., _Arion_: a Greek poet and musician: he was rescued from drowning on the back of a dolphin; his song to his lyre drew the creatures round the vessel, and one of them bore him to the shore. _Periander_, the tyrant of Corinth. "_Methymnæan hand_": Arion was born at Methymna, in Lesbos. _Orthian_, of Orthia: this was a surname of Diana. _Tænarus_, the point of land to which the dolphin carried Arion, whence he travelled to the court of Periander. Verse lxxxii., "_See Horace to the boat_": the ode is the third of the First Book of Horace's Odes. Verse lxxxiii., "_The long walls of Athens_" (see under ARISTOPHANES' APOLOGY, p. 36). _Iostephanos_, violet crowned--a name of Athens. Verse xcviii., _Simulacra_, images or likenesses. Verse cxxiv., _protoplast_, the original, the thing first formed. Verse cxxv., _Moirai Trimorphoi_, the Tri-form Fates.

=Filippo Baldinucci= on the Privilege of Burial: A Reminiscence of A.D. 1676. (_Pacchiarotto and other Poems_, 1876.) Filippo Baldinucci was a distinguished Italian writer on the history of the arts. He was born at Florence in 1624, and died in 1696. His chief work is entitled _Notizie de Professori del Disegno da Cimabue in quà_ (_dal_ 1260 _sino al_ 1670), and was first published, in six vols. 4to, 1681-1728. The _Encyclopædia Britannica_ says: "The capital defect of this work is the attempt to derive all Italian art from the schools of Florence." The incidents of the poem are historical, and are related in the account which Baldinucci gives of the painter Buti. Its subject is that of the persecution to which the Jews were subjected in Italy, as in other countries of Europe, and unhappily down to the present time in Russia. We have the story as told by a frank persecutor, who regrets that the altered state of the law no longer permits the actual pelting of the Jews. The good old times had departed, but in his youth they could play some capital tricks with "the crew," as he will narrate. There was a Jews' burying-place hard by San Frediano, in Florence. Just below the Blessed Olivet, and adjoining this cemetery, was "a good farmer's Christian field." The Jews hedged their ground round with bushes, to conceal their rites from Christian gaze, for the public road ran by one corner of it. The farmer, partly from devotion, partly to annoy the Jews, built a shrine in his vineyard, and employed the painter Buti to depict thereon the Virgin Mary, fixing the picture just where it would be most annoying to the Jews. They tried to bribe the owner of the shrine to turn the picture the other way, to remove its disturbing presence from spectators to whom it could do no good, and let it face the public road, frequented by a class of Christians evidently much in need of religious supervision and restraint. The farmer agreed to remove the offending fresco in consideration of the bag of golden ducats offered; and he at once called the painter to cause Our Lady to face the other way. Buti covers up the shrine with a hoarding, and sets to work. Meanwhile the Chief Rabbi's wife died, and was taken for burial to the cemetery. In passing the shrine in the farmer's field the mourners became aware of a scurvy trick played upon them by the Christians; for the Virgin was removed according to the bargain, but a Crucifixion had been substituted, and now confronted them. The cheated Jews protested, but in vain: there was nothing for them but to suffer. Next day, as the farmer and his artist friend sat laughing over the trick, the athletic young son of the Rabbi entered the studio, desiring to purchase the original oil painting of the Madonna from which the fresco of the shrine was painted. The artist was so frightened at his stalwart form, and so amazed at the request, that, taken unaware, he asked no more than the proper price! and Mary was borne in triumph to deck a Hebrew household. They thought a miracle had happened, and that the Jew had been converted; but the Israelite explained that the only miracle wrought was that which had restrained him from throttling the painter. The truth was, he had changed his views about art, and had reflected that, since cardinals hung up heathen gods and goddesses in their palaces, there was no reason why his picture of Mary should not be hung with Ledas and what not, and be judged on its merits, or, more probably, on its flaws! And he walked off with his picture.

=Fire is in the Flint.= (_Ferishtah's Fancies_--opening words of the fifth lyric.)

=Flight of the Duchess, The.= (_Dramatic Romances and Lyrics_, 1845--in _Bells and Pomegranates_, VII.). When Mr Browning was little more than a child, he heard a woman one Guy Fawkes' Day sing in the street a strange song, whose burden was, "Following the Queen of the Gipsies, O!" The singular refrain haunted his memory for many years, and out of it was ultimately born this poem. There is a strange fascination in the mysterious story, which is told by an old huntsman, who has spent his life in the service of a Duke and his mother at their castle in a land of the North which is an appanage of the German Kaiser. The young Duke's father died when he was a child, and his mother took him in early life to Paris, where they remained till the youth grew to manhood. Returning to the old castle with his head full of mediæval fancies, the Duke upset everybody by his revivals of outlandish customs and feudal fashions, and this in a manner which irritated every one concerned. In course of time the Duchess found a wife for her son--a young, warm-hearted girl from a convent, who won the affection of the servants of the castle, but was treated with coldness and severity by its lord and his "hell-cat" of a mother. Chilled by the want of affection, and neglected by those whose care it should have been to make her happy, the girl sickened, and was visibly pining away. It occurred to the Duke to revive, amongst other old customs, those connected with the hunting of the stag, and a great hunting party on mediæval lines was arranged. In the course of his researches into the customs of mediæval hunting, he discovered that the lady of the castle had a special office to perform when the stag was killed. The authorities said the dame must prick forth on her jennet and preside at the disembowelling. But the poor, mewed-up little duchess, secluded from all the pleasures of life, did not care to be brought out just to play a part in a ceremony for which she had no heart, and thanking the Duke for the intended honour, begged to be excused on account of her ill-health; and so the Duke had to give way, but he sent his mother to scold her. When the hunt began the Duke was sulky and disheartened; as he rode down the valley he met a troop of gipsies on their march, and from the company an old witch came forth to greet the huntsmen. Sidling up to the Duke, she began to whine and make her appeal for the usual gifts. She said she desired to pay her duty to the beautiful new Duchess, at which the Duke was struck by the idea that he might use the old crone as a means to frighten his wife and make her more submissive, so he bade the huntsman who tells the story conduct the gipsy to the young Duchess. The old hag promised to engage in the project with hearty goodwill, and, quickened by the sight of a purse as the sign of a forthcoming reward, she hobbled off to the castle, and the Duke rejoined his party. The huntsman had a sweetheart at the castle named Jacynth, who conducted the crone to the lady's chamber while he waited without. And now began the mysteries of that eventful day. The maid protested she never could tell what it was that made her fall asleep of a sudden as soon as the gipsy was introduced to her mistress. The huntsman had waited on the balcony for some considerable time, when his attention was arrested by a low musical sound in the chamber of his lady; then he pushed aside the lattice, pulled the curtain, and saw Jacynth asleep along the floor. In the midst of the room, on a chair of state, was the gipsy, transformed to a queen, with her face bent over the lady's head, who was seated at her knees, her face intent on that of the crone. Wondering whether the old woman was banning or blessing the Duchess, he was about to spring in to the rescue, when he was stopped by the strange expression on her face. She was drinking in "Life's pure fire" from the old woman, was becoming transformed by some powerful influence that seemed to stream from the elder to the younger woman; her very tresses shared in the pleasure, her cheeks burned and her eyes glistened. The influence reached the soul of the retainer, and he fell under the potent spell as he listened to the gipsy's words as she told the Duchess she had discovered she was of their race by infallible signs. At last he came to know that his mistress was being bewitched, and he ran to the portal, where he met her, so altered and so beautiful that he felt that whatever had happened was for the best and he had nothing to do but take her commands. He was hers to live or to die, and he preceded his mistress, followed by the gipsy, who had shrunk again to her proper stature. They went to the courtyard, where, as he was desired, he saddled the Duchess's palfrey, which his mistress mounted with the crone behind her; then, putting a little plait of hair into the servant's hand, the Duchess rode off, and they lost her. As the old retainer tells the tale, thirty years have passed since the flight took place. No search was made for the lady; the Duke's pride was wounded, and he would not seek her, and made small inquiry about her. The man says he must see his master through this life, and then he will scrape together his earnings and travel to the land of the gipsies, to find his lady or hear the last of her. Has all this an allegorical meaning? Many have tried to find such in this remarkable poem. But Browning does not teach by allegory: he rather prefers to let events as they actually happen tell their own lessons to minds awakened to receive them. It is not at all difficult, without resorting to allegorical interpretation, to discover what the poem teaches. And in the first place we are taught that a human soul cannot thrive without the living sympathy of its kind. The Duchess was withering under the chill neglect of the hateful mother-in-law and her contemptible son. The bewitchment of the gipsy was the charm of love--the strong, passionate love of a great human heart, enshrined though it was in a witch-like and decrepit frame. The outpouring of the old woman's sympathy on this friendless girl sufficed to transfigure the crone till she became to the huntsman a young and a beautiful queen herself. In the supreme act of perfectly loving, the woman herself became lovely; for there is no rejuvenescence like that which comes from loving others and helping the weak. Then we learn that, as the Duchess seemed to be imbibing new life from the gipsy queen, virtue goes forth from every true lover of his kind, and degrees of rank, education, and station, are no barriers to the magnetism which streams forth from a human heart, however humble, towards another human heart, however highly placed. Life without love is a living death, and the Duchess no more did wrong when she rode off with the gipsy who saw the signs of her people in the marks on her forehead than the flowers do wrong when they bloom at the invitation of the Spring. The sign which the gipsy saw was that of a soul capable of responding to a heart yearning to help it. The girl had a right to human love; she had a right to seek it in a gipsy heart when she could find it nowhere else. In the sermon by Canon Wilberforce preached before the British Medical Association, at their meeting at Bournemouth in 1891, speaking of the power of Jesus over human diseases, the preacher said, "The secret of this power was His perfect sympathy. He violated or suspended no natural laws.... His healings were an influential outpouring of that inherent divine life which is latent and in some degree operative in every man, but which existed in fulness and perfection of operation only in Him. Is not this the force of the word "compassion" used of Him? The verb [Greek: splagchnizomai] is not found in any former Greek author. It indicates, so far as language can express it, a forceful movement of the whole inward nature towards its object, and personal identification with it. It indicates that compassion and love are not superficial emotions, but dynamic forces." Mrs. Owen, of Cheltenham, read a paper at the meeting of the Browning Society, Nov. 24th, 1882, entitled "What is 'The Flight of the Duchess?'" in which it was suggested that the Duke represents our gross self; the huntsman represents the simple human nature that may either rise with the Duchess or sink with the Duke,--the better man. The Duchess represents the soul, the highest part of our complex nature. The huntsman aids the Duchess (the soul) to free herself from the coarse, low, earth-nature, the Duke. So that the 'Flight of the Duchess' is "the supreme moment when the soul shakes off the bondage of self and finds its true freedom in others." The paper is published in the _Browning Society's Transactions_ (Part iv., p. 49*), and is well worthy of study by those who seek a deeper spiritual meaning in "this mystic study of redeemed womanhood" than its primary sense conveys.

NOTES.--Stanza iii., _merlin_, a species of hawk anciently much used in falconry; _falcon-lanner_, a species of long-tailed hawk. vi., _urochs_, wild bulls; _buffle_, buffalo. x., _St. Hubert_, before his conversion, was passionately devoted to hunting: he is the patron saint of hunters; _venerers, prickers, and verderers_, huntsmen, light horsemen, and preservers of the venison. xi., _wind a mort_, to sound a horn at the death of the stag; _a fifty-part canon_: Mr. Browning explained that "a canon, in music, is a piece wherein the subject is repeated in various keys, and, being strictly obeyed in the repetition, becomes the "canon"--the imperative law to what follows. Fifty of such parts would be indeed a notable peal; to manage three is enough of an achievement for a good musician." xiii., _hernshaw_, a heron; _fernshaw_, a fern-thicket; _helicat_, a hag; "_imps the wing of the hawk_": to "imp" means to insert a feather in the broken wing of a bird. xiv., _tomans_, Persian gold coins. xv., _gor-crow_, the carrion crow. xvii., _morion_, a kind of open helmet. _Orson the wood-knight_: twin-brother of Valentine; born in a wood near Orleans, and carried off by a bear, which suckled him with its cubs. He became the terror of France, and was called "the wild man of the forest."

=Flower's Name, The.= (_Garden Fancies_, I.--_Dramatic Lyrics_.) [Published in _Hood's Magazine_, July 1844.] With very few exceptions, Browning did not contribute to magazines. At the request of Mr. Monckton Milnes (afterwards Lord Houghton), he sent _The Flower's Name_, _Tokay_ and _Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis_ to "help in making up some magazine numbers for poor Hood, then at the point of death from hæmorrhage of the lungs, occasioned by the enlargement of the heart, which had been brought on by the wearing excitement of ceaseless and excessive literary toil." A lover visits a garden, and recalls a previous walk therein with the woman he loved; he remembers the flowers which she noticed, especially one whose name--"a soft, meandering Spanish name"--she gave him; he must learn Spanish "only for that slow, sweet name's sake." The very roses are only beautiful so far as they tell her footsteps.

=Flower Songs, Italian.= (_Fra Lippo Lippi._) The flower songs in this poem are of the description known as the _stornello_. This is not to be confounded with the _rispetto_, which consists of a stanza of inter-rhyming lines, ranging from six to ten in number. "The Luccan and Umbrian _stornello_ is much shorter, consisting indeed of a hemistich having some natural object which suggests the motive of the little poem. The nearest approach to the Italian _stornello_ appears to be, not the _rispetto_, but the Welsh _triban_" (_Encyc. Brit._, xix. 272). See also notes to _Fra Lippo Lippi_.

=Flute-music with an Accompaniment.= (_Asolando_, 1889.) "Is not outside seeming real as substance inside?" A man hears a bird-like fluting; he wonders what sweet thoughts find expression in such sweet notes. Passion must give birth to such expression. Love, no doubt! Assurance, contentment, sorrow and hope--he detects all these moods in the music, softened and mellowed by the interposing trees. His lady companion brushes away all his fancy-spun notions by telling the prosy fact that the music proceeds from a desk-drudge, who spends the hour of his luncheon with the _Youth's Complete Instructor how to Play the Flute_, the plain truth being that his hoarse and husky tootlings have not the remotest relation to the romantic ideas with which her male companion has associated them. Distance has altered the sharps to flats; the missing bar was not due to "kissing interruption," but to a blunder in the playing. The man philosophises on this to the effect that, if fancy does everything for us, it matters little what may be the facts. If appearance produces the effect of reality, seeming is as good as being.

=Forgiveness, A.= (_Pacchiarotto, and other Poems_, 1876.) A man kneels in confession before a monk in a church. He tells the story of a life destroyed by an insane jealousy of his wife, who was innocent of any fault in the matter but some slight deception. The penitent was a statesman, happy in the love of wife and home, but neglectful of his duties to both in his absorption in the affairs of his sovereign. Returning home one night, he enters by the private garden way, and sees the veiled figure of a man flying from the house. Before him, as he turns to enter his door, he sees his wife, "stone-still, stone-white." "Kill me!" she cried. "The man is innocent; the fault is mine alone. I love him as I hate you. Strike!" But he refrains from this speedy vengeance: henceforth they act a part before strangers--all goes on as though nothing had happened; alone, they never meet, never speak. Three years of this life pass, when one night the wife demands that the acting shall end; she will explain. "Follow me to my study," he replies. The wife begins, "Since I could die now...." and then tells him she had loved him and had lost him through a lie. She had thought he gave away his soul in statecraft; she strung herself therefore, to teach him that the first fool she threw a fond look upon would prize beyond life the treasure which he neglected. It was contempt for the woman which filled his mind now. At this avowal his feeling rose to hate. He made her write her confession in words which he dictated, and with her own blood, drawn by the point of a poisoned poniard. The monk was the woman's lover; the husband killed him also.

=Founder of the Feast, The.= This was the title of some inedited lines by Browning, written in the album presented to Mr. Arthur Chappell (of the St. James's Hall Saturday and Monday Popular Concerts), April 5th, 1884. They are printed in the Browning Society's _Notes and Queries_, vol. ii., p. 18*.

=Fra Lippo Lippi.= (_Men and Women_, 1855; Rome, 1853-54.) [THE MAN.] Fra Filippo Lippi (1412-69), the painter, was the son of a butcher in Florence. His mother died while he was a baby, and his father two years later than his mother. His aunt, Monna Lapaccia, took him to her home, but in 1420, when the boy was but eight years old, placed him in the community of the Carmelites of the Carmine in Florence. He stayed at the monastery till 1432, and there became a painter. He seems to have ultimately received a more or less complete dispensation from his religious vows. In 1452 he was appointed chaplain to the convent of S. Giovannino in Florence, and in 1457 he was made rector of S. Quirico at Legnaia. At this time he made a large income; but ever and again fell into poverty, probably on account of the numerous love affairs in which he was constantly indulging. Lippi died at Spoleto on or about Oct 8th, 1469. Vasari, in his _Lives of the Painters_, tells the whole romantic story of his life.

[THE POEM.] Brother Lippo the painter, working for the munificent House of the Medici, has been mewed up in the Palace, painting saints for Cosimo dei Medici. Unable longer to tolerate the restraint (for he was a dissolute friar, with no vocation for the religious life), he has tied his sheets and counterpane together and let himself out of the window for a night's frolic with the girls whom he heard singing and skipping in the street below. He has been arrested by the watchmen of the city, who noticed his monastic garb, and did not consider it in accord with his present occupation. He is making his defence and bribing them to let him go. He tells them his history: how he was a baby when his mother and father died, and he was left starving in the street, picking up fig skins and melon parings, refuse and rubbish as his only food. One day he was taken to the monastery, and while munching his first bread that month was induced to "renounce the pomps and vanities of this wicked world," and so became a monk at eight years old. They tried him with books, and taught him some Latin; as his hard life had given him abundant opportunity for reading peoples' faces, he found he could draw them in his copybooks, and so began to make pictures everywhere. The Prior noticed this, and thought he detected genius, and would not hear of turning the boy out: he might become a great painter and "do our church up fine," he said. So the lad prospered; he began to draw the monks--the fat, the lean, the black, the white; then the folks at church. But he was too realistic in his work: his faces, arms and legs were too true to nature, and the Prior shook his head--

"And stopped all that in no time."

He told him his business was to paint men's souls and forget there was such a thing as flesh:

"Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms!"

And so they made him rub all out. The painter asks if this was sense:

"A fine way to paint soul, by painting body So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further And can't fare worse!"

He maintained that if we get beauty we get the best thing God invents. But he rubs out his picture and paints what they like, clenching his teeth with rage the while; but sometimes, when a warm evening finds him painting saints, the revolt is complete, and he plays the fooleries they have caught him at. He knows he is a beast, but he can appreciate the beauty, the wonder and the power in the shapes of things which God has made to make us thankful for them. They are not to be passed over and despised, but dwelt upon and wondered at, and painted too, for we must count it crime to let a truth slip. We are so made that we love things first when we see them painted, though we have passed them over unnoticed a hundred times before--

"And so they are better, painted--better to us. Art was given for that."

"The world is no blot for us, nor blank; it means intensely, and means good." "Ah, but," says the Prior, "your work does not make people pray!" "But a skull and cross-bones are sufficient for that; you don't need art at all."... And then the poor monk begs the guard not to report him: he will make amends for the offence done to the Church; give him six months' time, he will paint such a picture for a convent! It will please the nuns. "So six months hence. Good-bye! No lights: I know my way back!"

NOTES.--"_The Carmine's my cloister_," the monastery of the friars Del Carmine, where Fra Lippo was brought up. "_Cosimo of the Medici_" (1389-1464), the great Florentine statesman, who was called the "Father of his country." _Saint Laurence_ == San Lorenzo at Florence, the church which contains the Medici tombs and several of Michael Angelo's pictures. "_Droppings of the wax to sell again_": in Catholic countries, where many wax torches are used, the wax drippings are carefully gathered by the poor boys to sell; in Spain they pick up even the ends of the wax vestas used by smokers at the bull fights for the same purpose. _The Eight_, the magistrates who governed Florence. _Antiphonary_, the Roman Service-Book, containing all that is sung in the choir--the antiphons, responses, etc.; it was compiled by Gregory the Great. _Carmelites_, monks of the Order of Mount Carmel in Syria; established in the twelfth century. _Camaldolese_, an order of monks founded by St. Romualdo in 1027; the name is derived from the family who owned the land on which the first monastery was built--the _Campo Maldoli_. "_Preaching Friars_": the Dominicans, established by St. Dominic; the name of the "Brothers Preachers" or "Friars Preachers" was given them by Pope Innocent III. in 1215. _Giotto_, a great architect and painter (1266-1337); he was a friend of Dante. _Brother Angelico_ == Fra Angelico; his real name was Giovanni da Fiesole; he was the famous religious painter, painting the soul and disregarding the flesh; he was said to paint some of his devotional pictures on his knees. _Brother Lorenzo_, Don Lorenzo. _Monaco_ == the monk; he was a great painter, of the Order of the Camaldolese. _Guidi_ == Tommaso Guidi or Masaccio, nicknamed _Hulking Tom_, was a painter, born 1401; he "laboured," says the chronicler, in "nakeds." "_A St. Laurence at Prato_," near Florence, where are frescoes by Lippi: St. Laurence suffered martyrdom by being burned upon a gridiron; he bore it with such fortitude, says the legend, that he cried to his tormentors to turn him over, as he "was done on one side." _Chianti wine_, a famous wine of Tuscany. _Sant' Ambrogio's_ == Saint Ambrose's at Florence. "_I shall paint God in the midst, Madonna and her babe_": the beautiful picture of the Coronation of the Virgin in the Accademia delle Belle Arti at Florence is the one referred to in these lines. The Browning Society in 1882 published a very fine photograph of this great work, by Alinari Brothers of Florence. The flower songs in the poem are of the variety known as the _stornelli_; the peasants of Tuscany sing these songs at their work, "and as one ends a song another caps it with a fresh one, and so they go on vying with each other. These _stornelli_ consist of three lines. The first usually contains the name of a flower, which sets the rhyme, and is five syllables long. Then the love theme is told in two lines of eleven syllables each, agreeing by rhyme, assonance, or repetition with the first." [See _Poet Lore_, vol ii., p. 262. Miss R. H. Busk's "Folk Songs of Italy," and Miss Strettel's "Spanish and Italian Folk Songs."]

=Francesco Romanelli= (_Beatrice Signorini_), the artist who paints Artemisia's portrait, which his wife destroys in a fit of jealousy.

=Francis Furini, Parleyings with.= (_Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in their Day_: 1887.) [THE MAN.] "Francis Furini was born in 1600 at Florence, and has been styled the 'Albani' and the 'Guido' of the Florentine school. At the age of forty he took orders, and until his death in 1649 remained an exemplary parish priest. In his earlier days he was especially famous for his painting of the nude figure; his drawing is remarkably graceful, but the colour is defective. One of his French biographers complains that he paints the nude too well to be quite proper, and points to the 'Adam and Eve,' in the Pitti Palace as a proof of this statement. Perhaps the painter thought so too, for there is a tradition that on his death-bed he desired all his undraped pictures to be collected and destroyed. His wishes were not carried out, and few private galleries at Florence are without pictures by him." (_Pall Mall Gazette_, January 18th, 1887.)

[THE POEM.] In the opening lines we are introduced to the good pastor, the painter-priest who lived two hundred and fifty years ago at Florence, and fed his flock with spiritual food while he helped their bodily necessities. The picture is a pleasant one, but the poet deals not with the pastor but the artist; and this painter of the nude has been selected by Browning as a text on which to express the sentiments of artists on the subject of,--

"The dear Fleshly perfection of the human shape,"

as a gospel for mankind. When Mr. Browning writes on art we have, as Mr. Symons expresses it, "painting refined into song." The lines in the seventh canto beginning--

"Bounteous God, Deviser and dispenser of all gifts To soul through sense,--in art the soul uplifts Man's best of thanks!"

aptly define the poet's position in the passionate defence of the nude as his art-gospel. As we are intended to admire God's handiwork in the "naked star," so is "the naked female form" declared to be--

"God's best of bounteous and magnificent, Revealed to earth."

Should any object that "the naked female form," however beautiful, is not perhaps the best thing to display in the shop windows of the Rue de Rivoli or Regent Street, he is set down as "a grubber for pig-nuts," like Filippo Baldinucci, who praises the painter-priest for ordering his pictures of the nude to be destroyed. Mr. Browning deals very severely with those who think that pictures of the nude have a deleterious influence on the public character, and who endeavour to prevent their exhibition. It is instructive, however, to notice the fact that the Paris police are adopting even severer measures than our own against shopkeepers and others who exhibit pictures of the nude. Where the governing bodies of the two greatest cities of the world take the same view of this serious moral question, we must take leave to hold that if "the gospel of art" has no better means whereby to elevate the race than those of familiarising our youth of both sexes with--

"The dear Fleshly perfection of the human shape,"

we can very well afford to dispense with it "Omnia non omnibus," concludes the poet. What is perfectly innocent for the artist is not expedient for the general public, just as the dissecting room, though an excellent school for doctors, is not a suitable place for the people in the street below.

NOTES.--_Baldinucci_, author of the Italian _History of Art_,--he was a friend of Furini, and it is from his biography that Browning has derived the facts recorded in his poem. _Quicherat, J._, edited the _Procès de condamnation et de réhabilitation de Jeanne d'Arc_, in five vols., 1841-9. _D'Alençon--Percival de Cagny_, a retainer of the Duke D'Alençon, who wrote an account of Joan of Arc, which is to be found in the fourth volume of Quicherat.

=Fuseli.= See MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT AND FUSELI.

=Fust and his Friends.= (The Epilogue _to Parleyings_.) The scene is laid "_Inside the home of Fust, Mayence, 1457_." Johann Fust is often considered the inventor, or at least one of the inventors of printing. He was born at Mayence, in Germany, in the early part of the fifteenth century (date uncertain). The name ultimately became Faust. It has been said that Fust was a goldsmith, but there is no evidence of this. He was a money-lender or speculator, and was connected with Gutenberg, who is now considered to have been the real inventor of printing. Some however, say that Fust invented typography, and was the partner of Gutenberg, to whom he advanced the means to carry out his invention. On Fust first showing his printed books he was suspected of magic, as he appears to have concealed the method by which he turned them out. There is no proof that the monks were hostile to printing, or that they resented the new process of multiplying books on the ground of interference with their business as copyists. Fust and Gutenberg were on good terms with several monasteries, and the early printers often set up their presses in religious houses of various orders. It is exceedingly probable that the whole magic story arose from the similarity between the names Fust and Faust, the pupil of the devil. Browning in this poem accepts the Fust story of the invention of printing. Fust is visited by some monks, who, having heard confused accounts of his work, have come to the conclusion that he has made a compact with Satan, and is in danger of losing his soul; they prepare to exorcise the demon, but cannot remember the proper formula, and make amusing mistakes in their repeated attempts to capture the appropriate Latin terms of the exorcism. They find the inventor melancholy and depressed: he has not succeeded in perfecting his machinery; but while they argue with him the right process suddenly dawns upon him, and invoking the aid of Archimedes (thought by the monks to be a devil of some sort), he runs to his printing room, and in five minutes returns with the psalm which they could not remember accurately printed on slips of paper, one of which he hands to each of the friars. Fust then shows them the printing press, and explains the use of the types and blocks, bursting out into a noble hymn of praise to God for having enabled him to bless mankind with his invention. The monks find it exceedingly simple, and perceive there is no miracle at all. They doubt whether the invention will prove an unmixed blessing for the Church, and dread the trash which will come flying from Jew, Moor and Turk. Huss declared in dying that a swan would succeed the goose they were burning. Fust says he foresees such a man. (_Huss_ means goose in the dialect he spoke. The swan of whom he prophesied was Luther.)

NOTES.--_Faust_ and _Fust_: these names were often confounded, when people thought printing a diabolical art. _Palinodes_, songs repeated a second time. "_Barnabites and Dominican experts_": The Barnabites as a religious order were inferior in learning and theological attainments to the Dominicans, who were experts in matters of heresy. _Famulus_, a servant, an attendant. "_Ne pulvis et ignis_": Latin words misquoted from some monastic exorcism which the monks have half forgotten. "_Asmodeus inside of a Hussite_," the devil animating the heretic Hussite or follower of Huss. _"Pou sto," point d'appui_: Archimedes said, "Give me _pou sto_ ('a place to stand on'), and I could move the world."

=Future State, A.= Mr. Browning's belief in the doctrine of a future state of reward and punishment is expressed at great length and with much force in _La Saisiaz_.

=Garden Fancies.= (Published in _Hoods Magazine_, July 1844.) I. _The Flower's Name._ The poem describes a garden wherein to a lover's fancy every shrub and flower is hallowed by the looks and touch of the woman he loves. One flower in particular she named by its "soft meandering Spanish name." He bids the buds she touched to stay as they are, never to open, but to be loved for ever. Even the roses are not so fair after all, compared with the "shut pink mouth" her fingers have touched. In II., _Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis_, we have a garden without romance. A student takes amongst the flowers a pedantic old volume, a treatise as dry and crabbed as its title. He read it; then, for his revenge, threw the book into the crevice of a plum tree, amongst the fungi, the moss, and creeping things. Solacing himself with bread and cheese and wine, he read the jolly Rabelais to rid his brain of cobwebs. In process of time the student came to think he had been too severe with the old author, so be fished him up with a rake and put him in an appropriate place on the library shelves, there to dry-rot at ease.

=Galuppi, Baldassarre.= A musical composer (1706-85). See TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S, A.

=George Bubb Dodington, Parleyings with.= (_Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in their Day_, 1887.) [THE MAN.] "George Bubb Dodington (born 1691, died 1726) was the son of a gentleman of good fortune named Bubb. He was educated at Oxford, elected member of Parliament for Winchelsea in 1715, and soon after sent as envoy to Madrid. In 1720 he inherited the estate of Eastbury, in Dorsetshire, and took the name of Dodington. On his entrance into public life he connected himself with Sir Robert Walpole, to whom he addressed a poetic epistle, which later on he made, by changing the name, to serve for Lord Bute. His career was full of political vicissitudes of the most discreditable kind, by which he managed to obtain a considerable share of the prizes of politics. He held various offices, chiefly in connection with the navy, to which he was more than once treasurer. It was from Lord Bute, with whom he was a great favourite, that he received the title of Lord Melcombe. He loved to surround himself with the distinguished men of the day, whom he entertained at his country seat; and his interesting diary is a storehouse of information about the political intrigues and cabals of the time. Pope and Churchill both wrote in abuse of him, and Hogarth immortalised his wig in his _Orders of Periwigs_." (_Pall Mall Gazette_, Jan. 18th, 1887.)

[THE POEM.] Mr. Symons describes this as "a piece of sardonic irony long drawn out," and as a "Superior Rogues' Guide or Instructions for Knaves." Browning satirically tells Dodington that he went the wrong way to work in his attempts to impose upon the world. Admitting the right of the statesman to "feather his own nest" while pretending to care only for the public weal, because even the birds build the kind of nests that suit their own convenience, without regard to other species, he yet declares there is a right and a wrong way even in deceiving people. "You say, my Lord, that the rabble will not believe and follow you unless you lie boldly, and pretend to be animated only by the desire to serve them; but the rabble tell lies for their own purposes daily, and understand the art as well as you do, and as no man obeys his equal, you must produce something which outdoes in this respect anything with which they are familiar." Browning offers him a hint: wit has replaced force, now intelligence in its turn must go. "You must have a touch of the supernatural, you must awe men--not by miracles, they will not be accepted--but still, you must pretend to some secret and mysterious power, pretend that, though you know you have fools to deal with, there are some wise men amongst them who are not to be deceived, and each man will flatter himself that he is one of these.... Persuade the people that your real character was merely an assumed one. Pretend to despise, not them, but yourself. That will make men think you obey some law, 'quite above man's--nay, God's!' Missing this secret, your name is greeted with scorn."

NOTE.--_The Bower-bird_: the name given to certain birds of the genera Ptilorhynchus and Chlamydera, which are ranked under the starling family. They are found in Australia. They are called bower-birds because they build bowers as well as nests.

=Gerard.= (_A Blot in the 'Scutcheon._) Lord Tresham's faithful and trusted man-servant.

=Gerard de Lairesse, Parleyings with.= (_Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in their Day_: 1877, No. VI.) [THE MAN.] "Gerard de Lairesse, a Flemish painter, was born at Liége in 1640. He early began his career, and produced portraits and historical pictures at the age of fifteen. He was of dissipated life, extravagant, and fond of dress, notwithstanding that he was of deformed figure. The Dutch admired him very much, and modestly called him their 'second Raphael,' Heemskirk being the first. He painted for many years at Amsterdam, and towards the close of his life was much troubled by his eyesight, which several times left him. He died in 1711. Very fond of teaching, he was always ready to communicate his method to students, and his name is associated with a _Treatise on the Art of Painting_, which it is not, however, thought that he wrote. His execution was very rapid, and there is a story told that he made a wager that he would paint, in one day, a large picture of Apollo and the Muses, and that he not only gained the wager, but painted into the picture a capital portrait of a curious bystander. His method of work was eccentric: he would prepare his canvas, and, sitting down before it, take up his violin and play for some time; then, putting down the instrument, he would rapidly sketch in the picture, and again resuming the fiddle, would derive fresh inspiration from the music." (_Pall Mall Gazette_, Jan. 18th, 1887.)

[THE POEM.] Browning rejoices that, though Gerard had lost his sight, his mouth was unsealed and "talked all brain's yearning into birth." He prizes his saying that the artist should discern abundant worth in commonplace, and not despise the vulgar things of town and country as unworthy of his art. Beyond the actual, he taught there was ever "Imagination's limitless domain": even dull Holland to him became Dreamland. And so in that great "Walk" of his, written after his blindness, he could evolve greater things than we with all our sight. Perhaps his sealed sight-sense left his mind free from obstruction to indulge fancies "worth all facts denied by fate." But though we cannot see what the poets of old saw in nature when they invested trees with human attributes, and yet lost no gain of the tree, "we see deeper." "You," says Browning, "saw the body,--'tis the soul we see." We can fancy, too, though fact unseen has taken the place of fancy somehow. Poets never go back at all: if the past become more precious than the present, then blame the Creator! But it can never be so. He invites Gerard to 'walk with him and see what a poet of the present time discerns in the face of Nature, in her varying moods from daybreak till the shades of night.' Then follows a series of magnificent descriptions of a thunderstorm in the mountains, the defiant pine tree daring all the outrage of the lightning. Then the laugh of morning, the baffled tempest, the trees shaking off the night stupor from their strangled branches. Diana, with her bow and unerring shaft; for gentle creatures, even on a morn so blithe, must writhe in pain--so pitiless is Nature still! And then the conquering noon: the mist ascends to heaven, and the filmy haze soothes the sun's sharp glare till tyrannous noon reigns supreme. And when at last the long day dies, clouds like hosts confronting each other for battle come trooping silent. Two shapes from out the mass show prominent, as if the Macedonian flung his purple mantle on the dead Darius. And now the darkness gathers, the human heroes tread the world of cloud no longer. 'Tis a ghost appears on earth:

"There he stands, Voiceless, scarce strives with deprecating hands."

But, says Browning, though we to-day could paint Nature in this manner in the colours of the Past, we rather prefer "the all-including, the all-reconciling Future:

'Let things be--not seem, Do, and nowise dream.'

Sad school was Hades! Let it be granted that death is the last and worst of man's calamities: come what come will--what once lives never dies."

NOTES.--2. "_The Walk_": this was the title of a part of Gerard's work entitled _The Art of Painting_, by Gerard de Lairesse, translated by J. S. Fritsch, 1778. 5. _Dryope_: the fable of Dryope turned into a tree is told in Ovid's _Metamorphoses_, book ix. 9. _Artemis_, Diana, the huntress goddess. 10. _Lyda_, a nymph beloved by Pan, but who disdained his uncouth pathos. 11. _Macedonian_: Alexander, king of Macedonia, invaded Persia, and was met by Darius with an army of 600,000 men. Alexander defeated them, and Darius was slain by the traitor Bessus. Alexander covered the dead body with his own royal mantle, and honoured it with a magnificent funeral.

=Gigadibs, Mr.= (_Bishop Blougram's Apology._) He is a young man of thirty--immature, desultory, and impulsive--who criticises Bishop Blougram's life, and serves to draw out his ideas on his religion and the honesty of his religious conduct.

=Give a Rouse.= (_Cavalier Tunes_, No. II.)

="Give her but the least excuse to love me."= (_Pippa Passes_.) The song which Pippa sings as she passes the house of Jules.

=Glove, The.= [PETER RONSARD _loquitur_.] (_Dramatic Romances and Lyrics_ in _Bells and Pomegranates_, VII., 1845.) This is an old French story of the time of Francis I. It is familiar in various forms to students of literature, and may be found in Schiller, Leigh Hunt, and St. Foix. Mr. Browning, as is his wont, does not tell the story for the sake of telling it, but that he may give a new turn to it and point out something which has been overlooked, but which, on reflection, will always prove to be the precise truth to be conveyed by the narration. The Peter Ronsard who tells the tale was born in 1524, and was called the "prince of poets" by his own generation. He was educated at the Collége de Navarre at Paris, and was page to the Duke of Orleans. He was afterwards attached to the suite of Cardinal du Bellay-Langey. He became deaf, and in consequence gave up diplomacy for literature. He published his _Amours_ and some odes in 1552. Charles IX. gave him rooms in his palace. He died in 1585. The story of the poem is as follows. King Francis I. was one day amusing himself by viewing the lions in his courtyard, in company with the lords and ladies of the palace. The king bade his keeper make sport with an old lion, which was let out of his den to fight in the pit, the spectators being secured by a barrier. The king said, "Faith, gentlemen, we are better here than there." De Lorge's lady-love overheard this, and she thought it a good opportunity to test the courage of her lover, so she dropped her glove over the barrier amongst the lions, at the same time smiling to De Lorge the command to jump down and recover it. This was speedily done, but the lover threw the glove in the lady's face. The king approved this course, and said, "So should I: 'twas mere vanity, not love, which set that task to humanity!" Mr. Browning brings his analysis to bear on this exploit, and shows that the test was not the outcome of mere idle trifling with a man's life to flatter a woman's vanity. She desired to try as in a crucible the real meaning of the protestations made by De Lorge; it was necessary for her to know if her lover was going to serve her alone or many. He had offered to brave endless descriptions of death for her sake. When she saw the lions, for whose capture many poor men had dared death with no spectators to applaud, she felt justified in asking this of her lover before she trusted herself in his hands for life. A youth led her away from the scene. She carried her shame from the court, and married the man who protected her from further mockery. Of course De Lorge was at once the favourite both of women and men. He married a beauty. The Clement Marot referred to in the poem was a famous poet of France (1496-1544), and greatly distinguished in her literary history.

=God.= Browning's noblest utterances on God are to be found in _Christmas Eve_, _Easter Day_, "The Pope" in _The Ring and the Book_, and _Paracelsus_.

=Goito Castle= (_Sordello_), near Mantua, where Sordello was brought up by Adelaide, wife of Ecelin, with Palma, daughter of Ecelin by a former wife. Sordello lived at Goito in seclusion and boyish pleasures till he was nearly twenty years old.

=Gold Hair: A Legend of Pornic.= (_Dramatis Personæ_, 1864.) The poem is said by Mr. Orr to be founded on facts well known at Pornic, a seaside town in Brittany. A young girl well connected died with a great reputation for holiness. She had beautiful golden hair, of which she was very proud. She begged that it might not be disturbed after her death, and she was buried with it intact near the high altar of the church of St. Gilles. Some years after it became necessary to repair the floor of the church in the proximity of the maiden's tomb. It was found that the coffin had fallen to pieces, and a gold coin was noticed, which led to a more careful examination of the spot. Thirty double louis-d'or were discovered, which had been hidden by the girl in her hair, thus proving that the supposed saint was at heart a miser. "Gold goes through all doors except heaven's doors"; and for this the girl had lost her heaven. In Stanza xxviii. Mr. Browning teaches a lesson of which he is never weary:--

"Evil or good may be better or worse In the human heart, but the mixture of each Is a marvel and a curse."

Original sin, the innate corruption of man's heart, is illustrated says the poet, by this girl's avarice. The priest built a new altar with the discovered money.

=Goldoni.= (Published first in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, Dec. 8th, 1883; then in the _Browning Society's Papers_.) Carlo Goldoni (1707-93) was the most illustrious of the Italian comedy-writers, and the real founder of modern Italian comedy. He had a pension from the French King Louis XVI., which he lost at the Revolution, and he was reduced to the extremest misery. A monument was erected to him at Venice in 1883, and Browning wrote for the album of the Goldoni monument the following lines:--

"Goldoni,--good, gay, sunniest of souls,-- Glassing half Venice in that verse of thine.-- What though it just reflect the shade and shine Of common life, nor render, as it rolls, Grandeur and gloom? Sufficient for thy shoals Was Carnival: Parini's depths enshrine Secrets unsuited to that opaline Surface of things which laughs along thy scrolls. There throng the People: how they come and go, Lisp the soft language, flaunt the bright garb,--see,-- On Piazza, Calle, under Portico And over Bridge! Dear king of Comedy, Be honoured! Thou that didst love Venice so-- Venice, and we who love her, all love thee! (VENICE, _Nov. 27th, 1883_.)

="Good to Forgive."= (_La Saisiaz._) The epilogue to _La Saisiaz_ begins with these words. In Vol. II. of the _Selections_ the poem forms No. 3 of _Pisgah Sights_.

=Gottingen.= The university town in Germany to a lecture hall in which Christ went in the vision on _Christmas Eve_. Here a consumptive lecturer was "demolishing the Christ-myth," but advising the audience to lose nothing of the Christ idea.

=Grammarian's Funeral, A, shortly after the Revival of Learning in Europe.= (_Men and Women_, 1855; _Romances_, 1863; _Dramatic Romances_, 1868.) Mr. Browning often describes a man as a typical product of his age and environment, and invests him with its characteristics, making him figure as an historical personage. He has done so in this case, and we seem to know the grammarian in all his pedantry and exclusive devotion to a minute branch of human knowledge. The revival of learning, after the apparent death-blow which it received when the hordes of Northern barbarism overran Southern Europe and destroyed the civilisation of the Roman empire, began in the tenth century--that century which, as Hallam says (_Lit. Europe_, i. 10), "used to be reckoned by mediæval historians the darkest part of this intellectual night." In the twelfth century much greater improvement was made. The attention of Europe was drawn to literature in this century, says Hallam, by, "1st, the institution of universities; 2nd, the cultivation of the modern languages, followed by the multiplication of books and the extension of the art of writing; 3rd, the investigation of the Roman law; and lastly, the return to the study of the Latin language in its Ancient models of purity." All these factors were at work and progressing gradually down to the fifteenth century. A company of the grammarian's disciples are bearing his coffin for burial on a tall mountain, the appropriate lofty place of sepulture for an elevated man. As they carry the body, one of them tells his story, and dilates on the praises of the departed scholar. They cannot fitly bury their master in the plain with the common herd. Nor will a lower peak suffice: he shall rest on a peak whose soaring excels the rest. This high-seeking man is for the morning land, and as they bear him up the rocky heights they step together to a tune with heads erect, proud of their noble burden. He was endowed with graces of face and form; but youth had been given to learning till he had become cramped and withered. This man would eat up the feast of learning even to its crumbs. He would live a great life when he had learned all that books had to teach; meanwhile he despised what other men termed life. Before living he would learn how to live:--

"Leave Now for dogs and apes! Man has Forever."

Deeper he bent over his books, racked by the stone (_calculus_): bronchitis (_tussis_) attacked him; but still he refused to rest. He had a sacred thirst. He magnified the mind, and let the body decay uncared for. That he long lived nameless, that he even failed, was nothing to him. He wanted no payment by instalment; he could afford to wait, and thus even in the death-struggle he "ground at grammar." And so where the

"Lightnings are loosened, Stars come and go!"

this lofty man was left "loftily lying."

NOTES.--_Hotis' business_, _Properly based Oun_, _Enclitic De_, these are points in Greek grammar concerning which grammarians have written learned treatises.

=Greek Poems.= Mr. Browning had a peculiar power in rendering the ideas of the great Greek poets into strong resonant English verse. His lovely _Balaustion's Adventure_, the fascinating and picturesque _Aristophanes' Apology_, with the _Herakles_ of Euripides, and the rough, robust, and perhaps over-literal _Agamemnon_ of Æschylus, at once proclaim the Greek scholar and the English master-poet. Some extracts from Professor Mahaffy's criticism of Mr. Browning's Greek translations are given below from his _History of Classical Greek Literature_, vol. i. On the transcription of the _Agamemnon_ (p. 258): "Mr. Robert Browning has given us an over-faithful version from his matchless hand,--matchless, I conceive, in conveying the deeper spirit of the Greek poets. But, in this instance, he has outdone his original in ruggedness, owing to his excess of conscience as a translator" (p. 277). "Mr. Browning has turned his genius for reproducing Greek plays upon this masterpiece, and has given a version which will probably not permit the rest [Miss Anna Swanwick's, Mr. Morshead's, etc.] to maintain their well-earned fame, though it is in itself so difficult that the Greek original is often required for translating his English. I confess that, even with this aid, which shows the extraordinary faithfulness of the work, I had preferred a more Anglicised version from his master-hand." On the transcription of _Alcestis_ (p. 329): "By far the best translation is Mr. Browning's, in his _Balaustion's Adventure_; but it is much to be regretted that he did not render the choral odes into lyric verse. No one has more thoroughly appreciated the mean features of _Admetus and Pheres_, and their dramatic propriety" (note, p. 335). On the transcription of _The Raging Hercules_ (p. 348): "We can now recommend the admirable translation in Mr. Browning's _Aristophanes' Apology_, as giving English readers a thoroughly faithful idea of this splendid play. The choral odes are, moreover, done justice to, and translated into adequate metre--in this, an improvement on the _Alcestis_, to which I have already referred." Speaking afterwards, of the _Helena_ of Euripides, Mr. Mahaffy remarks (p. 353): "The choral odes are quite in the poet's later style, full of those repetitions of words which Aristophanes derides,"--and he adds in a note: "Mr. Browning has not failed to reproduce this Euripidean feature with great art and admirable effect in his version of the _Herakles_."... p. 466: "Nothing is more cleverly ridiculed [in _Aristophanes_] than those repetitions of the same word which occur in the pathetic lyrical passages of Euripides. The modern poet, who best understands Euripides, has followed his example in this point:--

'Dances, dances, and banqueting, To Thebes, the sacred city, through Are a care! for change and change Of tears and laughter, old to new, Our lays, glad birth, they bring, they bring.' _Aristophanes' Apology_, p. 266.

There are many more instances in this version of the _Hercules Furens_. This allusion to Mr. Browning suggests the remark that he has treated the controversy between Euripides and Aristophanes with more learning and ability than all other critics, in his '_Aristophanes' Apology_,' which is, by the way, an '_Euripides Apology_' also, if such be required in the present day."

=Guardian Angel, The: A Picture at Fano.= (_Men and Women_, 1855; _Lyrics_, 1863.) Fano is a city of Italy in the province of Urbino-e-Pasaro. It is situated on the shores of the Adriatic, in a fertile plain at the mouth of the Metauro. Its population in 1871 was 6439. The splendid tombs of the Malatestas are contained in the church of St. Francesco. The cathedral and other churches possess valuable pictures by Domenichino, Guido, etc. The picture referred to in the poem is in the church of St. Augustine. It was painted by Guercino (so called from his squinting), properly called Giovanni Francesco Barbieri, who was born at Cento, near Bologna, in 1590. His first style was formed after that of the Carracci; he fell later under the influence of Caravaggio, whose strong colouring and shadows greatly impressed his mind. The nobles and princes of Italy, and his brother artists, very highly esteemed Guercino's work, and they classed him in the first rank of painters. He worked very rapidly, completing 106 large altar-pieces for churches, besides 144 other pictures. His greatest work is said to be his Sta. Petronilla, which is now in the Capitol at Rome. Guercino died in 1666, having amassed a large fortune by his labours. There is a good photograph of L'Angelo Custode, in the _Illustrations to Browning's Poems_, part i., published by the Browning Society. An angel with wings outspread is standing in a protecting attitude by a little child, and the angel's left arm embraces the infant, while the right hand encloses the hands of the child clasped in prayer. Cherubs look down from the clouds. In Guercino's first sketch of his Angel and Child, the angel points to heaven with his left hand, while he enfolds the child's hands with his right. Mr. Browning was staying at Ancona. He was greatly impressed by the picture, and forgetting that we all have a guardian angel, overlooked his own, and prayed, good Protestant as he was, to Guercino's angel to protect and direct him when he had done with the child. He, however, recognised Mrs. Browning as his own guardian angel, and with her went three times to see the painting. The Alfred referred to in Stanza vi. was Mr. Alfred Dommett, the Waring of the poem of that name. Mr. Dommett was then in New Zealand, by the Wairoa river of Stanza viii. Not only the consolatory doctrine of Holy Scripture and the Church as to the ministry of angels, but the soothing and elevating influence of religious art in conveying what words would fail to teach half so impressively, are well emphasised by Mr. Browning's poem. The beautiful figure "Bird of God" is from Dante (_Purgatorio_, Canto iv.).

=Guelfs and Ghibellines.= (_Sordello._) The poem of _Sordello_ is so full of references to the wars between the Guelfs and Ghibellines, that a knowledge of the origin of this celebrated feud will help to throw light on some paragraphs in the poem. Longfellow, in his notes to Dante's _Inferno_, gives the story:--"The following account of the Guelfs and Ghibellines is from the _Pecorone_ of Giovanni Fiorentino, a writer of the fourteenth century. It forms the first Novella of the Eighth Day, and will be found in Roscoe's _Italian Novelists_, i. 322. 'There formerly resided in Germany two wealthy and well-born individuals, whose names were Guelfo and Ghibellino, very near neighbours, and greatly attached to each other. But returning together one day from the chase, there unfortunately arose some difference of opinion as to the merits of one of their hounds, which was maintained on both sides so very warmly that, from being almost inseparable friends and companions, they became each other's deadliest enemies. This unlucky division between them still increasing, they on either side collected parties of their followers, in order more effectually to annoy each other. Soon extending its malignant influence among the neighbouring lords and barons of Germany, who divided, according to their motives, either with the Guelf or the Ghibelline, it not only produced many serious affrays, but several persons fell victims to its rage. Ghibellino, finding himself hard pressed by his enemy, and unable longer to keep the field against him, resolved to apply for assistance to Frederick I., the reigning emperor. Upon this, Guelfo, perceiving that his adversary sought the alliance of this monarch, applied on his side to Pope Honorius II., who being at variance with the former, and hearing how the affair stood, immediately joined the cause of the Guelfs, the emperor having already embraced that of the Ghibellines. It is thus that the apostolic see became connected with the former, and the empire with the latter faction; and it was thus that a vile hound became the origin of a deadly hatred between the two noble families. Now, it happened that in the year of our dear Lord and Redeemer 1215, the same pestiferous spirit spread itself into parts of Italy, in the following manner. Messer Guido Orlando being at that time chief magistrate of Florence, there likewise resided in that city a noble and valiant cavalier of the family of Buondelmonti, one of the most distinguished houses in the state. Our young Buondelmonte having already plighted his troth to a lady of the Amidei family, the lovers were considered as betrothed, with all the solemnity usually observed on such occasions. But this unfortunate young man, chancing one day to pass by the house of the Donati, was stopped and accosted by a lady of the name of Lapaccia, who moved to him from her door as he went along, saying: "I am surprised that a gentleman of your appearance, Signor, should think of taking for his wife a woman scarcely worthy of handing him his boots. There is a child of my own, whom, to speak sincerely, I have long intended for you, and whom I wish you would just venture to see." And on this she called out for her daughter, whose name was Ciulla, one of the prettiest and most enchanting girls in all Florence. Introducing her to Messer Buondelmonte, she whispered, "This is she whom I have reserved for you"; and the young Florentine, suddenly becoming enamoured of her, thus replied to her mother, "I am quite ready, Madonna, to meet your wishes"; and before stirring from the spot he placed a ring upon her finger, and, wedding her, received her there as his wife. The Amidei, hearing that young Buondelmonte had thus espoused another, immediately met together, and took counsel with other friends and relations, how they might best avenge themselves for such an insult offered to their house. There were present among the rest Lambertuccio Amidei, Schiatta Ruberti, and Mosca Lamberti, one of whom proposed to give him a box on the ear, another to strike him in the face; yet they were none of them able to agree about it among themselves. On observing this, Mosca hastily arose, in a great passion, saying, "Cosa fatta capo ha," wishing it to be understood that a dead man will never strike again. It was therefore decided that he should be put to death, a sentence which they proceeded to execute in the following manner: M. Buondelmonte returning one Easter morning from a visit to the Casa Bardi, beyond the Arno, mounted upon a snow-white steed, and dressed in a mantle of the same colour, had just reached the foot of the Ponte Vecchio, or old bridge, where formerly stood a statue of Mars, whom the Florentines in their pagan state were accustomed to worship, when the whole party issued out upon him, and, dragging him in the scuffle from his horse, in spite of the gallant resistance he made, despatched him with a thousand wounds. The tidings of this affair seemed to throw all Florence into confusion; the chief personages and noblest families in the place everywhere meeting, and dividing themselves into parties in consequence; the one party embracing the cause of the Buondelmonti, who placed themselves at the head of the Guelfs; and the other taking part with the Amidei, who supported the Ghibellines. In the same fatal manner, nearly all the seigniories and cities of Italy were involved in the original quarrel between these two German families: the Guelfs still supporting the interests of the Holy Church, and the Ghibellines those of the Emperor. And thus I have made you acquainted with the history of the Germanic faction, between two noble houses, for the sake of a vile cur, and have shown how it afterwards disturbed the peace of Italy for the sake of a beautiful woman.'"

=Gwendolen Tresham.= (_A Blot in the 'Scutcheon._) The cousin of Mildred Tresham.

=Gypsy.= (_The Flight of the Duchess._) The old crone who is sent by the Duke to frighten the Duchess, and who rescues her from her unhappy life.

=Hakeem= or =Hakem.= (_Return of the Druses._) He was the chief of the Druses. The first hakeem was the Fatimite Caliph B'amr-ellah. He professed to be the incarnate deity. He was slain near Cairo, in Egypt, on Mount Makattam.

=Halbert and Hob.= (_Dramatic Idyls_, First Series, 1879.) Two men, father and son, of brutal type, and the last of their line, are sitting quarrelling one Christmas night in their homestead. High words, followed by taunts and curses, led to an attack on the father by his furious son, who flew at his throat with the intention of casting him out in the snow. The father was strong and could have held his own in the scuffle, but suddenly all power left him: he was struck mute. This still more enraged the son, who pulled him from the room till they reached the house-door-sill. Slowly the father found utterance and told his son that on just such a Christmas night long ago he had attacked his father in a similar manner and had dragged him to the same spot, when he was arrested by a voice in his heart. "I stopped here; and, Hob, do you the same!" The son relaxed his hold of his father's throat, and both returned upstairs, where they remained in silence. At dawn the father was dead, the son insane. "Is there a reason in nature for these hard hearts?" Certainly there is, says the mental pathologist. Persons born with such and such cranial and cerebral characteristics cannot help being brutal and criminal. They are handicapped heavily by nature from the hour of their birth, and they only follow out a law of their development, for which they are not responsible when they become criminal. The mental pathologist would have no difficulty in drawing the portraits of Halbert and Hob. There is a monotony and family likeness in the criminal physiognomy which does not require an expert to detect. When a specialist such as Dr. Down goes over a great prison like Broadmoor, he has no difficulty in indicating for us the precise aberrations from the normal type which distinguish between the honest man and the criminal. This would be a terrible reflection on the Divine providence, if we omitted to take into account the pregnant last line of Mr. Browning's poem:

"That a reason out of nature must turn them soft, seems clear."

As Nature is never without her compensations, so there is a reason above all our materialism, our facial angles, our oxycephalic and our microcephalic heads which justifies the ways of God to men. Doctors are slow to recognise this, but judges always act upon the principle. Experts in criminal pathology find responsibility with great difficulty in the men they are endeavouring to save from the gallows. The judge, however, keeps to the common-sense rule that if the criminal knew that he was doing what he ought not to do, he is responsible before the law for his crime. Halbert heard the voice in his heart--Hob relaxed his hold of the father's throat. Conscience rules supreme even over heredity and cerebral aberration. The basis of this story is found in Aristotle's _Ethics_, I., vii., c. 6.

="Heap Cassia, Sandal-buds, and Stripes."= The first line of the song in _Paracelsus_ iv.

=Helen's Tower.= Lines written at the request of the Earl of Dufferin and Clandeboye, on the tower which the Earl erected to the memory of his mother, Helen, Countess of Giffard. (Printed in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, Dec. 28th, 1883.)

=Henry, Earl Mertoun.= (_A Blot in the 'Scutcheon._) He was Mildred Tresham's lover, and was killed by her brother, Earl Tresham.

=Herakles= == Hercules, who wrestles with death, conquers him, and restores Alkestis to her husband, in _Balaustion's Adventure_. The _Raging Hercules_ of Euripides, which Balaustion read to Aristophanes, is translated by Mr. Browning in the volume _Aristophanes' Apology_.

=Heretic's Tragedy, The; A Middle-Age Interlude.= (_Men and Women_, 1855; _Romances_, 1863; _Dramatic Romances_, 1868.) "It would seem to be a glimpse from the burning of Jacques du Bourg Molay, at Paris, A.D. 1314; as distorted by the refraction from Flemish brain to brain during the course of a couple of centuries." [THE HISTORY.] Molay was Grand Master of the order of the Knights Templars, suppressed by a decree of Pope Clement V. and the general council of Vienne, in 1312. The Knights Templars were instituted by seven gentlemen at Jerusalem, in 1118, to defend the holy places and pilgrims from the insults of the Saracens, and to keep the passes free for such as undertook the voyage to the Holy Land. They took their name from the first house, which was given them by King Baldwin II., situated near the place where anciently the temple of Solomon stood. By the liberality of princes, immense riches suddenly flowed to this Order, by which the knights were puffed up to a degree of insolence which rendered them insupportable even to the kings who had been their protectors; and Philip the Fair, king of France, resolved to compass their ruin. They were accused of treasons and conspiracies with the infidels, and of other enormous crimes, which occasioned the suppression of the Order. The year following, the Grand Master, who was a Frenchman, was burnt at Paris, and several others suffered death, though they all with their last breath protested their innocence as to the crimes that were laid to their charge. These were certainly much exaggerated by their enemies, and doubtless many innocent men were involved with the guilty. A great part of their estates was given to the Knights of Rhodes or Malta. (_Butler's Lives of the Saints--sub_ May 5.) For half a century before the suppression of the Order, horrible stories about various unholy rites practised at its midnight assemblies had been in circulation. It was said that every member on his initiation was compelled to deny the Lord Jesus Christ, to spit upon and trample under foot a crucifix, and submit to certain indecent ceremonies. It was charged against them that hideous four-footed idols were worshipped, and other things too terrible to narrate were said to be done at these assemblies. Whether these things were true or not, has been hotly disputed ever since the accusations were made. The spitting on the cross seems, at any rate in France, to have been admitted by the accused; many of the worst things confessed were admitted under the most cruel tortures, and are consequently more likely to have been false than true. In Carlyle's essay on the "Life and Writings of Werner" (_Critical and Miscellaneous Essays_, vol. i., p. 66: 1888), the whole story of these mysterious rites is discussed. After several pages of quotations from Werner's drama _The Templars in Cyprus_, Carlyle says, "One might take this trampling on the Cross, which is said to have been actually enjoined on every Templar at his initiation, to be a type of his secret behest to undermine that institution (the Catholic Church) and redeem the spirit of religion from the state of thraldom and distortion under which it was there held. It is known at least, and was well known to Werner, that the heads of the Templars entertained views, both on religion and politics, which they did not think meet for communicating to their age, and only imparted by degrees, and under mysterious adumbrations, to the wiser of their own order. They had even publicly resisted, and succeeded in thwarting, some iniquitous measure of Philippe Auguste, the French king, in regard to his coinage; and this, while it secured them the love of the people, was one great cause, perhaps second only to their wealth, of the hatred which that sovereign bore them, and of the savage doom which he at last executed on the whole body."

[THE POEM.] The Abbot Deodaet and his monks are singing in the choir of their church about the burning alive of the Master of the Temple two hundred years before. He has sinned the unknown sin, and sold the influence of the Order to the Mohammedan. In a graphic and lurid manner they picture the details of the execution. They have no pity for the victim, and seem to be gloating over his sufferings. They imagine that the victim calls in his agony on the Saviour whom he forsook and traitorously sold; he cries now "Saviour, save Thou me!" The Face upon which he had spat, the Face on the crucifix which he trampled upon, is revealed to the burning man feature by feature; he now sees his awful Judge, his voice dies, and John's soul flares into the dark. Said the Abbot, "God help all poor souls lost in the dark!"

NOTES.--i., _Organ: plagal cadence_. The cadence formed when a subdominant chord immediately precedes the final tonic chord. ii., _Emperor Aldabrod_, probably the family name of one of the Greek emperors, but I can find nothing about him. _Sultan Saladin_, of Egypt and Syria, whose portrait is so faithfully drawn by Sir Walter Scott, in _The Talisman_. _Pope Clement V._ (1305-14). Platina, in his life of this Pope, says only a few words on the Templars: "He took off the Templars, who were fallen into very great errors (as denying Christ, etc.), and gave their goods to the Knights of Jerusalem"; _clavicithern_: an upright musical instrument like a harpsichord. iv., _Laudes_: a Catholic service associated with _Matins_. It consists, amongst other devotions, of five Psalms. vi., _Salvâ reverentiâ_: "saving reverence," like the "saving your presence" of the Irishman. vii., _Sharon's Rose: Solomon's Song_, ii. 1. The rose was the symbol of secrecy. viii., _leman_: a sweetheart of either sex.

=Hervé Riel.= (Published in the _Cornhill Magazine_, March 1871. Browning received £100 for it, which sum he gave to the Paris Relief Fund, to provide food for the starving people after the siege of Paris. Published in the _Pacchiarotto_ volume in 1876.) The story told in the poem is strictly historical. Hervé Riel was a Breton sailor of Le Croisic, who, after the great naval battle of La Hogue in 1692, saved the remains of the French fleet by skilfully piloting the ships through the shallows of the Rance, and thereby preventing their capture by the English. For this splendid service he was permitted to ask whatever reward he chose to name. The brave Breton asked merely for a whole day's holiday, that he might visit his wife, the Belle Aurore. Dr. Furnivall says: "The facts of the story had been forgotten, and were denied at St. Malo, but the reports of the French Admiralty were looked up, and the facts established. The war between Louis XIV. and William III. was undertaken by the former with the object of restoring James II. to the English throne. Admiral Turnville engaged the English fleet off Cape La Hogue, and thereby wrecked the French fleet and the cause of James. Apropos of Hervé Riel, Mr. Kenneth Grahame says (_Browning Society's Papers_, March 30th, 1883, p. 68*): 'In Rabelais' _Pantagruel_, lib. IV., cap. xxi., Panurge says, '... quelque fille de roy ... me fera exiger quelque magnificque cenotaphe, comme feit Dido à son mary Sychee; ... Germain de Brie à Hervé, le nauctrier Breton,' etc. Then a note says, 'En 1515, dans un combat naval, le Breton Hervé Primoguet, qui commandoit _la Cordelière_, attacha son navire en feu au vaisseau amiral ennemi _la Regente d'Angleterre_, et se fit sauter avec lui. Germain de Brie ou Brice (_Brixius_) qui celebra ce trait heroique dans un poeme latin, etoit un des amis de Rabelais.' This was a forerunner of Browning's hero. The coincidence of names, etc., is curious."

=Hippolytos.= (See ARTEMIS PROLOGIZES.) The _Hippolytus_ of Euripides is the chaste worshipper of Diana (Artemis), who will give no heed to Venus. His step-mother Phædra loves him, and kills herself when she discovers he will not succumb to her attentions.

=Hohenstiel-Schwangau.= See PRINCE HOHENSTIEL-SCHWANGAU.

=Holy-Cross Day= [On which the Jews were forced to attend an annual Christian Sermon in Rome]. (_Men and Women_, 1855; _Romances_, 1863; _Dramatic Romances_, 1868.)--[THE HISTORY.] Holy Cross Day, or the Festival of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, falls on September 14th annually. It is kept in commemoration of the alleged miraculous appearance of the Cross to Constantine in the sky at midday. The discovery of the True Cross by St. Helen gave the first occasion of the festival, which was celebrated under the title of the Exaltation of the Cross on September 14th, both by the Latins and Greeks, as early as in the fifth or sixth centuries at Jerusalem, from the year 335. (See for the history of the festival Butler's _Lives of the Saints_, under September 14th.) The particular details of this poem are not historical, but it is quite true that such a sermon was preached to Jews from time to time, and that they were driven to church to listen to it. A papal bull, issued in 1584, formerly compelled the Jews to hear sermons at the church of _St. Angelo in Pescheria_, close to the Jewish quarter. The Pescheria or fish market adjoins the Ghetto, the quarter allotted to the Jews by Paul IV. This pope compelled the Jews to wear yellow head-gear; and, among other oppressive exactions, they had to provide the prizes for the horse-races at the Carnival. In a note at the end of the poem Mr. Browning says, "The late Pope abolished this bad business of the Sermon." The conduct of the popes towards the Jews varied according to the policy or humanity in the character of the pontiff. "In 1442 Eugenius IV. deprived them of one of their most valuable privileges, and endeavoured to interrupt their amicable relations with the Christians: they were prohibited from eating and drinking together. Jews were excluded from almost every profession, were forced to wear a badge, to pay tithes; and Christians were forbidden to bequeath legacies to Jews. The succeeding popes were more wise or more humane. In Naples the celebrated Abarbanel became the confidential adviser of Ferdinand the Bastard and Alphonso II.; they experienced a reverse, and were expelled from that city by Charles V. The stern and haughty Pope Paul IV. renewed the hostile edicts; he endeavoured to embarrass their traffic by regulations which prohibited them from disposing of their pledges under eighteen months; deprived them of the trade in corn and in every other necessary of life, but left them the privilege of dealing in old clothes. Paul first shut them up in their Ghetto, a confined quarter of the city, out of which they were prohibited from appearing after sunset. Pius IV. relaxed the severity of his predecessor. He enlarged the Ghetto, and removed the restriction on their commerce. Pius V. expelled them from every city in the papal territory except Rome and Ancona; he endured them in those cities with the avowed design of preserving their commerce with the East. Gregory XIII. pursued the same course: a bull was published, and suspended at the gate of the Jews' quarter, prohibiting the reading of the Talmud, blasphemies against Christ, or ridicule against the ceremonies of the Church. All Jews above twelve years old were bound to appear at the regular sermons delivered for their conversion; where it does not seem, notwithstanding the authority of the pope and the eloquence of the cardinals, that their behaviour was very edifying. At length the bold and statesmanlike Sextus V. annulled at once all the persecuting or vexatious regulations of his predecessors, opened the gates of every city in the ecclesiastical dominions to these enterprising traders, secured and enlarged their privileges, proclaimed toleration of their religion, subjected them to the ordinary tribunals, and enforced a general and equal taxation." (Milman's _History of the Jews_, book xxvii.)

[THE POEM.] Part of the satire of the poem is in the fictitious extract from the _Diary by the Bishop's Secretary_, 1600, prefixed to it. The Bishop looks upon the matter as though he were compelling the Jews to come in and partake of the gospel feast; he flatters himself that many conversions have taken place in consequence of the enforcement of this law, and that the Church was conferring a great blessing on the Jews by permitting them to partake of the heavenly grace. What the Jews themselves thought of the business is told in the poem. The speaker describes the crowding of the church by the Israelites, packed like rats in a hamper or pigs in a stye; to the life the poet hits off the behaviour of the wretched audience, compelled to listen to that which they abhorred, and to pretend to be converted, and to affect compunction and interest in doctrines which they detested. Then the most serious part of the poem begins: the speaker complains that the hand which gutted his purse would throttle his creed, and for reward the men whom he has helped to their sins would help him to their God; then the pathos deepens, and while the pretended converts are going through the farce of acknowledging their conversion in the sacristy, the speaker meditates on Rabbi Ben Ezra's _Song of Death_. The night the Jewish saint died he called his family round him and said their nation in one point only had sinned, and he invokes Christ if indeed He really were the Messiah, and they had given Him the cross when they should have bestowed the crown, to have pity on them and protect them from the followers of His teaching, whose life laughs through and spits at their creed. Perhaps, indeed, they withstood Christ then: it is at least Barabbas they withstand now! Let Rome make amends for Calvary. Let Him remember their age-long torture, the infamy, the Ghetto, the garb, the badge, the branding tool and scourge, and this summons to conversion; by withstanding this they are but trying to wrest Christ's name from the devil's crew.

=Home, D. D.=: the Spiritualist medium. See MR. SLUDGE THE MEDIUM.

=Home Thoughts from Abroad.= (Published in _Dramatic Romances and Lyrics_, in _Bells and Pomegranates_, VII., 1845.) In praise of all the mighty ravishment of our English spring, and the lovely sister months April and May,--

"May flowers bloom before May comes, To cheer, a little, April's sadness."

And nowhere, surely, are these months so delightful as in England! Melon-flowers do not make up "for the buttercups, the little children's dower." In many parts of Southern Europe the trees have all been ruthlessly cut down, lest they should harbour birds. The absence of our hedgerows does much to mar the beauty of a Continental landscape in spring.

=Home Thoughts from the Sea.= (_Dramatic Romances and Lyrics_, in _Bells and Pomegranates_, VII., 1845.) Patriotic reflections on passing the Bay of Trafalgar by one who, remembering how here England helped the Englishmen, asks himself "How can I help England?"

=House.= (_Pacchiarotto, with other Poems_: 1876.) If we accept Shakespeare's Sonnets in their natural sense, as the best authorities say we must, they open up to the public gaze passages in the life of the great poet which those who love an ideal Shakespeare would rather have not known. If, says Mr. Browning in the poem, Shakespeare unlocked his heart with a sonnet-key, the less Shakespeare he! For his own part, he will do nothing of the sort; and, though probably few men led purer and holier lives from youth to manhood than Mr. Browning, he declines to admit the vulgar gaze of the public into the secret chambers of his soul. In earthquakes, indeed, the fronts of houses often fall, and expose the private arrangements of the home to the impertinent observation of the passer-by. In earthquakes this cannot be helped; but a writer may keep his secrets to himself till an imprudent biographer gets hold of them to make "copy" of. As a fact, all that the world is really concerned with in Mr. Browning's life and opinions can be gathered "by the spirit-sense" from his works. The main idea of the poem is very similar to that of _At the Mermaid_.

=Householder, The.= (_Fifine at the Fair._) The Epilogue to the poem, telling how Don Juan is at last united to his wife Elvire by death.

=How it strikes a Contemporary.= (_Men and Women_: 1855.) The faculty of observation is essential both to the poet and the spy. Lavater said that "he alone is an acute observer who can observe minutely without being observed." The poet of Valladolid was mistaken by the vulgar mob for an agent of the Government, because they were always catching him taking "such cognisance of men and things." His picture is sketched in a very few lines; but these are sufficient to show us the very man, in his scrutinising hat, crossing the Plaza Mayor of the dull and deserted city, in which there was--one would think--as little life to interest a poet as to employ a spy. We soon get to feel that the poet-evidences in the man's behaviour should have been sufficiently strong to save him from the reproaches of his neighbours. The dog at his heels, the note he took of any cruelty towards animals or cursing of a woman, the interest in men's simple trades, the poring over bookstalls, reveal to us the image of his soul. However, his fellow-citizens in all these things thought they had evidence of a chief inquisitor; and in the land of Spain, which for many centuries cowered under the shadow of the most terrible weapon ever forged against the liberties of man, inquisition and espionage were in the air. Men were better judges of spies than of poets; they were more familiar with them. So it was set down in their minds that all their doings were sent by this recording prowler to the king. All the mysteries of the town were traced to his influence: A's surprising fate, B's disappearing, C's mistress, all were traced to this "man about the streets." But it was not true, says the contemporary, that if you tracked the inquisitor home you would find him revelling in luxury. On the contrary, his habits were simple and abstemious; at ten he went to bed, after a modest repast and a quiet game of cribbage with his maid. And when the poor, mysterious man came to die in the clean garret, whose sides were lined by an invisible guard who came to relieve him, there was no more need for that old coat which had seen so much service. How suddenly the angels change the fashion of our dress--and how much better they understand us than do our neighbours!

=How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.= (_Dramatic Romances and Lyrics_, in _Bells and Pomegranates_, 1845.) There is no actual basis in history for the incidents of this poem, though there is no doubt that in the war in the Netherlands such an adventure was likely enough. Three men go off on horseback at their hardest, at moonset, from the city of Ghent, to save their town--through Boom, and Düffeld, Mecheln, Aerschot, Hasselt, Looz, Tongres, and Dalhem, to the ancient city of Aix. The hero of the work was the good horse Roland, who was voted the last measure of wine the city had left. Two of the horses dropped dead on the road, and the noble Roland, bearing "the whole weight of the news," with blind, distended eyes and nostrils, fell just as he reached the market-place of Aix, resting his head between the knees of his master.

=Humility.= (_Asolando_, 1889.) A flower-laden girl drops a careless bud without troubling to pick it up. She has "enough for home." "So give your lover," says the poet, "heaps of love," he thinking himself happy in picking up a stray bud, "and not the worst," which she has gladdened him by letting fall.

="I am a Painter who cannot Paint."= (_Pippa Passes._) Lutwyche's speech begins with these words.

="I go to prove my Soul."= (_Paracelsus._) The words of the hero of the poem when he starts on his career.

=Ibn-Ezra= == the historical person who forms the subject of the poem RABBI BEN EZRA (_q.v._)

=Imperante Augusto Natus Est.= (_Asolando_, 1889.) In the reign of Augustus Octavianus Cæsar, second emperor of Rome, two Romans are entering the public bath together, and while the bath is being heated they converse in the vestibule about the great services which Octavianus has rendered to the city and the empire, and one of them refers to the panegyric on the Emperor read out in public on the previous day by Lucius Varius Rufus. He had praised the Emperor as a god, and the speaker goes on to say how he once met Octavianus as he was going about the city disguised as a beggar. At the end of the poem is the story told by Suidas, the author of a Greek lexicon, who lived before the twelfth century, and who was probably a Christian, as his work deals with Scriptural as well as pagan subjects. This myth narrates the visit of Augustus Cæsar to the oracle at Delphos. "When Augustus had sacrificed," said Suidas, "he demanded of the Pythia who should succeed him, and the oracle replied:--

"'A Hebrew slave, holding control over the blessed gods, Orders me to leave this home and return to the underworld. Depart in silence, therefore, from our altars.'"

Nicephorus relates that when Augustus returned to Rome after receiving this reply, he erected an altar in the Capitol with the inscription "Ara Primogeniti Dei." On this spot now stands the Church of S. Maria in Aracoeli, a very ancient building, mentioned in the ninth century as S. Maria de Capitolio. The present altar also incloses an ancient altar bearing the inscription _Ara Primogeniti Dei_, which is said to have been the one erected here by Augustus. According to the legend of the twelfth century, this was the spot where the Sibyl of Tibur appeared to the Emperor, whom the Senate proposed to elevate to the rank of a god, and revealed to him a vision of the Virgin and her Son. This was the origin of the name "Church of the Altar of Heaven." It is historical that Augustus used to go about Rome disguised as a beggar. Jeremy Taylor's account of events in the Roman world, as recorded in his _Life of Christ_, sec. iv., will serve as a good introduction to the historical matters referred to in the poem:--"For when all the world did expect that in Judæa should be born their prince, and that the incredulous world had in their observation slipped by their true prince, because He came not in pompous and secular illustrations; upon that very stock Vespasian (Sueton. _In Vitâ Vesp._ 4; Vide etiam Cic., _De Divin._) was nursed up in hope of the Roman empire, and that hope made him great in designs; and they being prosperous, made his fortunes correspond to his hopes, and he was endeared and engaged upon that future by the prophecy which was never intended him by the prophet. But the future of the Roman monarchy was not great enough for this prince designed by the old prophets. And therefore it was not without the influence of a Divinity that his predecessor Augustus, about the time of Christ's nativity, refused to be called "lord" (_Oros._ vi. 22). Possibly it was to entertain the people with some hopes of restitution of their liberties, till he had griped the monarchy with a stricter and faster hold; but the Christians were apt to believe that it was upon the prophecy of a sibyl foretelling the birth of a greater prince, to whom all the world should pay adoration; and that prince was about that time born in Judæa. (Suidas _In histor. verb. "Augustus."_) The oracle, which was dumb to Augustus' question, told him unasked, the devil having no tongue permitted him but one to proclaim that 'an Hebrew child was his lord and enemy.'" Octavianus chose the title of Augustus on religious grounds, having assumed the exalted position of Chief Pontiff. The epithet Augustus was one which no man had borne before--a name only applied to sacred things. The rites of the gods were termed august, their temples were august, and the word itself was derived from the auguries. The cult of the Cæsar began to assume a ritual and a priesthood at the very time when the approaching birth of Christ was to destroy the empire and its religious belief. Mrs. Jameson, in her _Legends of the Madonna_, p. 197, says: "According to an ancient legend, the Emperor Augustus Cæsar repaired to the sibyl Tiburtina, to inquire whether he should consent to allow himself to be worshipped with divine honours, which the Senate had decreed to him. The Sibyl, after some days of meditation, took the Emperor apart and showed him an altar; and above the altar, in the opening heavens, and in a glory of light, he beheld a beautiful Virgin holding an infant in her arms, and at the same time a voice was heard saying, 'This is the altar of the Son of the living God!' whereupon Augustus caused an altar to be erected on the Capitoline Hill with this inscription, _Ara Primogeniti Dei_; and on the same spot, in later times, was built the church called the _Ara Coeli_--well known, with its flight of one hundred and twenty-four marble steps, to all who have visited Rome. This particular prophecy of the Tiburtine sybil to Augustus rests on some very antique traditions, pagan as well as Christian. It is supposed to have suggested the 'Pollio' of Virgil, which suggested the 'Messiah' of Pope. It is mentioned by writers of the third and fourth centuries. A very rude but curious bas-relief, preserved in the Church of the Ara Coeli, is perhaps the oldest representation extant. The Church legend assigns to it a fabulous antiquity; and it must be older than the twelfth century, as it is alluded to by writers of that period. Here the Emperor Augustus kneels before the Madonna and Child, and at his side is the sibyl Tiburtina pointing upwards." Of course, such a subject became a favourite one with artists. There is a famous fresco on the subject by Baldassare Peruzzi at Siena, Fonte Giusta. There is also a picture dealing with it at Hampton Court, by Pietro da Cortona. St. Augustine (_De Civitate Dei_, lib. xviii., cap. 23) describes the prophecy of Sibylla Erythrea concerning Christ:--"Flaccianus, a learned and eloquent man (one that had been Consul's deputy), being in a conference with us concerning Christ, showed us a Greek book, saying they were this sibyl's verses; wherein, in one place, he showed us a sort of verses so composed that, the first letter of every verse being taken, they all made these words: [Greek: Iêsous Christos, Theou uios sôtêr] (Jesus Christ, Son of God, the Saviour)." Some think this was the Cumean Sibyl. Lactantius also has prophecies of Christ out of some sybilline books, but he does not give the reference. The Latin hymn sung in the Masses for the Dead, and well known as the _Dies Iræ_, has this verse:

"Dies iræ, dies illa, Solvet sæclum in favilla, Teste David cum Sibylla."

NOTES.--_Publius_: not historical. _Lucius Varius Rufus_ was a tragic poet, the friend of Virgil and Horace. He wrote a panegyric on the Emperor Augustus, to which Mr. Browning refers in the opening lines of the poem. _Little Flaccus_ was Horace, who declared that Varius was the only poet capable of singing the praises of M. Agrippa. His tragedy _Thyestes_ is warmly praised by Quintillian. _Epos_: heroic poem. _Etruscan kings._ The Rasena or Etrusci inhabited Etruria, in that part of Italy north of Rome. The kings were elected for life. Roman families were proud to trace back their ancestry to the Etruscan kings. _Mæcenas_: patron of letters and learned men, the adviser of Augustus. He was descended from the ancient kings of Etruria. _Quadrans_: a Roman coin, worth about half a farthing of our money. The price of a bath, paid to the keeper of the public bagnio. _Thermæ_, the baths. _Suburra_: a street in Rome, where the dissolute Romans resorted. _Quæstor_, the office of Quæstor, under the empire, was the first step to higher positions. _Ædiles_, magistrates. The baths were under their superintendence. _Censores_, officials whose duty it was to take the place of the consuls in superintending the five-yearly census. _Pol!_ an oath. By Pollux! _Quarter-as_: in Cicero's time, the as was equal to rather less than a halfpenny. _Strigil_, a flesh brush. _Oil-drippers_, used after bathing.

=In a Balcony.= (Published in _Men and Women_: 1855.) A drama which is incomplete. Concentrated into an hour, we have the crises of three lives, which, passing through the fire, reveal a tragedy which has for its scene the balcony of a palace. A Queen has arrived at the age of fifty with her strong craving for love still unsatisfied. Constance, a cousin of the Queen and a lady of her court, is loved by Norbert, who is in the Queen's service. He has served the State well and successfully, and the Queen has set her heart upon him. Norbert is advised by Constance to act diplomatically, and pretend that he has served the Queen only for her sake. He must not permit her to see the love which he has for the woman to whom he has pledged himself. The Queen, who is already married in form, though not in heart, offers to dissolve the union, in an interview which she has with Constance, and shows how eagerly she grasps at the prospect of a new life which opens up before her. Constance is prepared to sacrifice herself for Norbert and the Queen. She seeks Norbert, and reveals to him the real state of affairs. The Queen discovers the lovers, and hears Norbert declare his love for Constance, which she tries to divert to the Queen. At once the Queen sees all her hopes dashed to the ground. She says nothing; but having left the balcony, the music of the ball, which is proceeding within, suddenly ceases, the footsteps of the guard approach, the lovers feel their impending doom; but one passionate moment unites them in heart for ever, and they are led away to death.

=In a Gondola.= (_Dramatic Lyrics_, in _Bells and Pomegranates_, No. III.: 1842.) In the fourth book of Forster's _Life of Dickens_ is a letter which Dickens wrote to Maclise, from which we learn that Browning wrote the first verse of this poem, beginning, "I send my heart up to thee," to express Maclise's subject in the Academy catalogue. Dickens says, in a letter to the artist: "In a certain picture called the 'Serenade,' for which Browning wrote that verse in Lincoln's Inn Fields, you, O Mac, painted a sky. If you ever have occasion to paint the Mediterranean, let it be exactly of that colour." In the poem a lover and his mistress are singing in a gondola--conscious of their danger, for the interview is a stolen one, and the three who are referred to are perhaps husband, father, and brother, or assassins hired by one of them. The chills of approaching death avail not to cool the ardour of their passion in this precious hour in the gondola. They feel they have lived, let death come when it will; and as they glide past church and palace, reality is concentrated in their boat, the shams and illusions of life are on the banks. The lover is stabbed as he hands the lady ashore. He craves one more kiss, and dies. He scorns not his murderers, for they have never lived:

"But I Have lived indeed, and so--can die!"

NOTES.--_Castelfranco_ (born 1478) is Giorgione, one of the greatest Italian painters. His father belonged to the family of the Barbarella, of Castelfranco in the Trevisan. For his Life see VASARI. _Schidone_ was an Italian painter of the sixteenth century. _Haste-thee-Luke_ is the English of _Luca-fà-presto_ ("Luke work-fast"), nickname of _Luca Giordano_ (1632--1705), a Neapolitan painter. His nickname was given to him, not on account of his rapid method of working, but in consequence of his poor and greedy father urging him to increased exertions by constantly exclaiming "Luca, fà presto." The youth obeyed his father, and would actually not leave off work for his meals, but was fed by his father's hand while he laboured on with the brush. _Giudecca_: a great canal of Venice. "_Lido's wet, accursed graves_." Byron desired to be buried at Lido. Ancient Jewish tombs are there, moss-grown and half covered with sand. The place is desolate and very gloomy. _Lory_: a species of parrot.

=Inapprehensiveness.= (_Asolando._) The ruin referred to in the fourth line is that of the old palace of Queen Cornaro, who, having been driven out of her kingdom of Cyprus, kept up a shadow of royalty here, with Cardinal Bembo as her secretary. It was he who told the story, in his _Asolani_. Mr. Browning thought that there was no view in all Italy to compare with that from the tower of the old palace. Two friends stand side by side contemplating the scene. The lady's attention is attracted to a chance-rooted wind-sown tree on a turret, and to certain weed-growths on a wall. She is inapprehensive that by her side stands an incarnation of dormant passion, needing nothing but a look from her to burst into immense life. So little does one soul know of another. The Vernon Lee in the last line is a well-known authoress, Violet Paget, best known perhaps by her work entitled Euphorion.

=In a Year.= (_Men and Women_, 1855; _Dramatic Lyrics_, 1868.) Finely contrasts the constancy of a woman's love with the inconstancy of man's. Love is not love unless it be "an ever fixed mark." In exchange for the man's love, the woman gave health, ease, beauty, and youth, and was content to give "more life and more" till all were gone, and think the sacrifice too little. That was the woman's "ever fixed mark." The man asks calmly: "Can't we touch these bubbles, then, but they break?"

=Incident of the French Camp.= (_Dramatic Lyrics_, in _Bells and Pomegranates_, III.: 1842.) Ratisbon (German Regensburg) is an ancient and famous city of Bavaria, on the right bank of the Danube. It has endured no less than seventeen sieges since the tenth century, accompanied by bombardments, the last of which took place in 1809, when Napoleon stormed the town, which was obstinately defended by the Austrians. Some two hundred houses and much of the suburbs were destroyed. As the Emperor was watching the storming, a rider flew from the city full gallop, saluting the Emperor. He told him they had taken the city. The chief's eye flashed, but presently saddened as he looked on the brave youth who had brought the news. "You are wounded!" "Nay, I'm killed, sire!" and the lad fell dead.

=Inn Album, The.= (1875.) The chief features of this tragedy, "where every character is either mean, or weak, or vile," are taken from real life. It is "the story of the wrecked life of a girl who loved her base seducer as a god." This curious study in mental pathology opens with a description of the visitors' book of a country inn, filled with the usual idiotic entries which are found in such books. The shabby-genteel parlour of the inn is occupied by two men playing at cards--a young and a middle-aged man. The elder, a cultivated and accomplished _roué_, has just lost to the younger man ten thousand pounds at play. The loser has hitherto been pretty uniformly the winner; but his companion, who has succeeded in plucking the pigeon, has not deceived him. He has seen through his pretences, and is fully aware that he is accompanied on this trip to the village where the inn in which they are staying is situated, purely for the chance it offered of winning money from him for the last time before his approaching marriage. The polished snob who has won is inclined to be satirical at his companion's expense, and loftily desires him to consider the debt as cancelled: he is a millionaire, and can afford to do without it. This the elder man, with perfect politeness, declines, and assures him that it shall be paid. They leave the inn. The young man is to visit his intended bride; but he dare not introduce his companion, as his reputation has made it impossible to do so. As they walk towards the station the young man inquires how it is that his friend, with all his advantages in life, is in every way a failure. He then learns that his chances were missed four years ago, when he should have married a woman with whom he had certain relations, and who could have saved him from his aimless and wayward life. He had won the heart of a lofty-minded girl, had seduced her, and, though he had not intended marriage at first, had offered it. When she discovered that he had betrayed her without thinking of marrying her, she rejected his proposal, which had come too late to appease her wounded pride, and had settled down as the wife of an obscure country parson, old and poor. Weakly, she had neglected to secure her safety by telling her husband the story of her past, and in consequence was liable at any moment to be the victim of her seducer for the second time. The scoundrel had led the life of a woman-wrecker, and his love for his victim had turned to hate, as he told his companion, because she had disdained to save him from himself. When the elder man has unburdened himself, then the younger tells his story too. He has loved a peerless woman, who refused him, as she was vowed to another. There are points in his story which suggest to him that they have both loved the same woman, though he says that could not be, as he has heard that she married the man of whom she spoke. The young man now parts from his companion, and bids him return to the inn, there to await him for an hour, while he tries to induce his aunt to receive him as her guest. In the third part of the poem we are introduced to two women--an elder and a younger--who are talking in the parlour of the inn, just left vacant by the departure of the two card-players. The younger is the girl whom the young man of the story is to marry; and she has begged her old friend, the elder woman, to meet her, that she may see the man whom she is to marry. She has come by the train, has been met at the station by her young friend, and they adjourn to the little inn to talk matters over quietly. While the younger woman is absent from the parlour, and the elder is engaged in turning over the leaves of the visitors' book, she is terror-stricken at seeing her old lover enter the room. The lady is the clergyman's wife, and the man is the old _roué_ who is waiting for his friend who has won his ten thousand pounds. She believes the whole affair is a scheme to entrap her, and bitterly reproaches the man who has ruined her life, and even now must drag her from her retirement for further persecution. He indulges in recriminations, pretending that it is his life which she has wrecked, and that she is inspired with hatred for him though he has not ceased to love her. She thanks God that she had grace to hurl contempt at the contemptible:

"Rent away By treason from my rightful pride of place, I was not destined to the shame below. A cleft had caught me."

Revealing to him the bitterness of her position, hanging, as it were, over the brink of a yawning precipice, his old love for her is reawakened, and he kneels to the injured woman. He entreats her to fly with him to

"A certain refuge, solitary home To hide in.

* * * * *

Come with me, love, loved once, loved only, come, Blend loves there!"

But the woman sees through him, and says:

"Your smiles, your tears, prayers, curses move alike My crowned contempt."

And while he is kneeling there, in bursts the young man, who has returned to say that his aunt declines to meet him. He is startled to see the lady to whom he had vainly offered his heart four years ago, and rushes to the conclusion that he too has been entrapped for some purpose. The fifth section of the poem opens with a scornful denunciation of the trick which he considers stands confessed in the scene which he beholds. "O you two base ones, male and female! Sir!" he exclaims; "half an hour ago I held your master for my best of friends, and four years since you seemed my heart's one love!" The woman explains to him that she has been sent for simply to counsel his cousin on the question of her proposed marriage. She finds him innocent save in folly, and will so report. The elder man she bids to leave the youth, and leave unsullied the heart she rescues and would lay beside another's. While she speaks the devil is tempting him to one more crime. He will turn affairs to his own advantage. He writes some lines in the album before him, closes the book, hands it to the indignant woman, and begs her to leave him alone with his friend while he discusses the situation. In the book which she receives he has written a note to her telling her that her young lover is still faithful to her, and threatening her that if she does not receive him on familiar terms the story of her past shame shall be exposed to her husband. Left alone with the young man, he opens out a scheme of infernal ingenuity, whereby at once he will pay his gambling debt and avenge himself for the contempt and scorn with which his unhappy victim has once more received the offer of his affection. He proposes to barter the woman who has unwittingly put herself into his power--to compel her to yield herself up to the man in exchange for the ten thousand pounds he cannot otherwise pay. He explains to him that she has deluded her parson husband--would have yielded to himself had he not determined to substitute his friend. "Make love to her; pick no phrase; prevent all misconception: there's the fruit to pluck or let alone at pleasure!" He leaves the room, and in superb composure the intended victim enters. Captive of wickedness, she warns him: "Back, in God's name!" "Sin no more!" she cries: "I am past sin now." She implores him to break the fetters which have bound him to the evil influence which has destroyed her life. Her noble bearing under the terrible circumstances assures him of her innocence of any complicity in a trick. He tells her the man has told heaps of lies about her, which he had not believed. Blushing and stumbling in his speech, he contrives to let her know the use that was to be made of her. Not knowing if there were truth in what was told him of her marriage, he offers her his hand if she is free to accept it,--any way, to take him as her friend. She gives him her hand. At that moment the adversary returns. "You accept him?" he asks. "Till death us do part!" she answers. "But before death parts, read here the marriage licence which makes us one." He then displays the awful words addressed to her in the fatal page she holds in her hand. She reads, and when she comes to the last line--

"Consent--you stop my mouth, the only way"--

turning to the young man, she pitifully asks, "How could mortal 'stop it'?" "So!" he cries. "A tiger-flash, and death's out and on him!" In the closing scene the wretched, hunted woman dies. She has secured her vindicator's acquittal on the charge of murder by writing in the album that he has saved her from the villain, righteously slain, who would have outraged her. As she dies the young girl who was to have married the defender of the dead woman appears on the scene, and the tragedy closes. In _Notes and Queries_ for March 25th, 1876, Dr. F. J. Furnivall thus mentions the incidents on which the poem is based: "The story told by Mr. Browning in this poem is, in its main outlines, a real one--that of Lord De Ros, once a friend of the great Duke of Wellington, and about whom there is much in the _Greville Memoirs_. The original story was, of course, too repulsive to be adhered to in all its details--of, first, the gambling lord producing the portrait of the lady he had seduced and abandoned, and offering his expected dupe, but real beater, an introduction to the lady as a bribe to induce him to wait for payment of the money he had won; secondly, the eager acceptance of the bribe by the younger gambler, and the suicide of the lady from horror at the base proposal of her old seducer. The story made a great sensation in London over thirty years ago. Readers of _The Inn Album_ know how grandly Mr. Browning has lifted the base young gambler, through the renewal of that old love, which the poet has invented, into one of the most pathetic creations of modern time, and has spared the base old _roué_ the degradation of the attempt to sell the love which was once his delight, and which, in the poem, he seeks to regain, with feelings one must hope are real, as the most prized possession of his life. As to the lady, the poet has covered her with no false glory or claim on our sympathy. From the first she was a law unto herself; she gratified her own impulses, and she reaped the fruit of this. Her seducer has made his confession of his punishment, and has attributed, instead of misery, comfort and ease to her. She has to tell him, and the young man who has given her his whole heart, that the supposed comfort and ease have been to her simply hell; and tell, too, why she cannot accept the true love that, under other conditions, would have been her way back to heaven and life. What, then, can be her end? No higher power has she ever sought. Self-contained, she has sinned and suffered. She can do no more. By her own hand she ends her life; and the curtain falls on the most profoundly touching and most powerful poem of modern times." The young girl of the poem is the invention of the poet; the other characters took part in the actual tragedy. In his _Memoirs_, first series, Greville mentions Lord De Ros from time to time, and they travelled together in Italy. Under date of "Newmarket, March 29th, 1839," Greville makes the following entry in the first volume of the second series of his _Memoirs_, concerning the death of his friend: "Poor De Ros expired last night soon after twelve, after a confinement of two or three months from the time he returned to England. His end was enviably tranquil, and he bore his protracted sufferings with astonishing fortitude and composure. Nothing ruffled his temper or disturbed his serenity. His faculties were unclouded, his memory retentive, his perceptions clear to the last; no murmur of impatience ever escaped him, no querulous word, no ebullition of anger or peevishness; he was uniformly patient, mild, indulgent, deeply sensible of kindness and attention, exacting nothing, considerate of others and apparently regardless of self, overflowing with affection and kindness of manner and language to all around him, and exerting all his moral and intellectual energies with a spirit and resolution that never flagged till within a few hours of his dissolution, when nature gave way, and he sank into a tranquil unconsciousness, in which life gently ebbed away. Whatever may have been the error of his life, he closed the scene with a philosophical dignity not unworthy of a sage, and with a serenity and sweetness of disposition of which Christianity itself could afford no more shining or delightful example. In him I have lost, 'half lost before,' the last and greatest of the friends of my youth; and I am left a more solitary and a sadder man."

=Instans Tyrannus= == The Threatening Tyrant. (_Men and Women_, 1855; _Dramatic Romances_, 1868.) The title of this poem was suggested by Horace's Ode on the Just Man (_Od._ iii. 3. 1):--

"Justum et tenacem propositi virum, Non civium ardor prava jubentium, Non vultus instantis tyranni," etc.

('The just man, firm to his purpose, is not to be shaken from his fixed resolve by the fury of a mob laying upon him their impious behests, nor by the frown of a threatening tyrant, etc.') These lines are said to have been repeated by the celebrated De Witte while he was subject to torture. When men or causes are suppressed by tyranny, the tyrant knows well in his heart that force alone, and not justice, enables him to crush opposition to his will; and he is the first to see, even if he do not acknowledge, the Divine Arm thrust forth from the heavens to protect his victims and avenge their wrongs. From some undefined cause a poor, contemptible man was the object of a tyrant's hate: he struck him, tried to bribe him, tempted his blood and his flesh. Having tried every way to extinguish the man, he contrived thunder above and mine below him to destroy, as a rat in a hole, this friendless wretch, when suddenly the man saw God's arm across the sky. The man

--"caught at God's skirts, and prayed! So, _I_ was afraid!"

[Archdeacon Farrar refers the incidents of this poem to the persecution of the early Christians.--_Browning Society Papers_, Pt VII., p. 22*.]

=In Three Days.= (_Men and Women_, 1855; _Dramatic Lyrics_, 1868.) A lover anticipates that in three days he shall see his lady. He is aware that three days may change his future, as has often been changed the history of the world in the time. He knows, too, that though three days may cast no shadow in his way, still the years to follow may bring changes and chances of unimagined end. He reiterates that in three days he shall see her, and fear of all that the future may have in store is absorbed in the blissful anticipation.

=Italian in England, The.= (_Dramatic Romances and Lyrics_, in _Bells and Pomegranates_, No. VII., 1845.) The incident is not historical, though something of the kind might well have happened to any of the Italian patriots in their revolt against the Austrian domination. A prominent Italian patriot is hiding from the Austrian oppressors of his country after an unsuccessful rising. He has taken refuge in England, and the poem tells how the Austrians pursued him everywhere, and how he would have been taken if a peasant girl, to whom he confessed his identity, had not preferred humanity and the love of her country to the gold she might have earned by delivering him to his pursuers. [Mazzini must have gone through many such experiences, and the poem was one which he very highly appreciated.] Hunted by the Austrian bloodhounds, hiding in an old aqueduct, up to the neck in ferns for three days, the pangs of hunger induced him to attract the attention of a peasant girl going to her work with her companions: he threw his glove, to strike her as she passed. Without giving any sign that could acquaint her friends with her object, she glanced round and saw him beckon; breaking a branch from a tree, so as to recognise the spot, she picked up the glove and rejoined her party. In an hour she returned alone. He had not intended to confide in the woman, but her noble face led him to confess he was the man on whose head a great price was set. He felt sure he would not be betrayed. He bade her bring paper, pen and ink, and carry his letter to Padua, to the cathedral; then proceed to a certain confessional which he mentions, and whisper his password. If it was answered in the terms he named, then she was to give the letter to the priest. She promised to do as he desired. In three days more she appeared again at his hiding-place. She told him she had a lover who could do much to aid him. She brought him drink and food. In four days the scouts gave up the search, and went in another direction. At last help arrived from his friends at Padua. He kissed the maiden's hand, and laid his own in blessing on her head. When he took the boat from the seashore, on the night of his escape, she followed him to the vessel. He left, and never saw her more. And now that he is safe in England, he reflects that it is long since he had a thought for aught but Italy. Those whom he had trusted, those to whom he had looked for help, had made terms with the oppressors of his country; his presence in his own land would be awkward for his brethren. But there is one "in that dear, lost land" whose calm smile he would like to see; he would like to know of her future, her children's ages and their names, to kiss once more the hand that saved him, and once again to lay his own in blessing on her head, and go his way. "But to business!"

NOTES.--_Metternich_: the great Austrian diplomatist, and enemy of Italian independence. _Charles_: Carlo Alberto, King of Sardinia. He resorted to severe measures against the party known as "Young Italy," founded by Mazzini. He died in 1849. _Duomo_, the cathedral. _Tenebræ_ == darkness: the office of matins and lauds, for the three last days in Holy Week. Fifteen lighted candles are placed on a triangular stand, and at the conclusion of each psalm one is put out, till a single candle is left at the top of the triangle. The extinction of the other candles is said to figure the growing darkness of the world at the time of the Crucifixion. The last candle (which is not extinguished, but hidden behind the altar for a few moments) represents Christ over whom Death could not prevail.

=Ivàn Ivànovitch.= (_Dramatic Idyls_, First Series, 1879.) Ivàn Ivànovitch, or John Jackson, as his name would be in English, was skilled in the use of the axe, as the Russian workman is. Employed one day in his yard, in the village where he lived, suddenly over the snow-covered landscape came a burst of sledge bells, the sound of horse's hoofs galloping; then a sledge appeared drawn by a horse, which fell down as it reached the place. What seemed a frozen corpse lay in the vehicle: it was Dmitri's wife, without Dmitri and the children, who left the village a month ago. They restore the woman, who utters a loud and long scream, followed by sobs and gasps, as, with returning life, she takes in the fact that she is safe. "But yesterday!" she cries. "Oh, God the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, cannot You bring again my blessed yesterday? I had a child on either knee, and, dearer than the two, a babe close to my heart. Intercede, sweet Mother, with thy Son Almighty--undo all done last night!" Then she reminds them how, a month ago, she and her children had accompanied her husband, who had gone to work at a church many a league away: five of them in that sledge--Ivàn, herself, and three children. The work finished, they were about to return, when the village caught fire. Then Ivàn hurried his family into the sledge, and bade them hasten home while he remained to combat the flames. He bade them wrap round them every rug, and leave Droug, the old horse, to find his way home. They start; soon the night comes on; the moon rises. They pass a pine forest: a noise startles the horse--his ears go back, he snuffs, snorts, then plunges madly. Pad, pad, behind them are the wolves in pursuit--an army of them; every pine tree they pass adds a fiend to the pack; the eldest lead the way, their eyes green-glowing brass. The horse does his best; but the first of the band--that Satan-face--draws so near, his white teeth gleam, he is on the sledge--"perhaps her hands relaxed her grasp of her boy," she says; "for he was gone." The cursed crew fight for their share; they are too busy to pursue. She urges the horse to increased exertion. Alas! the pack is after them again; "Satan-face" is first, as before, and ravening for more. The mother fights with the monster, but the next boy is gone--plucked from the arms she clasped round him for protection. Another respite, while the fiends dispute for their share; but, as they fly over the snow, the leader of the pack tells his companions that their food is escaping; he leaves them to pick the bones, and--pad, pad!--is after the sledge again. All fight's in vain: the green brass points, the dread fiend's eyes, pierce to the woman's brain--she falls on her back in the sledge; but, wedging in and in, past her neck, her breasts, her heart, Satan-face is away with her last, her baby boy. She remembered no more. And now she is at home--childless, but with her life. And Ivàn the woodsman sternly looks; the woman kneels. Solemnly he raises his axe, and one blow falls--headless she kneels on still--

"It had to be. I could no other: God it was bade 'Act for Me!'"

He wipes his axe on a strip of bark, and returns silently to his work. The Jews, the gipsies, the whole crew, seethe and simmer, but say no word. Then comes the village priest, and with him the commune's head, Stàrosta, wielder of life and death; they survey the corpse, they hear the story. The priest proclaimed

"Ivàn Ivànovitch God's servant!"

"Amen!" murmured the crowd, and "left acquittal plain adjudged." They told Ivàn he was free. "How otherwise?" he asked.

NOTES.--_Ivàn Ivànovitch_ is "an imaginary personage, who is the embodiment of the peculiarities of the Russian people, in the same way as _John Bull_ represents the English and _Johnny Crapaud_ the French character. He is described as a lazy, good-natured person." (_Webster's Dict._) _A verst_ is equal to about two-thirds of an English mile. _Droug_: the horse's name means friend, and is pronounced "drook." _Pope_ should not be spelled with a capital; it is merely the Russian term for priest--_papa_, father. _Pomeschìk_ means a landed proprietor. _Stàrosta_, the old man of the village, the overseer.

This is a variant of a Russian wolf-story which, in one form or another, we all heard in our childhood. The poet visited Russia in the course of his great tour in Europe in 1833, and he has told the familiar tale of the unhappy mother who saved her own life by throwing one after another of her children to the pursuing wolves, with all the local colouring and fidelity to the facts to which we are accustomed in the poet's work. Not merely as a tale dramatically told are we to consider the poem; but--as might be expected--we must look upon it as a problem in mental pathology. The superficial observer, looking upon the mere facts, and not troubling very much about the psychology of the case, will at once condemn the unhappy mother, and execute her as promptly in his own mind as did Ivàn Ivànovitch with his axe. But rough and ready judgments, however necessary in the conduct of our daily life, are frequently unsound; and the voice of the people is about the last voice that should be listened to in such a case as this. If a man who is usually considered a sane and decent member of society suddenly does some abnormal and outrageous thing, we at once ask ourselves, "Is he mad?" If a mother, any mother, suddenly violates the maternal instinct in a flagrant manner, we immediately suspect her of mental derangement. The maternal instinct is the strongest thing in nature; the ties which bind a woman to her offspring are stronger, in the ordinary healthy mother, than the ties which bind a man to decent and ordinary observance of the laws of society. Old Bailey judgments are not to be employed in such a case as this; it is one for a specialist. And we apprehend there is not a competent authority in brain troubles living who would not acquit Louscha on the ground of insanity.

=Ixion.= (_Jocoseria_, 1883.) Ixion, in Greek mythology, was the son of Phlegyas and king of the Lapithæ. He married Dia, daughter of Deioneus, and promised to make his father-in-law certain bridal presents. To avoid the fulfilment of his promise, he invited him to a banquet, and when Deioneus came to the feast he cruelly murdered him. No one would purify him for the murder, and he was consequently shunned by all mankind. Zeus, however, took pity on him, and took him up to heaven and there purified him. At the table of the gods he fell in love with Hera (Juno), and afterwards attempted to seduce her. Ixion was banished from heaven, and by the command of Zeus was tied by Mercury to a wheel which perpetually revolved in the air. Ixion, condemned to eternal punishment, is in the poem described as defying Zeus after the manner of Prometheus. It is impossible to doubt that Mr. Browning intends to represent the popular idea of God and his own attitude towards the doctrine of eternal punishment. It is, however, only the caricature of God created by popular misconception at which the poet aims, whatever may have to be said of his opinions concerning eschatology. As Caliban thought there was a _Quiet_ above Setebos, so Ixion appeals to the Potency over Zeus. The truth is intended that both unsophisticated man in the savage state and the highest type of cultured man agree in their theological beliefs so far as to acknowledge a Supreme Being of a higher character than the anthropomorphic God of popular worship. Of course both Caliban and Ixion talk Browningese. Ixion is represented as comparing himself with his torturer:--

"Behold us! Here the revenge of a God, there the amends of a Man"--

a man with bodily powers constantly renewed, to enable him to suffer. Above the torment is a rainbow of hope, built of the vapour, pain-wrung, which the light of heaven, in passing tinges with the colour of hope. Endowed with bodily powers intended to be God's ministers, Ixion has been betrayed by them. But he was but man foiled by sense; he has endured enough suffering to teach him his error and his folly. "Why make the agony perpetual?" "To punish thee," Zeus may reply. Ixion says he once was king of Thessaly: he had to punish crime. Had he been able to read the hearts of the criminals whom he sent to their doom, and had plainly seen repentance there, would he not have given them

"Life to retraverse the past, light to retrieve the misdeed?"

Zeus made man, with flaw or faultless: it was his work. Ixion had been admitted, all human as he was, to the company of the gods as their equal. He had faith in the good faith and the love of Zeus, and for acting upon it was cast from Olympus to Erebus. Man conceived Zeus as possessing his own virtues: he trusted, loved him because Zeus aspired to be equal in goodness to man. Ixion defies him, tells him he apes the man who made him; it is Zeus who is hollowness. The iris, born of Ixion's tears, sweat and blood, bursting to vapour above, arching his torment, glorifies his pain; and man, even from hell's triumph, may look up and rejoice. He rises from the wreck, past Zeus to the Potency above him--

"Thither I rise, whilst thou--Zeus, keep the godship and sink!"

The Zeus of the poem bears no relation whatever to the Christian's God. The Potency over all is the All-Father, the God of Love, who yet, in Infinite Love, may punish rebellious man, who conceivably may reject His love, may never feel a touch of the repentance which Ixion declared he felt, who suffering and still sinning, hating and still rebelling, may conceivably be left to the consequences of the rebellion which knows no cessation, as the suffering no respite.

NOTES.--_Sisuphos_, "the crafty": son of Æolus, punished in the other world by being forced for ever to keep on rolling a block of stone to the top of a steep hill, only to see it roll again to the valley, and to start the toilsome task again. _Tantalos_, a wealthy king of Sipylus in Phrygia. He was a favourite of the gods, and allowed to share their meals; but he insulted them, and was thrown into Tartarus. He suffered from hunger and thirst, immersed in water up to the chin; when he opened his mouth the water dried up and the fruits suspended before him vanished into the air. _Heré_, in Greek mythology the same as Juno, queen of heaven and wife of Zeus or Jupiter. _Thessaly_, a country of Greece, bounded on the south by the southern parts of Greece, on the east by the Ægean, on the north by Macedonia and Mygdonia, and on the west by Illyricum and Epirus. _Olumpos_, a mountain in Thessaly. On the highest peak is the throne of Zeus, and it is there that he summons the assemblies of the gods. _Erebos_, in Greek mythology "the primeval darkness." The word is usually applied to the lower regions, filled with impenetrable darkness. _Tartaros-doomed_ == hell-doomed.

=Jacopo= (_Luria_) was the faithful secretary of the Moorish mercenary who led the army of Florence.

=Jacynth.= (_Flight of the Duchess._) The maid of the Duchess, who went to sleep while the gipsy woman held the interview with her mistress, and induced her to leave her husband's home.

=James Lee's Wife.= (_Dramatis Personæ_, 1864; originally entitled _James Lee_.) This is a story of an unfortunate marriage, told in a series of meditations by the wife. Mr. Symons describes the psychological processes detailed in the poem as "the development of disillusion, change, alienation, severance and parting." The key-notes of the nine divisions of the work are: I. Anxiety; II. Apprehension; III. Expostulation; IV. Despair; V. Reflection; VI. Change; VII. Self-denial; VIII. Resignation; IX. Self-Sacrifice.

I. AT THE WINDOW.--The wife reflects that summer has departed. The chill, which settles upon the earth as the sun's warm rays are withheld, falls heavily on her heart. Her husband has been absent but a day, and as she thinks of the changing year, she asks, with apprehension, "Will he change too?"

II. BY THE FIRESIDE.--He has returned, but not the sun to her heart. As they sit by the fire in their seaside home, she reflects that the fire is built of "shipwreck wood." Are her hopes to be shipwrecked too? Sailors on the stormy waters may envy their security as they behold the ruddy light from their fire over the sea, and "gnash their teeth for hate" as they reflect on their warm safe home; but ships rot and rust and get worm-eaten in port, as well as break up on rocks. She wonders who lived in that home before them. Did a woman watch the man with whom she began a happy voyage--see the planks start, and hell yawn beneath her?

III. IN THE DOORWAY.--The steps of coming winter hasten; the trees are bare; soon the swallows will forsake them. The wind, with its infinite wail, sings the dirge of the departed summer. Her heart shrivels, her spirit shrinks; yet, as she stands in the doorway, she reflects that they have every material comfort. They have neither cold nor want to fear in any shape, only the heart-chill, only the soul-hunger for the love that is gone. God meant that love should warm the human heart when material things without were cold and drear. She will

"live and love worthily, bear and be bold."

IV. ALONG THE BEACH.--The storm has burst; it is no longer misgiving, fear, apprehension: it is certainty. She meditates, as she watches him, that he wanted her love; she gave him all her heart He has it still: she had taken him "for a world and more." For love turns dull earth to the glow of God. She had taken the weak earth with many weeds, but with "a little good grain too." She had watched for flowers and longed for harvest, but all was dead earth still, and the glow of God had never transfigured his soul to her. But she did love, did watch, did wait and weary and wear, was fault in his eyes. Her love had become irksome to him.

V. ON THE CLIFF.--It is summer, and she is leaning on the dead burnt turf, looking at a rock left dry by the retiring waters. The deadness of the one and the barrenness of the other suit her melancholy; they are symbols of her position, and as she muses, a gay, blithe grasshopper springs on the turf, and a wonderful blue-and-red butterfly settles on the rock. So love settles on minds dead and bare; so love brightens all! So could her love brighten even his dead soul.

VI. READING A BOOK, UNDER THE CLIFF.--She is reading the poetry of "some young man" (Mr. Browning himself, who published these "Lines to the Wind" when twenty-six years old). The poet asks if the ailing wind is a dumb winged thing, entrusting its cause to him; and as she reads on she grows angry at the young man's inexperience of the mystery of life. He knows nothing of the meaning of the moaning wind: it is not suffering, not distress; it is change. That is what the wind is trying to say, and trying above all to teach: we are to

"Rejoice that man is hurled From change to change unceasingly, His soul's wings never furled!"

"Nothing endures," says the wind. "There's life's pact--perhaps, too, its probation; but man might at least, as he grasps 'one fair, good, wise thing,'--the love of a loving woman--grave it on his soul's hands' palms to be his for ever."

VII. AMONG THE ROCKS.--Earth sets his bones to bask in the sun, and smiles in the beauty with which the rippling water adorns him; and so she comforts herself by reflecting that we may make the low earth-nature better by suffusing it with our love-tides. Love is gain if we love only what is worth our love. How much more to make the low nature better by our throes!

VIII. BESIDE THE DRAWING-BOARD.--She has been drawing a hand. A clay cast of a perfect thing is before her. She has learned something of the infinite beauty of the human hand--has studied it, has praised God, its Maker, for it; and as she contemplates the world of wonders to be discovered therein, she is fain to efface her work and begin anew, for somehow grace slips from soulless finger-tips. The cast is that of a hand by Leonardo da Vinci. She has passionately longed to copy its perfection, but as the great master could not copy the perfection of the dead hand, so she has failed to draw the cast. And so she turns to the peasant girl model who is by her side that day, "a little girl with the poor coarse hand," and as she contemplates it she begins to understand the worth of flesh and blood, and that there is a great deal more than beauty in a hand. She has read Bell on the human hand, and she knows something of the infinite uses of the mechanism which is hidden beneath the flesh. She knows what use survives the beauty in the peasant hand that spins and bakes. The living woman is better than the dead cast. She has learned the lesson that all this craving for what can never be hers--for the love she cannot gain, any more than the perfection she cannot draw--is wasting her life. She will be up and doing, no longer dreaming and sighing.

IX. ON DECK.--It was better to leave him! She will set him free. She had no beauty, no grace; nothing in her deserved any place in his mind. She was harsh and ill-favoured (and perhaps this was the secret of the trouble). Still, had he loved her, love could and would have made her beautiful. Some day it may be even so; and in the years to come a face, a form--her own--may rise before his mental vision, his eyes be opened, his liberated soul leap forth in a passionate "'Tis she!"

=Jesus Christ.= That Mr. Browning was something more than a Theist, a Unitarian, or a Broad Churchman, may be gathered from several passages in his works, as well as from direct statements to individuals. Three lines in the _Death in the Desert_ (though often said to be used only dramatically), when taken in connection with the whole drift and purpose of the poem, seem to indicate a faith which is more than mere Theism:

"The acknowledgment of God in Christ, accepted by thy reason, Solves for thee all questions in the earth and out of it, And has so far advanced thee to be wise."

In the _Epistle of Karshish_, the Arab physician says concerning Jesus, who had raised Lazarus from the dead:--

"The very God! think, Abib, dost thou think? So, the All-Great, were the All-Loving too-- So, through the thunder comes a loving voice Saying, 'O heart I made, a heart beats here! Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself! Thou hast no power nor may'st conceive of mine. But love I gave thee, with myself to love, And thou must love me who have died for thee!' The madman saith He said so: it is strange."

_Christmas Eve_ and _Easter Day_ seem to be meaningless if they do not express the author's faith in the divinity of our Lord. Just as every believer in Him can detect the true ring of the Christian believer and lover of his Lord in the lines quoted from the _Epistle of Karshish_, so will his touchstone detect the Christian in many other passages of the poet's work.

In _Saul_, canto xviii., David says:--

"My flesh, that I seek In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be A Face like my face that receives thee; a Man like to me, Thou shalt love and be loved by, for ever: a Hand like this hand Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ stand!"

David--to whom Christendom attributes the Psalms, even were he only the editor of that wonderful body of prayer and praise--as the utterer of sentiments like these, is permitted to express the orthodox opinion that he prophesied of the Christ who was to come. Mr. Browning would have hardly done this "dramatically." (What are termed "the Messianic Psalms" are ii., xxi., xxii., xlv., lxxii., cx.) Pompilia, in _The Ring and the Book_, a character which is built up of the purest and warmest faith of the poet's heart, says:--

"I never realised God's truth before-- How He grew likest God in being born."

The poem entitled "The Sun," in _Ferishtah's Fancies_, No. 5, may be studied in this connection.

=Jews.= Browning had great sympathy with the Jewish spirit. See RABBI BEN EZRA, JOCHANAN HAKKADOSH, BEN KARSHOOK, HOLY CROSS DAY, and FILIPPO BALDINUCCI.

=Jochanan Hakkadosh.= (_Jocoseria_: 1883.) The Hebrew which Mr. Browning quotes in the tale as the title of the work from which his incidents are derived, may be translated as "Collection of many Fables"; and the second Hebrew phrase means "from Moses to Moses [Moses Maimonides] there was never one like Moses." Although the story of this poem is not historical, it is founded on characters and events which are familiar to students of Jewish literature and history. Hakkadosh means "The Holy." Rabbi Yehudah Hannasi (the Prince) was the reputed author of the _Mishnah_, and was born before the year 140 of the Christian era. On account of his holy living he was surnamed Rabbenu Hakkadosh. Jochanan means John. In the _Jewish Messenger_ for March 4th, 1887, the poem is reviewed from a Jewish point of view by "Mary M. Cohen," from which interesting study we extract the following particulars:--The scene of the poem is laid at Schiphaz, which is probably intended for Sheeraz, in Persia. "I think," says the authoress, "that, with artistic licence, Mr. Browning does not here portray any individual man, but takes the names and characteristics of several rabbis, fusing all into a whole. Jochanan finds old age a continued disappointment. He is represented as almost overtaken by death; his loving scholars, as was usual in the days of rabbinism, cluster about him for some worthy word of parting advice. One of the pupils asks: 'Say, does age acquiesce in vanished youth?' The rabbi, groaning, answers grimly:

"Last as first The truth speak I--in boyhood who began Striving to live an angel, and, amerced For such presumption, die now hardly, man. What have I proved of life? To live, indeed, That much I learned."

It was suggested to the dying rabbi that if compassionating folk would render him up a portion of their lives, Hakkadosh might attain his fourscore years. Tsaddik, the scholar, well versed in the Targums, was foremost in urging the adoption of this expedient. By yielding up part of their lives, the pupils of Jochanan hope to combine the lessons of perfect wisdom and varied experience of life. But experience proves fatal to all the hopes, the aspirations, the high ideals of youth. Experience paralyses action. Experience chills the aspirations which animate the generous mind of the lover, the soldier, the poet, the statesman. When the men of experience contributed their quota, 'certain gamesome boys' must needs throw some of theirs also. This accounts for the rabbi being found alive unexpectedly after a long interval:

"Trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home."

The rabbi utters heaven-sent intuitions, the gift of these lads. Under the influence of the _Ruach_, or spirit, Jochanan declares that happiness, here and hereafter, is found in acting on the generous impulses, the noble ideals which are sent into the mind, in spite of the testimony of experience that we shall fail to realise our aspirations. 'There is no sin,' says the rabbi, 'except in doubting that the light which lured the unwary into darkness did no wrong, had I but marched on boldly.' What we see here as antitheses, or as complementary truths, are reconciled hereafter. This reconciliation cannot be grasped by our present faculties. The rabbi seems to 'babble' when he tries to express in words the truth he sees. The pure white light of truth, seen through the medium of the flesh, is composed of many coloured rays. Evil is like the dark lines in the spectrum. The whole duty of man is to learn to love. If he fails, it matters not; he has learned the art: 'so much for the attempt--anon performance.' Love is the sum of our spiritual intuitions, the law of our practical conduct."

NOTES.--_Mishna_, the second or oral Jewish law; the great collection of legal decisions by the ancient rabbis; and so the fundamental document of Jewish oral law. _Schiphaz_, an imaginary place; or perhaps _Sheeraz_, on the Bundemeer, referred to at end of poem. _Jochanan Ben Sabbathai_, not historical. _Khubbezleh_, a fanciful name of the poet's invention. _Targum_, a Chaldee version or paraphrase of the Old Testament. _Nine Points of Perfection_: Nine is a trinity of trinities, and is a mystical number of perfection; the slang expression "dressed to the nines" means dressed to perfection. _Tsaddik_ == just, not historical. _Dob_ == Bear (the constellation). _The Bear_, the constellation. _Aish_, the Great Bear. _The Bier_: the Jews called the constellation of the Great Bear "The Bier." _Three Daughters_, the tail stars of the Bear. _Banoth_ == daughters. _The Ten_: Jewish martyrs under the Roman empire. _Akiba_, _Rabbi_, lived A.C. 117, and laid the groundwork of the Mishna. He was one of the greatest Jewish teachers, and was at the height of his popularity when the revolt of the Jews under Barcochab took place. (See for a history of the revolt, and of Akiba's influence, _Milman's History of the Jews_,