this ebook was produced by dick adicks. introduction and notes: charlotte porter and helen a. clarke, from the edition of browning's poems published by thomas y. crowell and company, new york, in . editing conventions: the digraphs have been silently rendered as "ae" or "oe." <u`> indicates u-grave, <a`> a-grave, <e`> e-grave, and <a^> a-circumflex. similarly, u-umlaut is rendered as "ue." stanza and section numbers have been moved to the left margin, and periods that follow them have been removed. periods have been omitted after roman numerals in the titles of popes and nobles. in keeping with contemporary practice, commas have been deleted when they precede dashes and spaces deleted in such contractions as "there's" where the printed text has "there 's." in references to bible verses, roman numerals have been changed to arabic numerals (e. g., "john iii. " is changed to "john : "). men and women by robert browning contents introduction (by charlotte porter and helen a. clarke) "transcendentalism: a poem in twelve books" how it strikes a contemporary artemis prologizes an epistle containing the strange medical experience of karshish, the arab physician johannes agricola in meditation pictor ignotus fra lippo lippi andrea del sarto the bishop orders his tomb at saint praxed's church bishop blougram's apology cleon rudel to the lady of tripoli one word more introduction thirteen years after the publication, in , of the poems, in two volumes, entitled "men and women," browning reviewed his work and made an interesting reclassification of it. he separated the simpler pieces of a lyric or epic cast--such rhymed presentations of an emotional moment, for example, as "mesmerism" and "a woman's last word," or the picturesque rhymed verse telling a story of an experience, such as "childe roland" and "the statue and the bust"--from their more complex companions, which were almost altogether in blank verse, and, in general, markedly personified a typical man in his environment, a cleon or fra lippo, a rudel or a blougram. these boldly sculptured figures he set apart from the others as the fit components of the more closely related group which ever since has constituted the division now known as "men and women." possibly the poet took some pleasure in thus bringing to confusion those critics who, beginning first to take any notice of his work after the issue of these volumes of , discovered therein poems they praised chiefly by means of contrasting them with foregoing work they found unnoticeable and later work they declared inscrutable. their bland discrimination, at any rate, in favor of "men and women" became henceforth inapplicable, since the poet not only cast out from the division they elected to honor the little lyrical pieces that caught their eye, but also brought to the front, from his earlier neglected work of the same kind as the monologues retained, his johannes agricola of , pictor ignotus of , and rudel of . later criticism, moreover, that even yet assumes to ring the old changes of discrimination against everything but "men and women," is made not merely inapplicable by this re-arrangement, but uninformed, a meaningless echo of a borrowed opinion which has had the very ground from under it shifted. the self-criticism of which this re-arrangement gives a hint is more valuable. all the shorter poems accumulated up to this period, various as they are in theme and metrical form, are uniform in the fashioning of their contour and color. as soon as this underlying uniformity of make is recognized it may be seen to be the coloring and relief belonging to any sort of poetic material, whether ordinarily accounted dramatic material or not, which is imaginatively externalized and made concrete. this peculiarity of make browning early acknowledged in his estimate of his shorter poems as characteristic of his touch, when he called his lyrics and romances dramatic. he became consciously sensitive later to slight variations effected by his manipulation in shape and shade which it yet takes a little thought to discern, even after his own redivision of his work has given the clew to his self-judgments. not only events, deeds, and characters--the usual subject-matter moulded and irradiated by dramatic power--but thoughts, impressions, experiences, impulses, no matter how spiritualized or complex or mobile, are transfused with the enlivening light of his creative energy in his shorter poems. perhaps the very path struck out through them by the poet in his re-division may be traced between the leaves silently closing together again behind him if it be noticed that among these poems there are some with footholds firmly rooted in the earth and others whose proper realm is air. these have wings for alighting, for flitting thither and hither, or for pursuing some sudden rapt whirl of flight in heaven's face at fancy's bidding. they are certainly not less original than those other solider, earth-fast poems, but they are less unique. being motived in transient fancy, they are more akin to poems by other hands, and could be classed more readily with them by any observer, despite all differences, as little poetic romances or as a species of lyric. they were probably first found praiseworthy, not only because they were simpler, but because, being more like work already understood and approved, adventurous criticism was needed to taste their quality. the other longer poems in blank verse, graver and more dignified, yet even more vivid, and far more life-encompassing, which bore the rounded impress of the living human being, instead of the shadowy motion of the lively human fancy--these are the birth of a process of imaginative brooding upon the development of man by means of individuality throughout the slow, unceasing flow of human history. browning evidently grew aware that whatever these poems of personality might prove to be worth to the world, these were the ones deserving of a place apart, under the early title of "men and women," which he thought especially suited to the more roundly modelled and distinctively colored exemplars of his peculiar faculty. in his next following collection, under the similar descriptive title of "dramatis personae," he added to this class of work, shaping in the mould of blank verse mainly used for "men and women" his personifications of the medium mr. sludge, the embryo theologian caliban, the ripened mystical saint of "a death in the desert"; while abt vogler, the creative musician, rabbi ben ezra, the intuitional philosopher, and the chastened adept in loving, james lee's wife, although held within the embrace of their maker's dramatic conception of them, as persons of his stage, were made to pour out their speech in rhyme as johannes agricola in the earlier volume uttered his creed and rudel his love-message, as if the heat of their emotion-moved personality required such an outlet. some such general notion as this of the scope of this volume, and of the design of the poet in the construction, classification, and orderly arrangement of so much of his briefer work as is here contained seems to be borne out upon a closer examination. on the threshold of this new poetic world of personality stands the poet of the poem significantly called "transcendentalism," who is speaking to another poet about the too easily obvious, metaphor-bare philosophy of his opus in twelve books. that the admonishing poet is stationed there at the very door-sill of the gallery of men and women is surely not accidental, even if browning's habit of plotting his groups of poems symmetrically by opening with a prologue-poem sounding the right key, and rounding the theme with an epilogue, did not tend to prove it intentional. it is an open secret that the last poem in "men and women," for instance, is an epilogue of autobiographical interest, gathering up the foregoing strains of his lyre, for a few last chords, in so intimate a way that the actual fall of the fingers may be felt, the pausing smile seen, as the performer turns towards the one who inspired "one word more." the appropriateness of "transcendentalism" as a prologue need be no more of a secret than that of "one word more" as an epilogue, although it is left to betray itself. other poets writing on the poet, emerson for example, and tennyson, place the outright plain name of their thought at the head of their verses, without any attempt to make their titles dress their parts and keep as thoroughly true to their roles as the poems themselves. but a complete impersonation of his thought in name and style as well as matter is characteristic of browning, and his personified poets playing their parts together in "transcendentalism" combine to exhibit a little masque exemplifying their writer's view of the poet as veritably as if he had named it specifically "the poet." one poet shows the other, and brings him visibly forward; but even in such a morsel of dramatic workmanship as this, fifty-one lines all told, there is the complexity and involution of life itself, and, as ever in browning's monologues, over the shoulder of the poet more obviously portrayed peers as livingly the face of the poet portraying him. and this one--the admonishing poet--is set there with his "sudden rose," as if to indicate with that symbol of poetic magic what kind of spell was sought to be exercised by their maker to conjure up in his house of song the figures that people its niches. could a poem be imagined more cunningly devised to reveal a typical poetic personality, and a typical theory of poetic method, through its way of revealing another? what poet could have composed it but one who himself employed the dramatic method of causing the abstract to be realizable through the concrete image of it, instead of the contrary mode of seeking to divest the objective of its concrete form in order to lay bare its abstract essence? this opposite theory of the poetic function is precisely the boehme mode, against which the veiled dramatic poet, who is speaking in favor of the halberstadtian magic, admonishes his brother, while he himself in practical substantiation of his theory of poetics brings bodily in sight the boy-face above the winged harp, vivified and beautiful himself, although his poem is but a shapeless mist. not directly, then, but indirectly, as the dramatic poet ever reveals himself, does the sophisticated face of the subtle poet of "men and women" appear as the source of power behind both of the poets of this poem, prepossessing the reader of the verity and beauty of the theory of poetic art therein exemplified. such an interpretation of "transcendentalism," and such a conception of it as a key to the art of the volume it opens, chimes in harmoniously with the note sounded in the next following poem, "how it strikes a contemporary." here again a typical poet is personified, not, however, by means of his own poetic way of seeing, but of the prosaic way in which he is seen by a contemporary, the whole, of course, being poetically seen and presented by the over-poet. browning himself, and in such a manifold way that the reader is enabled to conceive as vividly of the talker and his mental atmosphere and social background--the people and habitudes of the good old town of valladolid--as of the betalked-of corregidor himself; while by the totality of these concrete images an impression is conveyed of the dramatic mode of poetic expression which is far more convincing than any explicit theoretic statement of it could be, because so humanly animated. "artemis prologizes" seems to have been selected to close this little opening sequence of poems on the poet, because that fragment of a larger projected work could find place here almost as if it were a poet's exercise in blank verse. its smooth and spacious rhythm, flawless and serene as the distant greek myth of the hero and the goddess it celebrates, is in striking contrast with the rougher, but brighter and more humanly colloquial blank verse of "bishop blougram's apology," for example, or the stiff carefulness of the "epistle" of karshish. it might alone suffice, by comparison with the metrical craftsmanship of the other poems of "men and women," to assure the observant reader that never was a good workman more baselessly accused of metrical carelessness than the poet who designedly varies his complicated verse-effects to suit every inner impulse belonging to his dramatic subject. a golden finish being in place in this statuesque, "hyperion"-like monologue of artemis, behold here it is, and none the less perfect because not merely the outcome of the desire to produce a polished piece of poetic mechanism. browning, perhaps, linked his next poem, "the strange medical experience of karshish, the arab physician," with the calm prologizing of the hellenic goddess, by association of the "wise pharmacies" of aesculapius, with the inquisitive sagacity of karshish, "the not-incurious in god's handiwork." by this ordering of the poems, the reader may now enjoy, at any rate, the contrasts between three historic phases of wisdom in bodily ills: the phase presented in the dependence of the old greek healer upon simple physical effects, soothing "with lavers the torn brow," and laying "the stripes and jagged ends of flesh even once more"; and the phases typified, on the one side, by the ingenious arab, sire of the modern scientist, whose patient correlation of facts and studious, sceptical scrutiny of cause and effect are caught in the bud in the diagnosis transmitted by karshish to abib, and, on the other side, by the nazarene physician, whose inspired secret of summoning out of the believing soul of man the power to control his body--so baffled and fascinated karshish, drawing his attention in lazarus to just that connection of the known physical with the unknown psychical nature which is still mystically alluring the curiosity of investigators. from the childlike, over-idealizing mood of lazarus toward the god who had succored him, inducing in him so fatalistic an indifference to human concerns, there is but a step to the rapture of absolute theology expressed in the person of johannes agricola. such poems as these put before the cool gaze of the present century the very men of the elder day of religion. their robes shine with an unearthly light, and their abstracted eyes are hypnotized by the effulgence of their own haloes. yet the poet never fails to insinuate some naive foible in their personification, a numbness of the heart or an archaism of soul, which reveals the possessed one as but a human brother, after all, shaped by his environment, and embodying the spirit of an historic epoch out of which the current of modern life is still streaming. the group of art poems which follows similarly presents a dramatic synthesis of the art of the renaissance as represented by three types of painters. the religious devotion of the monastic painter, whose ecstatic spirit breathes in "pictor ignotus," probably gives this poem its place adjoining agricola and lazarus. his artist's hankering to create that beauty to bless the world with which his soul refrains from grossly satisfying, unites the poem with the two following ones. in the first of these the realistic artist, fra lippo, is graphically pictured personally ushering in the high noon of the italian efflorescence. in the second, the gray of that day of art is silvering the self-painted portrait of the prematurely frigid and facile formalist, andrea del sarto. in "pictor ignotus" not only the personality of the often unknown and unnamed painting-brother of the monasteries is made clear, but also the nature of his beautiful cold art and the enslavement of both art and personality to ecclesiastical beliefs and ideals. in "fra lippo lippi" not alone the figure of the frolicsome monk appears caught in his pleasure-loving escapade, amid that picturesque knot of alert-witted florentine guards, ready to appreciate all the good points in his story of his life and the protection the arms of the church and the favor of the medici have afforded his genius, but, furthermore, is illustrated the irresistible tendency of the art-impulse to expand beyond the bounds set for it either by laws of church or art itself, and to find beauty wheresoever in life it chooses to turn the light of its gaze. so, also, in "andrea del sarto," the easy cleverness of the unaspiring craftsman is not embodied apart from the abject relationship which made his very soul a bond-slave to the gross mandates of "the cousin's whistle." yet in all three poems the biographic and historic conditions contributing toward the individualizing of each artist are so unobtrusively epitomized and vitally blended, that, while scarcely any item of specific study of the art and artists of the renaissance would be out of place in illustrating the essential truth of the portraiture and assisting in the better appreciation of the poem, there is no detail of the workmanship which does not fall into the background as a mere accessory to the dominant figure through whose relationship to his art his station in the past is made clear. this sort of dramatic synthesis of a salient, historical epoch is again strikingly disclosed in the following poem of the renaissance period, "the bishop orders his tomb at saint praxed's church." in this, again, the art-connoisseurship of the prelacy, so important an element in the italian movement towards art-expression, is revealed to the life in the beauty-loving personality of the dying bishop. and by means, also, of his social ties with his nephews, called closer than they wish about him now; with her whom "men would have to be their mother once"; with old gandolf, whom he fancies leering at him from his onion-stone tomb; and with all those strong desires of the time for the delight of being envied, for marble baths and horses and brown greek manuscripts and mistresses, the seeds of human decay planted in the plot of time, known as the central renaissance, by the same lingering fleshliness and self-destroying self-indulgence as was at home in pagan days, are livingly exposed to the historic sense. is the modern prelate portrayed in "bishop blougram's apology," with all his bland subtlety, complex culture, and ripened perceptions, distant as the nineteenth century from the sixteenth, very different at bottom from his renaissance brother, in respect to his native hankering for the pleasure of estimation above his fellows? gigadibs is his gandolf, whom he would craftily overtop. he is the one raised for the time above the commonalty by his criticism of the bishop, to whom the prelate would fain show how little he was to be despised, how far more honored and powerful he was among men. as for gigadibs, it is to be noticed that browning quietly makes him do more than leer enviously at his complacent competitor from a tomb-top. the "sudden healthy vehemence" that struck him and made him start to test his first plough in a new world, and read his last chapter of st. john to better purpose than towards self-glorification beyond his fellows, is a parable of the more profitable life to be found in following the famous injunction of that chapter in john's gospel, "feed my sheep!" than in causing those sheep to motion one, as the bishop would have his obsequious wethers of the flock motion him, to the choice places of the sward. so, as vivid a picture of the materialism and monopolizing of the present century sowing seeds of decay and self-destruction in the movement of this age toward love of the truth, of the beauty of genuineness in character and earnestness in aim, is portrayed through the realistic personality of the great modern bishop, in his easy-smiling after-dinner talk with gigadibs, the literary man, as is presented of the central renaissance period in the companion picture of the bishop of saint praxed's. in cleon, the man of composite art and culture, the last ripe fruitage of greek development, is personified and brought into contact, at the moment of the dawn of christianity in europe, with the ardent impulse the christian ideal of spiritual life supplied to human civilization. how close the wise and broad greek culture came to being all-sufficing, capable of effecting almost enough of impetus for the aspiring progress of the world, and yet how much it lacked a warmer element essential to be engrafted upon its lofty beauty, the reader, upon whose imaginative vision the personality of cleon rises, can scarcely help but feel. the aesthetic and religious or philosophical interests vitally conceived and blended, which link together so many of the main poems of "men and women," close with "cleon." rudel, the troubadour, presenting, in the self-abandonment of his offering of love to the lady of tripoli, an impersonation of the chivalric love characteristic of the provencal life of the twelfth century, intervenes, appropriately, last of all, between the preceding poems and the epilogue, which devotes heart and brain of the poet himself, with the creatures of his hand, to his "moon of poets." as these poetic creations now stand, they all seem, upon examination, to incarnate the full-bodied life of distinctive types of men, centred amid their relations with other men within a specific social environment, and fulfilling the possibilities for such unique, dramatic syntheses as were revealed but partially or in embryo here and there among the other shorter poems of this period of the poet's growth. in one important particular the re-arrangement of the "men and women" group of poems made its title inappropriate. the graceful presence and love-lit eyes of the many women of the shorter love-poems were withdrawn, and artemis, andrea del sarto's wife, the prior's niece--"saint lucy, i would say," as fra lippo explains--and, perhaps, the inspirer of rudel's chivalry, too, the shadowy yet learned and queenly lady of tripoli, alone were left to represent the "women" of the title. as for minor inexactitudes, what does it matter that the advantage gained by nicely selecting the poems properly belonging together, both in conception and artistic modelling, was won at the cost of making the reference inaccurate, in the opening lines of "one word more," to "my fifty men and women, naming me the fifty poems finished"?--or that the mention of roland in line is no longer in place with karshish, cleon, lippo, and andrea, now that the fantastic story of childe roland's desperate loyalty is given closer companionship among the varied experiences narrated in the "dramatic romances"? while as for the mention of the norbert of "in a balcony"--which was originally included as but one item along with the other contents of "men and women"--that miniature drama, although it stands by itself now, is still near enough at hand in the revised order to account for the allusion. these are all trifles--mere sins against literal accuracy. but the discrepancy in the title occasioned by the absence of women is of more importance. it is of especial interest, in calling attention to the fact that the creator of pompilia, balaustion, and the heroine of the "inn album"--all central figures, whence radiate the life and spiritual energy of the work they ennoble--had, at this period, created no typical figures of women in any degree corresponding to those of his men. charlotte porter helen a. clarke "transcendentalism: a poem in twelve books" stop playing, poet! may a brother speak? 'tis you speak, that's your error. song's our art: whereas you please to speak these naked thoughts instead of draping them in sights and sounds. --true thoughts, good thoughts, thoughts fit to treasure up! but why such long prolusion and display, such turning and adjustment of the harp, and taking it upon your breast, at length, only to speak dry words across its strings? stark-naked thought is in request enough: speak prose and hollo it till europe hears! the six-foot swiss tube, braced about with bark, which helps the hunter's voice from alp to alp-- exchange our harp for that--who hinders you? but here's your fault; grown men want thought, you think; thought's what they mean by verse, and seek in verse. boys seek for images and melody, men must have reason--so, you aim at men. quite otherwise! objects throng our youth,'tis true; we see and hear and do not wonder much: if you could tell us what they mean, indeed! as german boehme never cared for plants until it happed, a-walking in the fields, he noticed all at once that plants could speak, nay, turned with loosened tongue to talk with him. that day the daisy had an eye indeed-- colloquized with the cowslip on such themes! we find them extant yet in jacob's prose. but by the time youth slips a stage or two while reading prose in that tough book he wrote (collating and emendating the same and settling on the sense most to our mind) we shut the clasps and find life's summer past. then, who helps more, pray, to repair our loss-- another boehme with a tougher book and subtler meanings of what roses say-- or some stout mage like him of halberstadt, john, who made things boehme wrote thoughts about? he with a "look you!" vents a brace of rhymes, and in there breaks the sudden rose herself, over us, under, round us every side, nay, in and out the tables and the chairs and musty volumes, boehme's book and all-- buries us with a glory, young once more, pouring heaven into this shut house of life. so come, the harp back to your heart again! you are a poem, though your poem's naught. the best of all you showed before, believe, was your own boy-face o'er the finer chords bent, following the cherub at the top that points to god with his paired half-moon wings. notes "transcendentalism" is a criticism, placed in the mouth of a poet, of another poet, whose manner of singing is prosaic, because it seeks to transcend (or penetrate beyond) phenomena, by divesting poetic expression of those concrete embodiments which enable it to appeal to the senses and imagination. instead of bare abstractions being suited to the developed mind, it is the primitive mind, which, like boehme's, has the merely metaphysical turn, and expects to discover the unincarnate absolute essence of things. the maturer mind craves the vitalizing method of the artist who, like the magician of halberstadt, recreates things bodily in all their beautiful vivid wholeness. yet the poet who sincerely holds so fragmentary a conception of art is himself a poem to the poet who holds the larger view. his boy-face singing to god above his ineffective harp-strings is a concrete image of this sort of poetic transcendentalism. [it is obvious that browning uses the halberstadt and not the boehme method in presenting this embodiment of his subject. the supposition of certain commentators that browning is here picturing his own artistic method as transcendental is a misconception of his characteristic theory of poetic art, as shown here and elsewhere.] . boehme: jacob, an "inspired" german shoemaker ( - ), who wrote "aurora," "the three principles," etc., mystical commentaries on biblical events. when twenty-five years old, says hotham in "mysterium magnum," , "he was surrounded by a divine light and replenished with heavenly knowledge . . . going abroad into the fieldes to a greene before neys-gate at gorlitz and viewing the herbes and grass of the fielde, in his inward light he saw into their essences . . . and from that fountain of revelation wrote <de signatura rerum>," on the signatures of things, the "tough book" to which browning refers. . halberstadt: johann semeca, called teutonicus, a canon of halberstadt in germany, who was interested in the unchurchly study of mediaeval science and reputed to be a magician, possessing the vegetable stone supposed to make plants grow at will, having the same power over organic life that the philosopher's stone of the alchemists had over minerals, so that, like albertus magnus, another such mage of the middle ages, he could cause flowers to spring up in the midst of winter. how it strikes a contemporary i only knew one poet in my life: and this, or something like it, was his way. you saw go up and down valladolid, a man of mark, to know next time you saw. his very serviceable suit of black was courtly once and conscientious still, and many might have worn it, though none did: the cloak, that somewhat shone and showed the threads, had purpose, and the ruff, significance. he walked and tapped the pavement with his cane, scenting the world, looking it full in face, an old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels. they turned up, now, the alley by the church, that leads nowhither; now, they breathed themselves on the main promenade just at the wrong time: you'd come upon his scrutinizing hat making a peaked shade blacker than itself against the single window spared some house intact yet with its mouldered moorish work-- or else surprise the ferret of his stick trying the mortar's temper 'tween the chinks of some new shop a-building, french and fine. he stood and watched the cobbler at his trade, the man who slices lemons into drink, the coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys that volunteer to help him turn its winch. he glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye, and fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string, and broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall. he took such cognizance of men and things, if any beat a horse, you felt he saw; if any cursed a woman, he took note; yet stared at nobody--you stared at him, and found, less to your pleasure than surprise, he seemed to know you and expect as much. so, next time that a neighbor's tongue was loosed, it marked the shameful and notorious fact, we had among us, not so much a spy, as a recording chief-inquisitor, the town's true master if the town but knew we merely kept a governor for form, while this man walked about and took account of all thought, said and acted, then went home, and wrote it fully to our lord the king who has an itch to know things, he knows why, and reads them in his bedroom of a night. oh, you might smile! there wanted not a touch, a tang of . . . well, it was not wholly ease as back into your mind the man's look came. stricken in years a little--such a brow his eyes had to live under!--clear as flint on either side the formidable nose curved, cut and colored like an eagle's claw, had he to do with a.'s surprising fate? when altogether old b. disappeared and young c. got his mistress, was't our friend, his letter to the king, that did it all? what paid the woodless man for so much pains? our lord the king has favorites manifold, and shifts his ministry some once a month; our city gets new governors at whiles-- but never word or sign, that i could hear, notified to this man about the streets the king's approval of those letters conned the last thing duly at the dead of night. did the man love his office? frowned our lord, exhorting when none heard--"beseech me not! too far above my people--beneath me! i set the watch--how should the people know? forget them, keep me all the more in mind!" was some such understanding 'twixt the two? i found no truth in one report at least-- that if you tracked him to his home, down lanes beyond the jewry, and as clean to pace, you found he ate his supper in a room blazing with lights, four titians on the wall, and twenty naked girls to change his plate! poor man, he lived another kind of life in that new stuccoed third house by the bridge, fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise! the whole street might o'erlook him as he sat, leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back, playing a decent cribbage with his maid (jacynth, you're sure her name was) o'er the cheese and fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears, or treat of radishes in april. nine, ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he. my father, like the man of sense he was, would point him out to me a dozen times; "'st--'st," he'd whisper, "the corregidor!" i had been used to think that personage was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt, and feathers like a forest in his hat, who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news, announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn, and memorized the miracle in vogue! he had a great observance from us boys; we were in error; that was not the man. i'd like now, yet had happy been afraid, to have just looked, when this man came to die, and seen who lined the clean gay garret-sides and stood about the neat low truckle-bed, with the heavenly manner of relieving guard. here had been, mark, the general-in-chief, thro' a whole campaign of the world's life and death, doing the king's work all the dim day long, in his old coat and up to knees in mud, smoked like a herring, dining on a crust, and, now the day was won, relieved at once! no further show or need for that old coat, you are sure, for one thing! bless us, all the while how sprucely we are dressed out, you and i! a second, and the angels alter that. well, i could never write a verse--could you? let's to the prado and make the most of time. notes "how it strikes a contemporary" is a portrait of the poet as the unpoetic gossiping public of his day sees him. it is humorously colored by the alien point of view of the speaker, who suspects without understanding either the greatness of the poet's spiritual personality and mission, or the nature of his life, which is withdrawn from that of the commonalty, yet spent in clear-sighted universal sympathies and kindly mediation between humanity and its god. . valladolid: the royal city of the kings of castile, before philip ii moved the court to madrid, where cervantes, calderon, and las casas lived and columbus died. . titian: pictures by the venetian, tiziano vecellio ( - ), glowing in color, presumably of large golden-haired women like his famous venus. . corregidor: the spanish title for a magistrate, literally, a corrector, from corregir, to correct. artemis prologizes i am a goddess of the ambrosia courts, and save by here, queen of pride, surpassed by none whose temples whiten this the world. through heaven i roll my lucid moon along; i shed in hell o'er my pale people peace; on earth i, caring for the creatures, guard each pregnant yellow wolf and fox-bitch sleek, and every feathered mother's callow brood, and all that love green haunts and loneliness. of men, the chaste adore me, hanging crowns of poppies red to blackness, bell and stem, upon my image at athenai here; and this dead youth, asclepios bends above, was dearest to me. he, my buskined step to follow through the wild-wood leafy ways, and chase the panting stag, or swift with darts stop the swift ounce, or lay the leopard low, neglected homage to another god: whence aphrodite, by no midnight smoke of tapers lulled, in jealousy despatched a noisome lust that, as the gad bee stings, possessed his stepdame phaidra for himself the son of theseus her great absent spouse. hippolutos exclaiming in his rage against the fury of the queen, she judged life insupportable; and, pricked at heart an amazonian stranger's race should dare to scorn her, perished by the murderous cord: yet, ere she perished, blasted in a scroll the fame of him her swerving made not swerve. and theseus, read, returning, and believed, and exiled, in the blindness of his wrath, the man without a crime who, last as first, loyal, divulged not to his sire the truth, now theseus from poseidon had obtained that of his wishes should be granted three, and one he imprecated straight--"alive may ne'er hippolutos reach other lands!" poseidon heard, ai ai! and scarce the prince had stepped into the fixed boots of the car that give the feet a stay against the strength of the henetian horses, and around his body flung the rein, and urged their speed along the rocks and shingles at the shore, when from the gaping wave a monster flung his obscene body in the coursers' path. these, mad with terror, as the sea-bull sprawled wallowing about their feet, lost care of him that reared them; and the master-chariot-pole snapping beneath their plunges like a reed, hippolutos, whose feet were trammelled fast, was yet dragged forward by the circling rein which either hand directed; nor they quenched the frenzy of their flight before each trace, wheel-spoke and splinter of the woful car, each boulder-stone, sharp stub and spiny shell, huge fish-bone wrecked and wreathed amid the sands on that detested beach, was bright with blood and morsels of his flesh; then fell the steeds head foremost, crashing in their mooned fronts, shivering with sweat, each white eye horror-fixed. his people, who had witnessed all afar, bore back the ruins of hippolutos. but when his sire, too swoln with pride, rejoiced (indomitable as a man foredoomed) that vast poseidon had fulfilled his prayer, i, in a flood of glory visible, stood o'er my dying votary and, deed by deed, revealed, as all took place, the truth. then theseus lay the wofullest of men, and worthily; but ere the death-veils hid his face, the murdered prince full pardon breathed to his rash sire. whereat athenai wails. so i, who ne'er forsake my votaries, lest in the cross-way none the honey-cake should tender, nor pour out the dog's hot life; lest at my fane the priests disconsolate should dress my image with some faded poor few crowns, made favors of, nor dare object such slackness to my worshippers who turn elsewhere the trusting heart and loaded hand, as they had climbed olumpos to report of artemis and nowhere found her throne-- i interposed: and, this eventful night (while round the funeral pyre the populace stood with fierce light on their black robes which bound each sobbing head, while yet their hair they clipped o'er the dead body of their withered prince, and, in his palace, theseus prostrated on the cold hearth, his brow cold as the slab 't was bruised on, groaned away the heavy grief-- as the pyre fell, and down the cross logs crashed sending a crowd of sparkles through the night, and the gay fire, elate with mastery, towered like a serpent o'er the clotted jars of wine, dissolving oils and frankincense, and splendid gums like gold) my potency conveyed the perished man to my retreat in the thrice-venerable forest here. and this white-bearded sage who squeezes now the berried plant, is phoibos' son of fame, asclepios, whom my radiant brother taught the doctrine of each herb and flower and root, to know their secret'st virtue and express the saving soul of all: who so has soothed with layers the torn brow and murdered cheeks, composed the hair and brought its gloss again, and called the red bloom to the pale skin back, and laid the strips and lagged ends of flesh even once more, and slacked the sinew's knot of every tortured limb--that now he lies as if mere sleep possessed him underneath these interwoven oaks and pines. oh cheer, divine presenter of the healing rod, thy snake, with ardent throat and lulling eye, twines his lithe spires around! i say, much cheer! proceed thou with thy wisest pharmacies! and ye, white crowd of woodland sister-nymphs, ply, as the sage directs, these buds and leaves that strew the turf around the twain! while i await, in fitting silence, the event. notes "artemis prologizes" represents the goddess artemis awaiting the revival of the youth hippolytus, whom she has carried to her woods and given to asclepios to heal. it is a fragment meant to introduce an unwritten work and carry on the story related by euripides in "hippolytus," which see. an epistle containing the strange medical experience of karshish, the arab physician karshish, the picker-up of learning's crumbs, the not-incurious in god's handiwork (this man's-flesh he hath admirably made, blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste, to coop up and keep down on earth a space that puff of vapor from his mouth, man's soul) --to abib, all-sagacious in our art, breeder in me of what poor skill i boast, like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks befall the flesh through too much stress and strain, whereby the wily vapor fain would slip back and rejoin its source before the term-- and aptest in contrivance (under god) to baffle it by deftly stopping such-- the vagrant scholar to his sage at home sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame with peace) three samples of true snakestone--rarer still, one of the other sort, the melon-shaped, (but fitter, pounded fine, for charms than drugs) and writeth now the twenty-second time. my journeyings were brought to jericho: thus i resume. who studious in our art shall count a little labor un-repaid? i have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone on many a flinty furlong of this land. also, the country-side is all on fire with rumors of a marching hitherward: some say vespasian comes, some, his son. a black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear; lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls: i cried and threw my staff and he was gone. twice have the robbers stripped and beaten me, and once a town declared me for a spy; but at the end, i reach jerusalem, since this poor covert where i pass the night, this bethany, lies scarce the distance thence a man with plague-sores at the third degree runs till he drops down dead. thou laughest here! 'sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe, to void the stuffing of my travel-scrip and share with thee whatever jewry yields. a viscid choler is observable in tertians, i was nearly bold to say; and falling-sickness hath a happier cure than our school wots of: there's a spider here weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs, sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back; take five and drop them . . . but who knows his mind, the syrian runagate i trust this to? his service payeth me a sublimate blown up his nose to help the ailing eye. best wait: i reach jerusalem at morn, there set in order my experiences, gather what most deserves, and give thee all-- or i might add, judaea's gum-tragacanth scales off in purer flakes, shines clearer-grained, cracks 'twixt the pestle and the porphyry, in fine exceeds our produce. scalp-disease confounds me, crossing so with leprosy-- thou hadst admired one sort i gained at zoar-- but zeal outruns discretion. here i end. yet stay: my syrian blinketh gratefully, protesteth his devotion is my price-- suppose i write what harms not, though he steal? i half resolve to tell thee, yet i blush, what set me off a-writing first of all, an itch i had, a sting to write, a tang! for, be it this town's barrenness--or else the man had something in the look of him-- his case has struck me far more than 'tis worth. so, pardon if--(lest presently i lose in the great press of novelty at hand the care and pains this somehow stole from me) i bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind, almost in sight--for, wilt thou have the truth? the very man is gone from me but now, whose ailment is the subject of discourse. thus then, and let thy better wit help all! 'tis but a case of mania--subinduced by epilepsy, at the turning-point of trance prolonged unduly some three days: when, by the exhibition of some drug or spell, exorcisation, stroke of art unknown to me and which 't were well to know, the evil thing out-breaking all at once left the man whole and sound of body indeed, but, flinging (so to speak) life's gates too wide, making a clear house of it too suddenly, the first conceit that entered might inscribe whatever it was minded on the wall so plainly at that vantage, as it were, (first come, first served) that nothing subsequent attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls the just-returned and new-established soul hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart that henceforth she will read or these or none. and first--the man's own firm conviction rests that he was dead (in fact they buried him) --that he was dead and then restored to life by a nazarene physician of his tribe: --'sayeth, the same bade "rise," and he did rise. "such cases are diurnal," thou wilt cry. not so this figment!--not, that such a fume, instead of giving way to time and health, should eat itself into the life of life, as saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones and all! for see, how he takes up the after-life. the man--it is one lazarus a jew, sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age, the body's habit wholly laudable, as much, indeed, beyond the common health as he were made and put aside to show. think, could we penetrate by any drug and bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh, and bring it clear and fair, by three days' sleep! whence has the man the balm that brightens all? this grown man eyes the world now like a child. some elders of his tribe, i should premise, led in their friend, obedient as a sheep, to bear my inquisition. while they spoke, now sharply, now with sorrow, told the case, he listened not except i spoke to him, but folded his two hands and let them talk, watching the flies that buzzed: and yet no fool. and that's a sample how his years must go. look, if a beggar, in fixed middle-life, should find a treasure, can he use the same with straitened habits and with tastes starved small, and take at once to his impoverished brain the sudden element that changes things, that sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand and puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust? is he not such an one as moves to mirth-- warily parsimonious, when no need, wasteful as drunkenness at undue times? all prudent counsel as to what befits the golden mean, is lost on such an one: the man's fantastic will is the man's law. so here--we call the treasure knowledge, say, increased beyond the fleshly faculty-- heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth, earth forced on a soul's use while seeing heaven: the man is witless of the size, the sum, the value in proportion of all things, or whether it be little or be much. discourse to him of prodigious armaments assembled to besiege his city now, and of the passing of a mule with gourds-- 't is one! then take it on the other side, speak of some trifling fact, he will gaze rapt with stupor at its very littleness, (far as i see) as if in that indeed he caught prodigious import, whole results; and so will turn to us the bystanders in ever the same stupor (note this point) that we too see not with his opened eyes. wonder and doubt come wrongly into play, preposterously, at cross purposes. should his child sicken unto death, why, look for scarce abatement of his cheerfulness, or pretermission of the daily craft! while a word, gesture, glance from that same child at play or in the school or laid asleep, will startle him to an agony of fear, exasperation, just as like. demand the reason why--"'t is but a word," object-- "a gesture"--he regards thee as our lord who lived there in the pyramid alone, looked at us (dost thou mind?) when, being young, we both would unadvisedly recite some charm's beginning, from that book of his, able to bid the sun throb wide and burst all into stars, as suns grown old are wont. thou and the child have each a veil alike thrown o'er your heads, from under which ye both stretch your blind hands and trifle with a match over a mine of greek fire, did ye know! he holds on firmly to some thread of life-- (it is the life to lead perforcedly) which runs across some vast distracting orb of glory on either side that meagre thread, which, conscious of, he must not enter yet-- the spiritual life around the earthly life: the law of that is known to him as this, his heart and brain move there, his feet stay here. so is the man perplext with impulses sudden to start off crosswise, not straight on, proclaiming what is right and wrong across, and not along, this black thread through the blaze-- "it should be" balked by "here it cannot be." and oft the man's soul springs into his face as if he saw again and heard again his sage that bade him "rise" and he did rise. something, a word, a tick o' the blood within admonishes: then back he sinks at once to ashes, who was very fire before, in sedulous recurrence to his trade whereby he earneth him the daily bread; and studiously the humbler for that pride, professedly the faultier that he knows god's secret, while he holds the thread of life. indeed the especial marking of the man is prone submission to the heavenly will-- seeing it, what it is, and why it is. 'sayeth, he will wait patient to the last for that same death which must restore his being to equilibrium, body loosening soul divorced even now by premature full growth: he will live, nay, it pleaseth him to live so long as god please, and just how god please. he even seeketh not to please god more (which meaneth, otherwise) than as god please. hence, i perceive not he affects to preach the doctrine of his sect whate'er it be, make proselytes as madmen thirst to do: how can he give his neighbor the real ground, his own conviction? ardent as he is-- call his great truth a lie, why, still the old "be it as god please" reassureth him. i probed the sore as thy disciple should: "how, beast," said i, "this stolid carelessness sufficeth thee, when rome is on her march to stamp out like a little spark thy town, thy tribe, thy crazy tale and thee at once?" he merely looked with his large eyes on me. the man is apathetic, you deduce? contrariwise, he loves both old and young, able and weak, affects the very brutes and birds--how say i? flowers of the field-- as a wise workman recognizes tools in a master's workshop, loving what they make. thus is the man as harmless as a lamb: only impatient, let him do his best, at ignorance and carelessness and sin-- an indignation which is promptly curbed: as when in certain travel i have feigned to be an ignoramus in our art according to some preconceived design, and happed to hear the land's practitioners steeped in conceit sublimed by ignorance, prattle fantastically on disease, its cause and cure--and i must hold my peace! thou wilt object--why have i not ere this sought out the sage himself, the nazarene who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source, conferring with the frankness that befits? alas! it grieveth me, the learned leech perished in a tumult many years ago, accused--our learning's fate--of wizardry, rebellion, to the setting up a rule and creed prodigious as described to me. his death, which happened when the earthquake fell (prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss to occult learning in our lord the sage who lived there in the pyramid alone) was wrought by the mad people--that's their wont! on vain recourse, as i conjecture it, to his tried virtue, for miraculous help-- how could he stop the earthquake? that's their way! the other imputations must be lies; but take one, though i loathe to give it thee, in mere respect for any good man's fame. (and after all, our patient lazarus is stark mad; should we count on what he says? perhaps not: though in writing to a leech 'tis well to keep back nothing of a case.) this man so cured regards the curer, then, as--god forgive me! who but god himself, creator and sustainer of the world, that came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile! --'sayeth that such an one was born and lived, taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own house; then died, with lazarus by, for aught i know, and yet was . . . what i said nor choose repeat, and must have so avouched himself, in fact, in hearing of this very lazarus who saith--but why all this of what he saith? why write of trivial matters, things of price calling at every moment for remark? i noticed on the margin of a pool blue-flowering borage, the aleppo sort, aboundeth, very nitrous. it is strange! thy pardon for this long and tedious case, which, now that i review it, needs must seem unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth! nor i myself discern in what is writ good cause for the peculiar interest and awe indeed this man has touched me with. perhaps the journey's end, the weariness had wrought upon me first. i met him thus: i crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills like an old lion's cheek teeth. out there came a moon made like a face with certain spots multiform, manifold and menacing: then a wind rose behind me. so we met in this old sleepy town at unaware, the man and i. i send thee what is writ. regard it as a chance, a matter risked to this ambiguous syrian--he may lose, or steal, or give it thee with equal good. jerusalem's repose shall make amends for time this letter wastes, thy time and mine; till when, once more thy pardon and farewell! the very god! think, abib; dost thou think? so, the all-great, were the all-loving too-- so, through the thunder comes a human voice saying, " heart i made, a heart beats here! face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself! thou hast no power nor mayst 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. notes "an epistle" gives the observations and opinions of karshish, the arab physician, writing to abib, his master, upon meeting with lazarus after he has been raised from the dead. well versed in eastern medical lore, he tries to explain the extraordinary phenomenon according to his knowledge. he attributes lazarus' version of the miracle to mania induced by trance, and the means used by the nazarene physician to awaken him, and strengthens his view by describing the strange state of mind in which he finds lazarus--like a child with no appreciation of the relative values of things. through his renewal of life he had caught a glimpse of it from the infinite point of view, and lives now only with the desire to please god. his sole active quality is a great love for all humanity, his impatience manifests itself only at sin and ignorance, and is quickly curbed. karshish, not able to realize this new plane of vision in which had been revealed to lazarus the equal worth of all things in the divine plan, is incapable of understanding lazarus; but in spite of his attempt to make light of the case, he is deeply impressed by the character of lazarus, and has besides a hardly acknowledged desire to believe in this revelation, told of by lazarus, of god as love. professor corson says of this poem: "it may be said to polarize the idea, so often presented in browning's poetry, that doubt is a condition of the vitality of faith." . snakestone: a name given to any substance used as a remedy for snake-bites; for example, some are of chalk, some of animal charcoal, and some of vegetable substances. . vespasian: nero's general who marched against palestine in , and was succeeded in the command, when he was proclaimed emperor ( - ), by his son, titus. . black lynx: the syrian lynx is distinguished by black ears. . tertians: fevers, recurring every third day; hence the name. . falling-sickness: epilepsy. caesar's disease ("julius caesar," i. , ). . there's a spider here: "the habits of the aranead here described point very clearly to some one of the wandering group, which stalk their prey in the open field or in divers lurking-places, and are distinguished by this habit from the other great group, known as the sedentary spiders, because they sit or hang upon their webs and capture their prey by means of silken snares. the next line is not determinative of the species, for there is a great number of spiders any one of which might be described as 'sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back.' we have a little saltigrade or jumping spider, known as the zebra spider (epiblemum scenicum), which is found in europe, and i believe also in syria. one often sees this species and its congeners upon the ledges of rocks, the edges of tombstones, the walls of buildings, and like situations, hunting their prey, which they secure by jumping upon it. so common is the zebra spider, that i might think that browning referred to it, if i were not in doubt whether he would express the stripes of white upon its ash-gray abdomen by the word 'mottles.' however, there arc other spiders belonging to the same tribe (saltigrades) that really are mottled. there are also spiders known as the lycosids or wolf spiders or ground spiders, which are often of an ash-gray color, and marked with little whitish spots after the manner of browning's syrian species. perhaps the poet had one of these in mind, at least he accurately describes their manner of seeking prey. the next line is an interrupted one, 'take five and drop them. . . .' take five what? five of these ash-gray mottled spiders? certainly. but what can be meant by the expression 'drop them'? this opens up to us a strange chapter in human superstition. it was long a prevalent idea that the spider in various forms possessed some occult power of healing, and men administered it internally or applied it externally as a cure for many diseases. pliny gives a number of such remedies. a certain spider applied in a piece of cloth, or another one ('a white spider with very elongated thin legs'), beaten up in oil is said by this ancient writer upon natural history to form an ointment for the eyes. similarly, 'the thick pulp of a spider's body, mixed with the oil of roses, is used for the ears.' sir matthew lister, who was indeed the father of english araneology, is quoted in dr. james's medical dictionary as using the distilled water of boiled black spiders as an excellent cure for wounds." (dr. h. c. mccook in poet-lore, nov., .) . gum-tragacanth: yielded by the leguminous shrub, astragalus tragacantha. . zoar: the only one that was spared of the five cities of the plain (genesis . ). . lazarus . . . fifty years of age: in the academy, sept. , , dr. richard garnett says: "browning commits an oversight, it seems to me, in making lazarus fifty years of age at the eve of the siege of jerusalem, circa a. d." the miracle is supposed to have been wrought about a. d., and lazarus would then have been only fifteen, although according to tradition he was thirty when he was raised from the dead, and lived only thirty years after. upon this prof. charles b. wright comments in poet-lore, april, : "i incline to think that the oversight is not browning's. let us stand by the tradition and the resulting age of sixty-five. . . . karshish is simply stating his professional judgment. lazarus is given an age suited to his appearance--he seems a man of fifty. the years have touched him lightly since 'heaven opened to his soul.' . . . and that marvellous physical freshness deceives the very leech himself." . greek fire: used by the byzantine greeks in warfare, first against the saracens at the siege of constantinople in a. d. therefore an anachronism in this poem. liquid fire was, however, known to the ancients, as assyrian bas-reliefs testify. greek fire was made possibly of naphtha, saltpetre, and sulphur, and was thrown upon the enemy from copper tubes; or pledgets of tow were dipped in it and attached to arrows. . blue-flowering borage: (borago officianalis). 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. johannes agricola in meditation there's heaven above, and night by night i look right through its gorgeous roof; no suns and moons though e'er so bright avail to stop me; splendor-proof i keep the broods of stars aloof: for i intend to get to god, for 't is to god i speed so fast, for in god's breast, my own abode, those shoals of dazzling glory, passed, i lay my spirit down at last. i lie where i have always lain, god smiles as he has always smiled; ere suns and moons could wax and wane, ere stars were thundergirt, or piled the heavens, god thought on me his child; ordained a life for me, arrayed its circumstances every one to the minutest; ay, god said this head this hand should rest upon thus, ere he fashioned star or sun. and having thus created me, thus rooted me, he bade me grow, guiltless forever, like a tree that buds and blooms, nor seeks to know the law by which it prospers so: but sure that thought and word and deed all go to swell his love for me, me, made because that love had need of something irreversibly pledged solely its content to be. yes, yes, a tree which must ascend, no poison-gourd foredoomed to stoop! i have god's warrant, could i blend all hideous sins, as in a cup, to drink the mingled venoms up; secure my nature will convert the draught to blossoming gladness fast: while sweet dews turn to the gourd's hurt, and bloat, and while they bloat it, blast, as from the first its lot was cast. for as i lie, smiled on, full-fed by unexhausted power to bless, i gaze below on hell's fierce bed, and those its waves of flame oppress, swarming in ghastly wretchedness; whose life on earth aspired to be one altar-smoke, so pure!--to win if not love like god's love for me, at least to keep his anger in; and all their striving turned to sin. priest, doctor, hermit, monk grown white with prayer, the broken-hearted nun, the martyr, the wan acolyte, the incense-swinging child--undone before god fashioned star or sun! god, whom i praise; how could i praise, if such as i might understand, make out and reckon on his ways, and bargain for his love, and stand, paying a price, at his right hand? notes "johannes agricola in meditation" presents the doctrine of predestination as it appears to a devout and poetic soul whose conviction of the truth of such a doctrine has the strength of a divine revelation. those elected for god's love can do nothing to weaken it, those not elected can do nothing to gain it, but it is not his to reason why; indeed, he could not praise a god whose ways he could understand or for whose love he had to bargain. johannes agricola: ( - ), luther's secretary, , afterward in conflict with him, and author of the doctrine called by luther antinomian, because it rejected the law of the old testament as of no use under the gospel dispensation. in a note accompanying the first publication of this poem, browning quotes from "the dictionary of all religions" ( ): "they say that good works do not further, nor evil works hinder salvation; that the child of god cannot sin, that god never chastiseth him, that murder, drunkenness, etc., are sins in the wicked but not in him, that the child of grace being once assured of salvation, afterwards never doubteth . . . that god doth not love any man for his holiness, that sanctification is no evidence of justification." though many antinomians taught thus, says george willis cooke in his "browning guide book," it does not correctly represent the position of agricola, who in reality held moral obligations to be incumbent upon the christian, but for guidance in these he found in the new testament all the principles and motives necessary. pictor ignotus florence, - i could have painted pictures like that youth's ye praise so. how my soul springs up! no bar stayed me--ah, thought which saddens while it soothes! --never did fate forbid me, star by star, to outburst on your night with all my gift of fires from god: nor would my flesh have shrunk from seconding my soul, with eyes uplift and wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk to the centre, of an instant; or around turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan the license and the limit, space and bound, allowed to truth made visible in man. and, like that youth ye praise so, all i saw, over the canvas could my hand have flung, each face obedient to its passion's law, each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue; whether hope rose at once in all the blood, a-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace, or rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place; or confidence lit swift the forehead up, and locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved-- human faces, hath it spilt, my cup? what did ye give me that i have not saved? nor will i say i have not dreamed (how well!) of going--i, in each new picture--forth, as, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell, to pope or kaiser, east, west, south, or north, bound for the calmly-satisfied great state, or glad aspiring little burgh, it went, flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight, through old streets named afresh from the event, till it reached home, where learned age should greet my face, and youth, the star not yet distinct above his hair, lie learning at my feet!-- oh, thus to live, i and my picture, linked with love about, and praise, till life should end, and then not go to heaven, but linger here, here on my earth, earth's every man my friend-- the thought grew frightful, 't was so wildly dear! but a voice changed it. glimpses of such sights have scared me, like the revels through a door of some strange house of idols at its rites! this world seemed not the world it was before: mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped . . . who summoned those cold faces that begun to press on me and judge me? though i stooped shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, they drew me forth, and spite of me . . . enough! these buy and sell our pictures, take and give, count them for garniture and household-stuff, and where they live needs must our pictures live and see their faces, listen to their prate, partakers of their daily pettiness, discussed of--"this i love, or this i hate, this likes me more, and this affects me less!" wherefore i chose my portion. if at whiles my heart sinks, as monotonous i paint these endless cloisters and eternal aisles with the same series. virgin, babe and saint, with the same cold calm beautiful regard-- at least no merchant traffics in my heart; the sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart; only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine while, blackening in the daily candle-smoke, they moulder on the damp wall's travertine, 'mid echoes the light footstep never woke. so, die my pictures! surely, gently die! o youth, men praise so--holds their praise its worth? blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry? tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth? notes "pictor ignotus" is a reverie characteristic of a monastic painter of the renaissance who recognizes, in the genius of a youth whose pictures are praised, a gift akin to his own, but which he has never so exercised, spite of the joy such free human expression and recognition of his power would have given him, because he could not bear to submit his art to worldly contact. so he has chosen to sink his name in unknown service to the church, and to devote his fancy to pure and beautiful but cold and monotonous repetitions of sacred themes. his gentle regret that his own pictures will moulder unvisited is half wonderment that the youth can endure the sullying of his work by secular fame. . travertine: a white limestone, the name being a corruption of <tiburtinus>, from <tibur> , now tivoli, near rome, whence this stone comes. fra lippo lippi am poor brother lippo, by your leave! you need not clap your torches to my face. zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk! what, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, and here you catch me at an alley's end where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? the carmine's my cloister: hunt it up, do--harry out, if you must show your zeal, whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, and nip each softling of a wee white mouse, <weke>, <weke>, that's crept to keep him company! aha, you know your betters! then, you'll take your hand away that's fiddling on my throat, and please to know me likewise. who am i? why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend three streets off--he's a certain . . . how d'ye call? master--a . . . cosimo of the medici, i' the house that caps the corner. boh! you were best! remember and tell me, the day you're hanged, how you affected such a gullet's-gripe! but you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves pick up a manner nor discredit you: zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets and count fair prize what comes into their net? he's judas to a tittle, that man is! just such a face! why, sir, you make amends. lord, i'm not angry! bid your hangdogs go drink out this quarter-florin to the health of the munificent house that harbors me (and many more beside, lads! more beside!) and all's come square again. i'd like his face-- his, elbowing on his comrade in the door with the pike and lantern--for the slave that holds john baptist's head a-dangle by the hair with one hand ("look you, now," as who should say) and his weapon in the other, yet unwiped! it's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, a wood-coal or the like? or you should see! yes, i'm the painter, since you style me so. what, brother lippo's doings, up and down, you know them and they take you? like enough! i saw the proper twinkle in your eye-- 'tell you, i liked your looks at very first. let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands to roam the town and sing out carnival, and i've been three weeks shut within my mew, a-painting for the great man, saints and saints and saints again. i could not paint all night-- ouf! i leaned out of window for fresh air. there came a hurry of feet and little feet, a sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song-- <flower o' the broom, take away love, and our earth is a tomb! flower o' the quince, i let lisa go, and what good is life since? flower o' the thyme>--and so on. round they went. scarce had they turned the corner when a titter like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight--three slim shapes, and a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood, that's all i'm made of! into shreds it went, curtain and counterpane and coverlet, all the bed-furniture--a dozen knots, there was a ladder! down i let myself, hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, and after them. i came up with the fun hard by saint laurence, hail fellow, well met-- <flower o' the rose, if i've been merry, what matter who knows?> and so as i was stealing back again to get to bed and have a bit of sleep ere i rise up to-morrow and go work on jerome knocking at his poor old breast with his great round stone to subdue the flesh, you snap me of the sudden. ah, i see! though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head-- mine's shaved--a monk, you say--the sting's in that! if master cosimo announced himself, mum's the word naturally; but a monk! come, what am i a beast for? tell us, now! i was a baby when my mother died and father died and left me in the street. i starved there. god knows how, a year or two on fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, refuse and rubbish. one fine frosty day, my stomach being empty as your hat, the wind doubled me up and down i went. old aunt lapaccia trussed me with one hand, (its fellow was a stinger as i knew) and so along the wall, over the bridge, by the straight cut to the convent. six words there, while i stood munching my first bread that month: "so, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father wiping his own mouth, 't was refection-time-- "to quit this very miserable world? will you renounce" . . . "the mouthful of bread?" thought i; by no means! brief, they made a monk of me; did renounce the world, its pride and greed, palace, farm, villa, shop and banking-house, trash, such as these poor devils of medici have given their hearts to--all at eight years old. well, sir, i found in time, you may be sure, 't was not for nothing--the good bellyful, the warm serge and the rope that goes all round, and day-long blessed idleness beside! "let's see what the urchin's fit for"--that came next, not overmuch their way, i must confess. such a to-do! they tried me with their books: lord, they'd have taught me latin in pure waste! <flower o' the clove, all the latin i construe is, "amo" i love!> but, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets eight years together, as my fortune was, watching folk's faces to know who will fling the bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, and who will curse or kick him for his pains, which gentleman processional and fine, holding a candle to the sacrament, will wink and let him lift a plate and catch the droppings of the wax to sell again, or holla for the eight and have him whipped, how say i?--nay, which dog bites?, which lets drop his bone from the heap of offal in the street-- why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, he learns the look of things, and none the less for admonition from the hunger-pinch. i had a store of such remarks, be sure, which, after i found leisure, turned to use. i drew men's faces on my copy-books, scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge, joined legs and arms to the long music-notes, found eyes and nose and chin for a's and b's, and made a string of pictures of the world betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, on the wall, the bench, the door. the monks looked black. "nay," quoth the prior, "turn him out, d' ye say? in no wise. lose a crow and catch a lark. what if at last we get our man of parts, we carmelites, like those camaldolese and preaching friars, to do our church up fine and put the front on it that ought to be!" and hereupon he bade me daub away. thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank, never was such prompt disemburdening. first, every sort of monk, the black and white, i drew them, fat and lean : then, folk at church, from good old gossips waiting to confess their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends-- to the breathless fellow at the altar-foot, fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there with the little children round him in a row of admiration, half for his beard and half for that white anger of his victim's son shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, signing himself with the other because of christ (whose sad face on the cross sees only this after the passion of a thousand years) till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head, (which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve on tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers (the brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone, i painted all, then cried "'t is ask and have; choose, for more's ready!"--laid the ladder flat, and showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. the monks closed in a circle and praised loud till checked, taught what to see and not to see, being simple bodies--"that's the very man! look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! that woman's like the prior's niece who comes to care about his asthma: it's the life!" but there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked; their betters took their turn to see and say: the prior and the learned pulled a face and stopped all that in no time. "how? what's here? quite from the mark of painting, bless us all! faces, arms, legs and bodies like the true as much as pea and pea! it's devil's-game! your business is not to catch men with show, with homage to the perishable clay, but lift them over it, ignore it all, make them forget there's such a thing as flesh. your business is to paint the souls of men-- man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke . . . no, it's not . . . it's vapor done up like a new-born babe-- (in that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) it's . . . well, what matters talking, it's the soul! give us no more of body than shows soul! here's giotto, with his saint a-praising god, that sets us praising--why not stop with him? why put all thoughts of praise out of our head with wonder at lines, colors, and what not? paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! rub all out, try at it a second time. oh, that white smallish female with the breasts, she's just my niece . . . herodias, i would say-- who went and danced and got men's heads cut off! have it all out! "now, is this sense, i ask? 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! thus, yellow does for white when what you put for yellow's simply black, and any sort of meaning looks intense when all beside itself means and looks naught. why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, left foot and right foot, go a double step, make his flesh liker and his soul more like, both in their order? take the prettiest face, the prior's niece . . . patron-saint--is it so pretty you can't discover if it means hope, fear, sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these? suppose i've made her eyes all right and blue, can't i take breath and try to add life's flash, and then add soul and heighten them three-fold? or say there's beauty with no soul at all-- (i never saw it--put the case the same--) if you get simple beauty and naught else, you get about the best thing god invents: that's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed, within yourself, when you return him thanks. "rub all out! "well, well, there's my life, in short, and so the thing has gone on ever since. i'm grown a man no doubt, i've broken bounds: you should not take a fellow eight years old and make him swear to never kiss the girls. i'm my own master, paint now as i please-- having a friend, you see, in the corner-house! lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front-- those great rings serve more purposes than just to plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! and yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes are peeping o'er my shoulder as i work, the heads shake still--"it's art's decline, my son! you're not of the true painters, great and old; brother angelico's the man, you'll find; brother lorenzo stands his single peer: fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!" <flower o' the pine, you keep your mistr . . . manners, and i'll stick to mine!> i'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know! don't you think they're the likeliest to know, they with their latin? so, i swallow my rage, clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint to please them--sometimes do and sometimes don't; for, doing most, there's pretty sure to come a turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints-- a laugh, a cry, the business of the world-- <(flower o' the peach, death for us all, and his own life for each!)> and my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, the world and life's too big to pass for a dream, and i do these wild things in sheer despite, and play the fooleries you catch me at, in pure rage! the old mill-horse, out at grass after hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, although the miller does not preach to him the only good of grass is to make chaff. what would men have? do they like grass or no-- may they or may n't they? all i want's the thing settled forever one way. as it is, you tell too many lies and hurt yourself: you don't like what you only like too much, you do like what, if given you at your word, you find abundantly detestable. for me, i think i speak as i was taught; i always see the garden and god there a-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned, the value and significance of flesh, i can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards, you understand me: i'm a beast, i know. but see, now--why, i see as certainly as that the morning-star's about to shine, what will hap some day. we've a youngster here comes to our convent, studies what i do, slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: his name is guidi--he'll not mind the monks-- they call him hulking tom, he lets them talk-- he picks my practice up--he'll paint apace, i hope so--though i never live so long, i know what's sure to follow. you be judge! you speak no latin more than i, belike; however, you're my man, you've seen the world --the beauty and the wonder and the power, the shapes of things, their colors, lights and shades, changes, surprises,--and god made it all! --for what? do you feel thankful, ay or no, for this fair town's face, yonder river's line, the mountain round it and the sky above, much more the figures of man, woman, child, these are the frame to? what's it all about? to be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon, wondered at? oh, this last of course!--you say. but why not do as well as say--paint these just as they are, careless what comes of it? god's works--paint any one, and count it crime to let a truth slip. don't object, "his works are here already; nature is complete: suppose you reproduce her (which you can't) there's no advantage! you must beat her, then." for, don't you mark? we're made so that we love first when we see them painted, things we have passed perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; and so they are better, painted--better to us, which is the same thing. art was given for that; god uses us to help each other so, lending our minds out. have you noticed, now, your cullion's hanging face? a bit of chalk, and trust me but you should, though! how much more, if i drew higher things with the same truth! that were to take the prior's pulpit-place, interpret god to all of you! oh, oh, it makes me mad to see what men shall do and we in our graves! this world's no blot for us, nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: to find its meaning is my meat and drink. "ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!" strikes in the prior: "when your meaning's plain it does not say to folk--remember matins, or, mind you fast next friday! "why, for this what need of art at all? a skull and bones, two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best, a bell to chime the hour with, does as well. i painted a saint laurence six months since at prato, splashed the fresco in fine style: " how looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?" i ask a brother: "hugely," he returns-- "already not one phiz of your three slaves who turn the deacon off his toasted side, but's scratched and prodded to our heart's content, the pious people have so eased their own with coming to say prayers there in a rage: we get on fast to see the bricks beneath. expect another job this time next year, for pity and religion grow i' the crowd-- your painting serves its purpose! hang the fools! --that is--you'll not mistake an idle word spoke in a huff by a poor monk. god wot, tasting the air this spicy night which turns the unaccustomed head like chianti wine! oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now! it's natural a poor monk out of bounds should have his apt word to excuse himself: and hearken how i plot to make amends. i have bethought me: i shall paint a piece . . . there's for you! give me six months, then go, see something in sant' ambrogio's! bless the nuns! they want a cast o' my office. i shall paint god in the midst. madonna and her babe, ringed by a bowery flowery angel-brood, lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet as puff on puff of grated orris-root when ladies crowd to church at midsummer. and then i' the front, of course a saint or two-- saint john, because he saves the florentines, saint ambrose, who puts down in black and white the convent's friends and gives them a long day, and job, i must have him there past mistake, the man of uz (and us without the z, painters who need his patience). well, all these secured at their devotion, up shall come out of a corner when you least expect, as one by a dark stair into a great light, music and talking, who but lippo! i!-- mazed, motionless and moonstruck--i'm the man! back i shrink--what is this i see and hear? i, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake, my old serge gown and rope that goes all round, i, in this presence, this pure company! where's a hole, where's a corner for escape? then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing forward, puts out a soft palm--"not so fast!" --addresses the celestial presence, "nay-- he made you and devised you, after all, though he's none of you! could saint john there draw-- his camel-hair make up a painting-brush? we come to brother lippo for all that, <iste perfecit opus.>" so, all smile-- i shuffle sideways with my blushing face under the cover of a hundred wings thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay and play hot cockles, all the doors being shut, till, wholly unexpected, in there pops the hothead husband! thus i scuttle off to some safe bench behind, not letting go the palm of her, the little lily thing that spoke the good word for me in the nick, like the prior's niece . . . saint lucy, i would say. and so all's saved for me, and for the church a pretty picture gained. go, six months hence! your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights! the street's hushed, and i know my own way back, don't fear me! there's the gray beginning. zooks! notes "fra lippo lippi" is a dramatic monologue which incidentally conveys the whole story of the occurrence the poem starts from--the seizure of fra lippo by the city guards, past midnight, in an equivocal neighborhood--and the lively talk that arose thereupon, outlines the character and past life of the florentine artist-monk ( - ) and the subordinate personalities of the group of officers; and makes all this contribute towards the presentation of fra lippo as a type of the more realistic and secular artist of the renaissance who valued flesh, and protested against the ascetic spirit which strove to isolate the soul. . the carmine: monastery of the del carmine friars. . cosimo: de' medici ( - ), florentine statesman and patron of the arts. . pilchards: a kind of fish. . flower o' the broom: of the many varieties of folk-songs in italy that which furnished browning with a model for lippo's songs is called a stornello. the name is variously derived. some take it as merely short for ritornillo; others derive it from a storno, to sing against each other, because the peasants sing them at their work, and as one ends a song, another caps it with a fresh one, and so on. 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. the first line may be looked upon as a burden set at the beginning instead of, as is more familiar to us, at the end. there are also stornelli formed of three lines of eleven syllables without any burden. browning has made lippo's songs of only two lines, but he has strictly followed the rule of making the first line, containing the address to the flower, of five syllables. the tuscany versions of two of the songs used by browning are as follows: "flower of the pine! call me not ever happy heart again, but call me heavy heart, comrades mine." "flower of the broom! unwed thy mother keeps thee not to lose that flower from the window of the room." . saint laurence: the church of san lorenzo. . aunt lapaccia: by the death of lippo's father, says vasari, he "was left a friendless orphan at the age of two . . . under the care of mona lapaccia, his aunt, who brought him up with very great difficulty till his eighth year, when, being no longer able to support the burden, she placed him in the convent of the carmelites." . the eight: the magistrates of florence. . antiphonary: the roman service-book, containing all that is sung in the choir--the antiphones, responses, etc.; it was compiled by gregory the great. . joined legs and arms to the long music-notes: the musical notation of lippo's day was entirely different from ours, the notes being square and oblong and rather less suited for arms and legs than the present rounded notes. . camaldolese: monks of camaldoli.--preaching friars: the dominicans. . giotto: reviver of art in italy, painter, sculptor, and architect ( - ). . herodias: matthew xiv. - . . brother angelico: fra angelico, giovanni da fiesole ( - ), flower of the monastic school of art, who was said to paint on his knees. . brother lorenzo: lorenzo monaco, of the same school. . guidi : tommaso guidi, or masaccio, nicknamed "hulking tom" ( - ). [vasari makes him lippo's predecessor. browning followed the best knowledge of his time in making him, instead, lippo's pupil. vasari is now thought to be right.] . a saint laurence . . . at prato: near florence, where lippi painted many saints. [vasari speaks of a saint stephen painted there in the same realistic manner as browning's saint laurence, whose martyrdom of broiling to death on a gridiron affords lippo's powers a livelier effect.] the legend of this saint makes his fortitude such that he bade his persecutors turn him over, as he was "done on one side." . something in sant ambrogio's: picture of the virgin crowned with angels and saints, painted for saint ambrose church, now at the belle arti in florence. vasari says by means of it he became known to cosimo. browning, on the other hand, crowns his poem with lippo's description of this picture as an expiation for his pranks. . saint john: the baptist; see reference to camel-hair, line and matthew iii. . . saint ambrose: ( - ), archbishop of milan. . man of uz : job i. . . <iste perfecit opus>: this one completed the work. . hot cockles: an old-fashioned game. andrea del sarto (called "the faultless painter") but do not let us quarrel any more, no, my lucrezia; bear with me for once: sit down and all shall happen as you wish. you turn your face, but does it bring your heart? i'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear, treat his own subject after his own way, fix his own time, accept too his own price, and shut the money into this small hand when next it takes mine. will it? tenderly? oh, i'll content him--but to-morrow. love! i often am much wearier than you think, this evening more than usual, and it seems as if--forgive now--should you let me sit here by the window with your hand in mine and look a half-hour forth on fiesole, both of one mind, as married people use, quietly, quietly the evening through, i might get up to-morrow to my work cheerful and fresh as ever. let us try. to-morrow, how you shall be glad for this! your soft hand is a woman of itself, and mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve for each of the five pictures we require: it saves a model. so! keep looking so-- my serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! --how could you ever prick those perfect ears, even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet-- my face, my moon, my everybody's moon, which everybody looks on and calls his, and, i suppose, is looked on by in turn, while she looks--no one's: very dear, no less. you smile? why, there's my picture ready made, there's what we painters call our harmony! a common grayness silvers everything-- all in a twilight, you and i alike --you, at the point of your first pride in me (that's gone you know)--but i, at every point; my youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down to yonder sober pleasant fiesole. there's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; that length of convent-wall across the way holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; the last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, and autumn grows, autumn in everything. eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape-- as if i saw alike my work and self and all that i was born to be and do, a twilight-piece. love, we are in god's hand. how strange now, looks the life he makes us lead; so free we seem, so fettered fast we are! i feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! this chamber for example--turn your head-- all that's behind us! you don't understand nor care to understand about my art, but you can hear at least when people speak: and that cartoon, the second from the door --it is the thing. love! so such things should be-- behold madonna!--i am bold to say. i can do with my pencil what i know, what i see, what at bottom of my heart i wish for, if i ever wish so deep-- do easily, too--when i say, perfectly, i do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, who listened to the legate's talk last week, and just as much they used to say in france. at any rate 'tis easy, all of it! no sketches first, no studies, that's long past: i do what many dream of, all their lives, --dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, and fail in doing. i could count twenty such on twice your fingers, and not leave this town, who strive--you don't know how the others strive to paint a little thing like that you smeared carelessly passing with your robes afloat-- yet do much less, so much less. someone says, (i know his name, no matter)--so much less! well, less is more, lucrezia: i am judged. there burns a truer light of god in them, in their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt this low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. their works drop groundward, but themselves, i know, reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, enter and take their place there sure enough, though they come back and cannot tell the world. my works are nearer heaven, but i sit here. the sudden blood of these men! at a word-- praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. i, painting from myself and to myself, know what i do, am unmoved by men's blame or their praise either. somebody remarks morello's outline there is wrongly traced, his hue mistaken; what of that? or else, sightly traced and well ordered; what of that? speak as they please, what does the mountain care? ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for? all is silver-gray placid, and perfect with my art: the worse! i know both what i want and what might gain, and yet how profitless to know, to sigh "had i been two, another and myself, our head would have o'erlooked the world!" no doubt. yonder's a work now, of that famous youth the urbinate who died five years ago. ('tis copied, george vasari sent it me.) well, i can fancy how he did it all, pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, above and through his art--for it gives way; that arm is wrongly put--and there again-- a fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, its body, so to speak: its soul is right, he means right--that, a child may understand. still, what an arm! and i could alter it: but all the play, the insight and the stretch-- out of me, out of me! and wherefore out? had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, we might have risen to rafael, i and you! nay, love, you did give all i asked, i think-- more than i merit, yes, by many times. but had you--oh, with the same perfect brow, and perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, and the low voice my soul hears, as a bird the fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare-- had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! some women do so. had the mouth there urged "god and the glory! never care for gain. the present by the future, what is that? live for fame, side by side with agnolo! rafael is waiting: up to god, all three!" i might have done it for you. so it seems: perhaps not. all is as god over-rules. beside, incentives come from the soul's self; the rest avail not. why do i need you? what wife had rafael, or has agnolo? in this world, who can do a thing, will not; and who would do it, cannot, i perceive: yet the will's somewhat--somewhat, too, the power-- and thus we half-men struggle. at the end, god, i conclude, compensates, punishes. 't is safer for me, if the award be strict, that i am something underrated here, poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. i dared not, do you know, leave home all day, for fear of chancing on the paris lords. the best is when they pass and look aside; but they speak sometimes; i must bear it all. well may they speak! that francis, that first time, and that long festal year at fontainebleau! i surely then could sometimes leave the ground, put on the glory, rafael's daily wear, in that humane great monarch's golden look-- one finger in his beard or twisted curl over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, one arm about my shoulder, round my neck, the jingle of his gold chain in my ear, i painting proudly with his breath on me, all his court round him, seeing with his eyes, such frank french eyes, and such a fire of souls profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts-- and, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, this in the background, waiting on my work, to crown the issue with a last reward! a good time, was it not, my kingly days? and had you not grown restless . . . but i know-- 't is done and past; 't was right, my instinct said, too live the life grew, golden and not gray, and i'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt out of the grange whose four walls make his world. how could it end in any other way? you called me, and i came home to your heart. the triumph was--to reach and stay there; since i reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, you beautiful lucrezia that are mine! "rafael did this, andrea painted that; the roman's is the better when you pray, but still the other's virgin was his wife--" men will excuse me, i am glad to judge both pictures in your presence; clearer grows my better fortune, i resolve to think. for, do you know, lucrezia, as god lives, said one day agnolo, his very self, to rafael's . . . i have known it all these years . . . (when the young man was flaming out his thoughts upon a palace-wall for rome to see, too lifted up in heart because of it) "friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub goes up and down our florence, none cares how, who, were he set to plan and execute as you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!" to rafael's!--and indeed the arm is wrong. i hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see, give the chalk here--quick, thus the line should go! ay, but the soul! he's rafael! rub it out! still, all i care for, if he spoke the truth, (what he? why, who but michel agnolo? do you forget already words like those?) if really there was such a chance, so lost-- is, whether you're--not grateful--but more pleased. well, let me think so. and you smile indeed! this hour has been an hour! another smile? if you would sit thus by me every night i should work better, do you comprehend? i mean that i should earn more, give you more. see, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, the cue-owls speak the name we call them by. come from the window, love--come in, at last, inside the melancholy little house we built to be so gay with. god is just. king francis may forgive me: oft at nights when i look up from painting, eyes tired out, the walls become illumined, brick from brick distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, that gold of his i did cement them with! let us but love each other. must you go? that cousin here again? he waits outside? must see you--you, and not with me? those loans? more gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? while hand and eye and something of a heart are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth? i'll pay my fancy. only let me sit the gray remainder of the evening out, idle, you call it, and muse perfectly how i could paint, were i but back in france, one picture, just one more--the virgin's face, not yours this time! i want you at my side to hear them--that is, michel agnolo-- judge all i do and tell you of its worth. will you? to-morrow, satisfy your friend. i take the subjects for his corridor, finish the portrait out of hand--there, there, and throw him in another thing or two if he demurs; the whole should prove enough to pay for this same cousin's freak. beside, what's better and what's all i care about, get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! love, does that please you? ah, but what does he, the cousin! what does he to please you more? i am grown peaceful as old age to-night. i regret little, i would change still less. since there my past life lies, why alter it? the very wrong to francis!--it is true i took his coin, was tempted and complied, and built this house and sinned, and all is said. my father and my mother died of want. well, had i riches of my own? you see how one gets rich! let each one bear his lot. they were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: and i have labored somewhat in my time and not been paid profusely. some good son paint my two hundred pictures--let him try! no doubt, there's something strikes a balance. yes, you loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. this must suffice me here. what would one have? in heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance-- four great walls in the new jerusalem, meted on each side by the angel's reed, for leonard, rafael, agnolo and me to cover--the three first without a wife, while i have mine! so--still they overcome because there's still lucrezia--as i choose. again the cousin's whistle! go, my love. notes "andrea del sarto." this monologue reveals, beside the personalities of both andrea and lucretia and the main incidents of their lives, the relations existing between andrea's character, his choice of a wife, and the peculiar quality of his art; the whole serving, also, to illustrate the picture on which the poem is based. the gray tone that silvers the picture pervades the poem with an air of helpless, resigned melancholy, and sets forth the fatal quality of facile craftsmanship joined with a flaccid spirit. --mr. john kenyon, mrs. browning's cousin, asked browning to get him a copy of the picture of andrea and his wife in the pitti palace. browning, being unable to find one, wrote this poem describing it, instead. andrea ( - ), because his father was a tailor, was called del sarto, also, il pittore senza errori, "the faultless painter." . lucrezia: di baccio del fede, a cap-maker's widow, says vasari, who ensnared andrea "before her husband's death, and who delighted in trapping the hearts of men." . fiesole: a hillside city on the arno, three miles west of florence. . morello: the highest of the apennine mountains north of florence. . the urbinate: raphael santi ( - ), so called because born at urbino. . vasari: painter and writer of the "lives of the most excellent italian painters," which supplied browning with material for this poem and for "fra lippo." . agnolo: michel agnolo buonarotti, painter, sculptor, and architect ( - ). . francis: francis i of france ( - ), who invited andrea to his court at fontainebleau, where he was loaded with gifts and honors, until, says vasari, "came to him certain letters from florence written to him by his wife . . . with bitter complaints," when, taking "the money which the king confided to him for the purchase of pictures and statues, . . . he set off . . . having sworn on the gospels to return in a few months. arrived in florence, he lived joyously with his wife for some time, making presents to her father and sisters, but doing nothing for his own parents, who died in poverty and misery. when the period specified by the king had come . . . he found himself at the end not only of his own money but . . . of that of the king." . agnolo . . . to rafael: angelo's remark is given thus by bocchi, "bellezze di firenze"; "there is a bit of a manikin in florence who, if he chanced to be employed in great undertakings as you have happened to be, would compel you to look well about you." . cue-owls: the owl's cry gives it its common name in various languages and countries; the peculiarity of its cry as to the predominant sound of oo or ow naming the species. this italian <a`>ulo> is probably the <bubo>, of the same family as our cat-owl. buffon gives its note, <he-hoo>, <boo-hoo>; hence the latin name, <bubo>. . scudi: italian coins. . the new jerusalem: revelation . - . . leonard: leonardo da vinci ( - ), painter, sculptor, architect, and engineer, who, together with rafael and agnolo, incarnates the genius of the renaissance. he visited the same court to which andrea was invited, and was said to have died in the arms of francis i. the bishop orders his tomb at saint praxed's church rome, - vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! draw round my bed: is anselm keeping back? nephews--sons mine . . . ah god, i know not! well-- she, men would have to be your mother once, old gandolf envied me, so fair she was! what's done is done, and she is dead beside, dead long ago, and i am bishop since, and as she died so must we die ourselves, and thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. life, how and what is it? as here i lie in this state-chamber, dying by degrees, hours and long hours in the dead night, i ask "do i live, am i dead?" peace, peace seems all. saint praxed's ever was the church for peace; and so, about this tomb of mine. i fought with tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: --old gandolf cozened me, despite my care; shrewd was that snatch from out the corner south he graced his carrion with. god curse the same! yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence one sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, and somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, and up into the aery dome where live the angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk; and i shall fill my slab of basalt there, and 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, with those nine columns round me, two and two, the odd one at my feet where anselm stands: peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe as fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. --old gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, put me where i may look at him! true peach, rosy and flawless: how i earned the prize! draw close: that conflagration of my church --what then? so much was saved if aught were missed! my sons, ye would not be my death? go dig the white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, drop water gently till the surface sink, and if ye find . . . ah god, i know not, i! . . . bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, and corded up in a tight olive-frail, some lump, ah god, of <lapis lazuli>, big as a jew's head cut off at the nape, blue as a vein o'er the madonna's breast . . . sons, all have i bequeathed you, villas, all, that brave frascati villa with its bath, so, let the blue lump poise between my knees, like god the father's globe on both his hands ye worship in the jesu church so gay, for gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: man goeth to the grave, and where is he? did i say basalt for my slab, sons? black-- 't was ever antique-black i meant! how else shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? the bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, those pans and nymphs ye wot of, and perchance some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, the saviour at his sermon on the mount, saint praxed in a glory, and one pan ready to twitch the nymph's last garment off, and moses with the tables . . . but i know ye mark me not! what do they whisper thee, child of my bowels, anselm? ah, ye hope to revel down my villas while i gasp bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine which gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then! 't is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest i grieve. my bath must needs be left behind, alas! one block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, there's plenty jasper somewhere in the world-- and have i not saint praxed's ear to pray horses for ye, and brown greek manuscripts, and mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? --that's if ye carve my epitaph aright, choice latin, picked phrase, tully's every word, no gaudy ware like gandolf's second line-- tully, my masters? ulpian serves his need! and then how i shall lie through centuries, and hear the blessed mutter of the mass, and see god made and eaten all day long, and feel the steady candle-flame, and taste good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! for as i lie here, hours of the dead night, dying in state and by such slow degrees, i fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, and stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, and let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work: and as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts grow, with a certain humming in my ears, about the life before i lived this life, and this life too, popes, cardinals and priests, saint praxed at his sermon on the mount, your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, and new-found agate urns as fresh as day, and marble's language, latin pure, discreet, --aha, elucescebat quoth our friend? no tully, said i, ulpian at the best! evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. all lapis, all, sons! else i give the pope my villas! will ye ever eat my heart? ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, they glitter like your mother's for my soul, or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, piece out its starved design, and fill my vase with grapes, and add a vizor and a term, and to the tripod ye would tie a lynx that in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, to comfort me on my entablature whereon i am to lie till i must ask "do i live, am i dead?" there, leave me, there! for ye have stabbed me with ingratitude to death--ye wish it--god, ye wish it! stone-- gritstone, a-crumble! clammy squares which sweat as if the corpse they keep were oozing through-- and no more lapis to delight the world! well go! i bless ye. fewer tapers there, but in a row: and, going, turn your backs --ay, like departing altar-ministrants, and leave me in my church, the church for peace, that i may watch at leisure if he leers-- old gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone, as still he envied me, so fair she was! notes "the bishop orders his tomb" this half-delirious pleading of the dying prelate for a tomb which shall gratify his luxurious artistic tastes and personal rivalries, presents dramatically not merely the special scene of the worldly old bishop's petulant struggle against his failing power, and his collapse, finally, beneath the will of his so-called nephews, it also illustrates a characteristic gross form of the renaissance spirit encumbered with pagan survivals, fleshly appetites, and selfish monopolizings which hampered its development.-- "it is nearly all that i said of the central renaissance--its worldliness, inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, ignorance of itself, love of art, of luxury, and of good latin--in thirty pages of the 'stones of venice,' put into as many lines, browning's being also the antecedent work" (ruskin). the church of st.praxed is notable for the beauty of its stone-work and mosaics, one of its chapels being so extraordinarily rich that it was called <orto del paradiso>, or the garden of paradise; and so, although the bishop and his tomb there are imaginary, it supplies an appropriate setting for the poetic scene. . vanity, saith the preacher: ecclesiastes . . . epistle-side: the right-hand side facing the altar, where the epistle is read by the priest acting as celebrant, the gospel being read from the other side by the priest acting as assistant. . basalt: trap-rock, leaden or black in color. . onion stone: for the italian <cipollino>, a kind of greenish-white marble splitting into coats like an onion, <cipolla>; hence so called. . olive-frail: a basket made of rushes, used for packing olives. . lapis lazuli: a bright blue stone. . frascati: near rome, on the alban hills. . god the father's globe: in the group of the trinity adorning the altar of saint ignatius at the church of il gesu in rome. . weaver's shuttle: job . . . antique-black: nero antico. browning gives the english equivalent for the name of this stone. . tripod: the seat with three feet on which the priestess of apollo sat to prophesy, an emblem of the delphic oracle. thyrsus: the ivy-coiled staffer spear stuck in a pine-cone, symbol of bacchic orgy. these, with the other pagan tokens and pictures, mingle oddly but significantly with the references to the saviour, saint praxed, and moses. see also line , where saint praxed is confused with the saviour, in the mind of the dying priest. saint praxed, the virgin daughter of a roman senator and friend of saint paul, in whose honor the bishop's church is named, is again brought forward in lines - in a queer capacity which pointedly illustrates the speaker and his time. . travertine: see note "pictor ignotus," . . jasper: a dark green stone with blood-red spots, susceptible of high polish. . tully's: marcus tullius cicero ( - b. c.). . ulpian: a roman jurist ( - a. d.), belonging to the degenerate age of roman literature. . <elucescebat>: he was illustrious; formed from <elucesco>, an inceptive verb from <eluceo>: in post classic latin. . else i give the pope my villas: perhaps a threat founded on the custom of julius ii and other popes, according to burckhardt, of enlarging their power "by making themselves heirs of the cardinals and clergy . . . hence the splendor of tile tombs of the prelates . . . a part of the plunder being in this way saved from the hands of the pope." . a vizor and a term: a mask, and a bust springing from a square pillar, representing the roman god terminus, who presided over boundaries. bishop blougram's apology no more wine? then we'll push back chairs and talk. a final glass for me, though: cool, i' faith! we ought to have our abbey back, you see. it's different, preaching in basilicas, and doing duty in some masterpiece like this of brother pugin's, bless his heart! i doubt if they're half baked, those chalk rosettes, ciphers and stucco-twiddlings everywhere; it's just like breathing in a lime-kiln: eh? these hot long ceremonies of our church cost us a little--oh, they pay the price, you take me--amply pay it! now, we'll talk. so, you despise me, mr. gigadibs. no deprecation--nay, i beg you, sir! beside 't is our engagement: don't you know, i promised, if you'd watch a dinner out, we'd see truth dawn together?--truth that peeps over the glasses' edge when dinner's done, and body gets its sop and holds its noise and leaves soul free a little. now's the time: truth's break of day! you do despise me then. and if i say, "despise me"--never fear! know you do not in a certain sense-- not in my arm-chair, for example: here, i well imagine you respect my place (<status, entourage>, worldly circumstance) quite to its value--very much indeed: --are up to the protesting eyes of you in pride at being seated here for once-- you'll turn it to such capital account! when somebody, through years and years to come, hints of the bishop--names me--that's enough: "blougram? i knew him"--(into it you slide) "dined with him once, a corpus christi day, all alone, we two; he's a clever man: and after dinner--why, the wine you know-- oh, there was wine, and good!--what with the wine . . . 'faith, we began upon all sorts of talk! he's no bad fellow, blougram; he had seen something of mine he relished, some review: he's quite above their humbug in his heart, half-said as much, indeed--the thing's his trade. i warrant, blougram 's sceptical at times: how otherwise? i liked him, i confess!" <che che>, my dear sir, as we say at rome, don't you protest now! it's fair give and take; you have had your turn and spoken your home-truths: the hand's mine now, and here you follow suit. thus much conceded, still the first fact stays-- you do despise me; your ideal of life is not the bishop's: you would not be i. you would like better to be goethe, now, or buonaparte, or, bless me, lower still, count d'orsay--so you did what you preferred, spoke as you thought, and, as you cannot help, believed or disbelieved, no matter what, so long as on that point, whate'er it was, you loosed your mind, were whole and sole yourself. --that, my ideal never can include, upon that element of truth and worth never be based! for say they make me pope-- (they can't--suppose it for our argument!) why, there i'm at my tether's end, i've reached my height, and not a height which pleases you: an unbelieving pope won't do, you say. it's like those eerie stories nurses tell, of how some actor on a stage played death, with pasteboard crown, sham orb and tinselled dart, and called himself the monarch of the world; then, going in the tire-room afterward, because the play was done, to shift himself, got touched upon the sleeve familiarly, the moment he had shut the closet door, by death himself. thus god might touch a pope at unawares, ask what his baubles mean, and whose part he presumed to play just now. best be yourself, imperial, plain and true! so, drawing comfortable breath again, you weigh and find, whatever more or less i boast of my ideal realized is nothing in the balance when opposed to your ideal, your grand simple life, of which you will not realize one jot. i am much, you are nothing; you would be all, i would be merely much: you beat me there. no, friend, you do not beat me: hearken why! the common problem, yours, mine, every one's, is--not to fancy what were fair in life provided it could be--but, finding first what may be, then find how to make it fair up to our means: a very different thing! no abstract intellectual plan of life quite irrespective of life's plainest laws, but one, a man, who is man and nothing more, may lead within a world which (by your leave) is rome or london, not fool's-paradise. embellish rome, idealize away, make paradise of london if you can, you're welcome, nay, you're wise. a simile! we mortals cross the ocean of this world each in his average cabin of a life; the best's not big, the worst yields elbow-room. now for our six months' voyage--how prepare? you come on shipboard with a landsman's list of things he calls convenient: so they are! an india screen is pretty furniture, a piano-forte is a fine resource, all balzac's novels occupy one shelf, the new edition fifty volumes long; and little greek books, with the funny type they get up well at leipsic, fill the next: go on! slabbed marble, what a bath it makes! and parma's pride, the jerome, let us add! 't were pleasant could correggio's fleeting glow hang full in face of one where'er one roams, since he more than the others brings with him italy's self--the marvellous modenese!-- yet was not on your list before, perhaps. --alas, friend, here's the agent . . . is 't the name? the captain, or whoever's master here-- you see him screw his face up; what's his cry ere you set foot on shipboard? "six feet square!" if you won't understand what six feet mean, compute and purchase stores accordingly-- and if, in pique because he overhauls your jerome, piano, bath, you come on board bare--why, you cut a figure at the first while sympathetic landsmen see you off; not afterward, when long ere half seas over, you peep up from your utterly naked boards into some snug and well-appointed berth, like mine for instance (try the cooler jug-- put back the other, but don't jog the ice!) and mortified you mutter "well and good; he sits enjoying his sea-furniture; 'tis stout and proper, and there's store of it; though i've the better notion, all agree, of fitting rooms up. hang the carpenter, neat ship-shape fixings and contrivances-- i would have brought my jerome, frame and all!" and meantime you bring nothing: never mind-- you've proved your artist-nature: what you don't you might bring, so despise me, as i say. now come, let's backward to the starting-place. see my way: we're two college friends, suppose. prepare together for our voyage, then; each note and check the other in his work-- here's mine, a bishop's outfit; criticise! what's wrong? why won't you be a bishop too? why first, you don't believe, you don't and can't, (not statedly, that is, and fixedly and absolutely and exclusively) in any revelation called divine. no dogmas nail your faith; and what remains but say so, like the honest man you are? first, therefore, overhaul theology! nay, i too, not a fool, you please to think, must find believing every whit as hard: and if i do not frankly say as much, the ugly consequence is clear enough. now wait, my friend: well, i do not believe-- if you'll accept no faith that is not fixed, absolute and exclusive, as you say. you're wrong--i mean to prove it in due time. meanwhile, i know where difficulties lie i could not, cannot solve, nor ever shall, so give up hope accordingly to solve-- (to you, and over the wine). our dogmas then with both of us, though in unlike degree, missing full credence--overboard with them! i mean to meet you on your own premise: good, there go mine in company with yours! and now what are we? unbelievers both, calm and complete, determinately fixed to-day, to-morrow and forever, pray? you'll guarantee me that? not so, i think! in no wise! all we've gained is, that belief, as unbelief before, shakes us by fits, confounds us like its predecessor. where's the gain? how can we guard our unbelief, make it bear fruit to us?--the problem here. just when we are safest, there's a sunset-touch, a fancy from a flower-bell, some one's death, a chorus-ending from euripides-- and that's enough for fifty hopes and fears as old and new at once as nature's self, to rap and knock and enter in our soul, take hands and dance there, a fantastic ring, round the ancient idol, on his base again-- the grand perhaps! we look on helplessly. there the old misgivings, crooked questions are-- this good god--what he could do, if he would, would, if he could--then must have done long since: if so, when, where and how? some way must be-- once feel about, and soon or late you hit some sense, in which it might be, after all. why not, "the way, the truth, the life?" --that way over the mountain, which who stands upon is apt to doubt if it be meant for a road; while, if he views it from the waste itself, up goes the line there, plain from base to brow, not vague, mistakable! what's a break or two seen from the unbroken desert either side? and then (to bring in fresh philosophy) what if the breaks themselves should prove at last the most consummate of contrivances to train a man's eye, teach him what is faith? and so we stumble at truth's very test! all we have gained then by our unbelief is a life of doubt diversified by faith, for one of faith diversified by doubt: we called the chess-board white--we call it black. "well," you rejoin, "the end's no worse, at least; we've reason for both colors on the board: why not confess then, where i drop the faith and you the doubt, that i'm as right as you?" because, friend, in the next place, this being so, and both things even--faith and unbelief left to a man's choice--we'll proceed a step, returning to our image, which i like. a man's choice, yes--but a cabin-passenger's-- the man made for the special life o' the world-- do you forget him? i remember though! consult our ship's conditions and you find one and but one choice suitable to all; the choice, that you unluckily prefer, turning things topsy-turvy--they or it going to the ground. belief or unbelief bears upon life, determines its whole course, begins at its beginning. see the world such as it is--you made it not, nor i; i mean to take it as it is--and you, not so you'll take it--though you get naught else. i know the special kind of life i like, what suits the most my idiosyncrasy, brings out the best of me and bears me fruit in power, peace, pleasantness and length of days. i find that positive belief does this for me, and unbelief, no whit of this. --for you, it does, however?--that, we'll try! 't is clear, i cannot lead my life, at least, induce the world to let me peaceably, without declaring at the outset, "friends, i absolutely and peremptorily believe!"--i say, faith is my waking life: one sleeps, indeed, and dreams at intervals, we know, but waking's the main point with us, and my provision's for life's waking part. accordingly, i use heart, head and hand all day, i build, scheme, study, and make friends; and when night overtakes me, down i lie, sleep, dream a little, and get done with it, the sooner the better, to begin afresh. what's midnight's doubt before the dayspring's faith? you, the philosopher, that disbelieve, that recognize the night, give dreams their weight-- to be consistent you should keep your bed, abstain from healthy acts that prove you man, for fear you drowse perhaps at unawares! and certainly at night you'll sleep and dream, live through the day and bustle as you please. and so you live to sleep as i to wake, to unbelieve as i to still believe? well, and the common sense o' the world calls you bed-ridden--and its good things come to me. its estimation, which is half the fight, that's the first-cabin comfort i secure: the next . . . but you perceive with half an eye! come, come, it's best believing, if we may; you can't but own that! next, concede again, if once we choose belief, on all accounts we can't be too decisive in our faith, conclusive and exclusive in its terms, to suit the world which gives us the good things. in every man's career are certain points whereon he dares not be indifferent; the world detects him clearly, if he dare, as baffled at the game, and losing life. he may care little or he may care much for riches, honor, pleasure, work, repose, since various theories of life and life's success are extant which might easily comport with either estimate of these; and whoso chooses wealth or poverty, labor or quiet, is not judged a fool because his fellow would choose otherwise; we let him choose upon his own account so long as he's consistent with his choice. but certain points, left wholly to himself, when once a man has arbitrated on, we say he must succeed there or go hang. thus, he should wed the woman he loves most or needs most, whatsoe'er the love or need-- for he can't wed twice. then, he must avouch, or follow, at the least, sufficiently, the form of faith his conscience holds the best, whate'er the process of conviction was: for nothing can compensate his mistake on such a point, the man himself being judge: he cannot wed twice, nor twice lose his soul. well now, there's one great form of christian faith i happened to be born in--which to teach was given me as i grew up, on all hands, as best and readiest means of living by; the same on examination being proved the most pronounced moreover, fixed, precise and absolute form of faith in the whole world-- accordingly, most potent of all forms for working on the world. observe, my friend! such as you know me, i am free to say, in these hard latter days which hamper one, myself--by no immoderate exercise of intellect and learning, but the tact to let external forces work for me, --bid the street's stones be bread and they are bread; bid peter's creed, or rather, hildebrand's, exalt me o'er my fellows in the world and make my life an ease and joy and pride; it does so--which for me 's a great point gained, who have a soul and body that exact a comfortable care in many ways. there's power in me and will to dominate which i must exercise, they hurt me else: in many ways i need mankind's respect, obedience, and the love that's born of fear: while at the same time, there's a taste i have, a toy of soul, a titillating thing, refuses to digest these dainties crude. the naked life is gross till clothed upon: i must take what men offer, with a grace as though i would not, could i help it, take an uniform i wear though over-rich-- something imposed on me, no choice of mine; no fancy-dress worn for pure fancy's sake and despicable therefore! now folk kneel and kiss my hand--of course the church's hand. thus i am made, thus life is best for me, and thus that it should be i have procured; and thus it could not be another way, i venture to imagine. you'll reply, so far my choice, no doubt, is a success; but were i made of better elements, with nobler instincts, purer tastes, like you, i hardly would account the thing success though it did all for me i say. but, friend, we speak of what is; not of what might be, and how 'twere better if 'twere otherwise. i am the man you see here plain enough: grant i'm a beast, why, beasts must lead beasts' lives! suppose i own at once to tail and claws; the tailless man exceeds me: but being tailed i'll lash out lion fashion, and leave apes to dock their stump and dress their haunches up. my business is not to remake myself, but make the absolute best of what god made. or--our first simile--though you prove me doomed to a viler berth still, to the steerage-hole, the sheep-pen or the pig-stye, i should strive to make what use of each were possible; and as this cabin gets upholstery, that hutch should rustle with sufficient straw. but, friend, i don't acknowledge quite so fast i fail of all your manhood's lofty tastes enumerated so complacently, on the mere ground that you forsooth can find in this particular life i choose to lead no fit provision for them. can you not? say you, my fault is i address myself to grosser estimators than should judge? and that's no way of holding up the soul, which, nobler, needs men's praise perhaps, yet knows one wise man's verdict outweighs all the fools'-- would like the two, but, forced to choose, takes that. i pine among my million imbeciles (you think) aware some dozen men of sense eye me and know me, whether i believe in the last winking virgin, as i vow, and am a fool, or disbelieve in her and am a knave--approve in neither case, withhold their voices though i look their way: like verdi when, at his worst opera's end (the thing they gave at florence--what's its name?) while the mad houseful's plaudits near outbang his orchestra of salt-box, tongs and bones, he looks through all the roaring and the wreaths where sits rossini patient in his stall. nay, friend, i meet you with an answer here-- that even your prime men who appraise their kind are men still, catch a wheel within a wheel, see more in a truth than the truth's simple self, confuse themselves. you see lads walk the street sixty the minute; what's to note in that? you see one lad o'erstride a chimney-stack; him you must watch--he's sure to fall, yet stands! our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. the honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist, demirep that loves and saves her soul in new french books-- we watch while these in equilibrium keep the giddy line midway: one step aside, they're classed and done with. i, then, keep the line before your sages--just the men to shrink from the gross weights, coarse scales and labels broad you offer their refinement. fool or knave? why needs a bishop be a fool or knave when there's a thousand diamond weights between? so, i enlist them. your picked twelve, you'll find, profess themselves indignant, scandalized at thus being held unable to explain how a superior man who disbelieves may not believe as well: that's schelling's way! it's through my coming in the tail of time, nicking the minute with a happy tact. had i been born three hundred years ago they'd say, "what's strange? blougram of course believes;" and, seventy years since, "disbelieves of course." but now, "he may believe; and yet, and yet how can he?" all eyes turn with interest. whereas, step off the line on either side-- you, for example, clever to a fault, the rough and ready man who write apace, read somewhat seldomer, think perhaps even less-- you disbelieve! who wonders and who cares? lord so-and-so--his coat bedropped with wax, all peter's chains about his waist, his back brave with the needlework of noodledom-- believes! again, who wonders and who cares? but i, the man of sense and learning too, the able to think yet act, the this, the that, i, to believe at this late time of day! enough; you see, i need not fear contempt. --except it's yours! admire me as these may, you don't. but whom at least do you admire? present your own perfection, your ideal, your pattern man for a minute--oh, make haste, is it napoleon you would have us grow? concede the means; allow his head and hand, (a large concession, clever as you are) good! in our common primal element of unbelief (we can't believe, you know-- we're still at that admission, recollect!) where do you find--apart from, towering o'er the secondary temporary aims which satisfy the gross taste you despise-- where do you find his star?--his crazy trust god knows through what or in what? it's alive and shines and leads him, and that's all we want. have we aught in our sober night shall point such ends as his were, and direct the means of working out our purpose straight as his, nor bring a moment's trouble on success with after-care to justify the same? --be a napoleon, and yet disbelieve-- why, the man's mad, friend, take his light away! what's the vague good o' the world, for which you dare with comfort to yourself blow millions up? we neither of us see it! we do see the blown-up millions--spatter of their brains and writhing of their bowels and so forth, in that bewildering entanglement of horrible eventualities past calculation to the end of time! can i mistake for some clear word of god (which were my ample warrant for it all) his puff of hazy instinct, idle talk, "the state, that's i," quack-nonsense about crowns, and (when one beats the man to his last hold) a vague idea of setting things to rights, policing people efficaciously, more to their profit, most of all to his own; the whole to end that dismallest of ends by an austrian marriage, cant to us the church, and resurrection of the old regime? would i, who hope to live a dozen years, fight austerlitz for reasons such and such? no: for, concede me but the merest chance doubt may be wrong--there's judgment, life to come with just that chance, i dare not. doubt proves right? this present life is all?--you offer me its dozen noisy years, without a chance that wedding an archduchess, wearing lace, and getting called by divers new-coined names, will drive off ugly thoughts and let me dine, sleep, read and chat in quiet as i like! therefore i will not. take another case; fit up the cabin yet another way. what say you to the poets? shall we write hamlet, othello--make the world our own, without a risk to run of either sort? i can't!--to put the strongest reason first. "but try," you urge, "the trying shall suffice; the aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: try to be shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!" spare my self-knowledge--there's no fooling me! if i prefer remaining my poor self, i say so not in self-dispraise but praise. if i'm a shakespeare, let the well alone; why should i try to be what now i am? if i'm no shakespeare, as too probable-- his power and consciousness and self-delight and all we want in common, shall i find-- trying forever? while on points of taste wherewith, to speak it humbly, he and i are dowered alike--i'll ask you, i or he, which in our two lives realizes most? much, he imagined--somewhat, i possess. he had the imagination; stick to that! let him say, "in the face of my soul's works your world is worthless and i touch it not lest i should wrong them"--i'll withdraw my plea. but does he say so? look upon his life! himself, who only can, gives judgment there. he leaves his towers and gorgeous palaces to build the trimmest house in stratford town; saves money, spends it, owns the worth of things, giulio romano's pictures, dowland's lute; enjoys a show, respects the puppets, too, and none more, had he seen its entry once, than "pandulph, of fair milan cardinal." why then should i who play that personage, the very pandulph shakespeare's fancy made, be told that had the poet chanced to start from where i stand now (some degree like mine being just the goal he ran his race to reach) he would have run the whole race back, forsooth, and left being pandulph, to begin write plays? ah, the earth's best can be but the earth's best! did shakespeare live, he could but sit at home and get himself in dreams the vatican, greek busts, venetian paintings, roman walls, and english books, none equal to his own, which i read, bound in gold (he never did). --terni's fall, naples' bay and gothard's top-- eh, friend? i could not fancy one of these; but, as i pour this claret, there they are: i've gained them--crossed st. gothard last july with ten mules to the carriage and a bed slung inside; is my hap the worse for that? we want the same things, shakespeare and myself, and what i want, i have: he, gifted more, could fancy he too had them when he liked, but not so thoroughly that, if fate allowed, he would not have them ...also in my sense. we play one game; i send the ball aloft no less adroitly that of fifty strokes scarce five go o'er the wall so wide and high which sends them back to me: i wish and get. he struck balls higher and with better skill, but at a poor fence level with his head, and hit--his stratford house, a coat of arms, successful dealings in his grain and wool-- while i receive heaven's incense in my nose and style myself the cousin of queen bess. ask him, if this life's all, who wins the game? believe--and our whole argument breaks up. enthusiasm's the best thing, i repeat; only, we can't command it; fire and life are all, dead matter's nothing, we agree: and be it a mad dream or god's very breath, the fact's the same--belief's fire, once in us, makes of all else mere stuff to show itself; we penetrate our life with such a glow as fire lends wood and iron--this turns steel, that burns to ash--all's one, fire proves its power for good or ill, since men call flare success. but paint a fire, it will not therefore burn. light one in me, i'll find it food enough! why, to be luther--that's a life to lead, incomparably better than my own. he comes, reclaims god's earth for god, he says, sets up god's rule again by simple means, re-opens a shut book, and all is done. he flared out in the flaring of mankind; such luther's luck was: how shall such be mine? if he succeeded, nothing's left to do: and if he did not altogether--well, strauss is the next advance. all strauss should be i might be also. but to what result? he looks upon no future: luther did. what can i gain on the denying side? ice makes no conflagration. state the facts, read the text right, emancipate the world-- the emancipated world enjoys itself with scarce a thank-you: blougram told it first it could not owe a farthing--not to him more than saint paul! 't would press its pay, you think? then add there's still that plaguy hundredth chance strauss may be wrong. and so a risk is run-- for what gain? not for luther's, who secured a real heaven in his heart throughout his life, supposing death a little altered things. "ay, but since really you lack faith," you cry, "you run the same risk really on all sides, in cool indifference as bold unbelief. as well be strauss as swing 'twixt paul and him. it's not worth having, such imperfect faith, no more available to do faith's work than unbelief like mine. whole faith, or none!" softly, my friend! i must dispute that point. once own the use of faith, i'll find you faith. we're back on christian ground. you call for faith; i show you doubt, to prove that faith exists. the more of doubt, the stronger faith, i say, if faith o'ercomes doubt. how i know it does? by life and man's free will. god gave for that! to mould life as we choose it, shows our choice: that's our one act, the previous work's his own. you criticise the soul? it reared this tree-- this broad life and whatever fruit it bears! what matter though i doubt at every pore, head-doubts, heart-doubts, doubts at my fingers' ends, doubts in the trivial work of every day, doubts at the very bases of my soul in the grand moments when she probes herself-- if finally i have a life to show, the thing i did, brought out in evidence against the thing done to me underground by hell and all its brood, for aught i know? i say, whence sprang this? shows it faith or doubt? all's doubt in me; where's break of faith in this? it is the idea, the feeling and the love, god means mankind should strive for and show forth whatever be the process to that end-- and not historic knowledge, logic sound, and metaphysical acumen, sure! "what think ye of christ," friend? when all's done and said, like you this christianity or not? it may be false, but will you wish it true? has it your vote to be so if it can? trust you an instinct silenced long ago that will break silence and enjoin you love what mortified philosophy is hoarse, and all in vain, with bidding you despise? if you desire faith--then you've faith enough: what else seeks god--nay, what else seek ourselves? you form a notion of me, we'll suppose, on hearsay; it's a favorable one: "but still" (you add) "there was no such good man, because of contradiction in the facts. one proves, for instance, he was born in rome, this blougram; yet throughout the tales of him i see he figures as an englishman." well, the two things are reconcilable. but would i rather you discovered that, subjoining--"still, what matter though they be? blougram concerns me naught, born here or there." pure faith indeed--you know not what you ask! naked belief in god the omnipotent, mniscient, omnipresent, sears too much the sense of conscious creatures to be borne. it were the seeing him, no flesh shall dare. some think, creation's meant to show him forth: i say it's meant to hide him all it can, and that's what all the blessed evil's for. its use in time is to environ us, our breath, our drop of dew, with shield enough against that sight till we can bear its stress. under a vertical sun, the exposed brain and lidless eye and disemprisoned heart less certainly would wither up at once than mind, confronted with the truth of him. but time and earth case-harden us to live; the feeblest sense is trusted most; the child feels god a moment, ichors o'er the place, plays on and grows to be a man like us. with me, faith means perpetual unbelief kept quiet like the snake 'neath michael's foot who stands calm just because he feels it writhe. or, if that's too ambitious--here's my box-- i need the excitation of a pinch threatening the torpor of the inside-nose nigh on the imminent sneeze that never comes. "leave it in peace" advise the simple folk: make it aware of peace by itching-fits, say i--let doubt occasion still more faith! you 'll say, once all believed, man, woman, child, in that dear middle-age these noodles praise. how you'd exult if i could put you back six hundred years, blot out cosmogony, geology, ethnology, what not, (greek endings, each the little passing-bell that signifies some faith's about to die) and set you square with genesis again-- when such a traveller told you his last news, he saw the ark a-top of ararat but did not climb there since 'twas getting dusk and robber-bands infest the mountain's foot! how should you feel, i ask, in such an age, how act? as other people felt and did; with soul more blank than this decanter's knob, believe--and yet lie, kill, rob, fornicate full in belief's face, like the beast you'd be! no, when the fight begins within himself, a man's worth something. god stoops o'er his head, satan looks up between his feet--both tug-- he's left, himself, i' the middle: the soul wakes and grows. prolong that battle through his life! never leave growing till the life to come! here, we've got callous to the virgin's winks that used to puzzle people wholesomely: men have outgrown the shame of being fools. what are the laws of nature, not to bend if the church bid them?--brother newman asks. up with the immaculate conception, then-- on to the rack with faith!--is my advice. will not that hurry us upon our knees, knocking our breasts, "it can't be--yet it shall! who am i, the worm, to argue with my pope? low things confound the high things!" and so forth. that's better than acquitting god with grace as some folk do. he's tried--no case is proved, philosophy is lenient--he may go! you'll say, the old system's not so obsolete but men believe still: ay, but who and where? king bomba's lazzaroni foster yet the sacred flame, so antonelli writes; but even of these, what ragamuffin-saint believes god watches him continually, as he believes in fire that it will burn, or rain that it will drench him? break fire's law, sin against rain, although the penalty be just a singe or soaking? "no," he smiles; "those laws are laws that can enforce themselves." the sum of all is--yes, my doubt is great, my faith's still greater, then my faith's enough. i have read much, thought much, experienced much, yet would die rather than avow my fear the naples' liquefaction may be false, when set to happen by the palace-clock according to the clouds or dinner-time. i hear you recommend, i might at least eliminate, decrassify my faith since i adopt it; keeping what i must and leaving what i can--such points as this. i won't--that is, i can't throw one away. supposing there's no truth in what i hold about the need of trial to man's faith, still, when you bid me purify the same, to such a process i discern no end. clearing off one excrescence to see two, there's ever a next in size, now grown as big, that meets the knife: i cut and cut again! first cut the liquefaction, what comes last but fichte's clever cut at god himself? experimentalize on sacred things! i trust nor hand nor eye nor heart nor brain to stop betimes: they all get drunk alike. the first step, i am master not to take. you'd find the cutting-process to your taste as much as leaving growths of lies unpruned, nor see more danger in it--you retort. your taste's worth mine; but my taste proves more wise when we consider that the steadfast hold on the extreme end of the chain of faith gives all the advantage, makes the difference with the rough purblind mass we seek to rule: we are their lords, or they are free of us, justas we tighten or relax our hold. so, other matters equal, we'll revert to the first problem--which, if solved my way and thrown into the balance, turns the scale-- how we may lead a comfortable life, how suit our luggage to the cabin's size. of course you are remarking all this time how narrowly and grossly i view life, respect the creature-comforts, care to rule the masses, and regard complacently "the cabin," in our old phrase. well, i do. i act for, talk for, live for this world now, as this world prizes action, life and talk: no prejudice to what next world may prove, whose new laws and requirements, my best pledge to observe then, is that i observe these now, shall do hereafter what i do meanwhile. let us concede (gratuitously though) next life relieves the soul of body, yields pure spiritual enjoyment: well, my friend, why lose this life i' the meantime, since its use may be to make the next life more intense? do you know, i have often had a dream (work it up in your next month's article) of man's poor spirit in its progress, still losing true life forever and a day through ever trying to be and ever being-- in the evolution of successive spheres-- before its actual sphere and place of life, halfway into the next, which having reached, it shoots with corresponding foolery halfway into the next still, on and off! as when a traveller, bound from north to south, scouts far in russia: what's its use in france? in france spurns flannel: where's its need in spain? in spain drops cloth, too cumbrous for algiers! linen goes next, and last the skin itself, a superfluity at timbuctoo. when, through his journey, was the fool at ease? i'm at ease now, friend; worldly in this world, i take and like its way of life; i think my brothers, who administer the means, live better for my comfort--that's good too; and god, if he pronounce upon such life, approves my service, which is better still. if he keep silence--why, for you or me or that brute beast pulled-up in to-day's "times," what odds is 't, save to ourselves, what life we lead? you meet me at this issue: you declare-- all special-pleading done with--truth is truth, and justifies itself by undreamed ways. you don't fear but it's better, if we doubt, to say so, act up to our truth perceived however feebly. do then--act away! 't is there i'm on the watch for you. how one acts is, both of us agree, our chief concern: and how you 'll act is what i fain would see if, like the candid person you appear, you dare to make the most of your life's scheme as i of mine, live up to its full law since there's no higher law that counterchecks. put natural religion to the test you've just demolished the revealed with--quick, down to the root of all that checks your will, all prohibition to lie, kill and thieve, or even to be an atheistic priest! suppose a pricking to incontinence-- philosophers deduce you chastity or shame, from just the fact that at the first whoso embraced a woman in the field, threw club down and forewent his brains beside, so, stood a ready victim in the reach of any brother savage, club in hand; hence saw the use of going out of sight in wood or cave to prosecute his loves: i read this in a french book t' other day. does law so analyzed coerce you much? oh, men spin clouds of fuzz where matters end, but you who reach where the first thread begins, you'll soon cut that!--which means you can, but won't, through certain instincts, blind, unreasoned-out, you dare not set aside, you can't tell why, but there they are, and so you let them rule. then, friend, you seem as much a slave as i, a liar, conscious coward and hypocrite, without the good the slave expects to get, in case he has a master after all! you own your instincts? why, what else do i, who want, am made for, and must have a god ere i can be aught, do aught?--no mere name want, but the true thing with what proves its truth, to wit, a relation from that thing to me, touching from head to foot--which touch i feel, and with it take the rest, this life of ours! i live my life here; yours you dare not live, --not as i state it, who (you please subjoin) disfigure such a life and call it names. while, to your mind, remains another way for simple men: knowledge and power have rights, but ignorance and weakness have rights too. there needs no crucial effort to find truth if here or there or anywhere about: we ought to turn each side, try hard and see, and if we can't, be glad we've earned at least the right, by one laborious proof the more, to graze in peace earth's pleasant pasturage. men are not angels, neither are they brutes: something we may see, all we cannot see. what need of lying? i say, i see all, and swear to each detail the most minute in what i think a pan's face--you, mere cloud: i swear i hear him speak and see him wink, for fear, if once i drop the emphasis, mankind may doubt there's any cloud at all. you take the simple life--ready to see, willing to see (for no cloud 's worth a face)-- and leaving quiet what no strength can move, and which, who bids you move? who has the right? i bid you; but you are god's sheep, not mine; <"pastor est tui dominus."> you find in this the pleasant pasture of our life much you may eat without the least offence, much you don't eat because your maw objects, much you would eat but that your fellow-flock open great eyes at you and even butt, and thereupon you like your mates so well you cannot please yourself, offending them; though when they seem exorbitantly sheep, you weigh your pleasure with their butts and bleats and strike the balance. sometimes certain fears restrain you, real checks since you find them so; sometimes you please yourself and nothing checks: and thus you graze through life with not one lie, and like it best. but do you, in truth's name? if so, you beat--which means you are not i-- who needs must make earth mine and feed my fill not simply unbutted at, unbickered with, but motioned to the velvet of the sward by those obsequious wethers' very selves. look at me. sir; my age is double yours: at yours, i knew beforehand, so enjoyed, what now i should be--as, permit the word, i pretty well imagine your whole range and stretch of tether twenty years to come. we both have minds and bodies much alike: in truth's name, don't you want my bishopric, my daily bread, my influence and my state? you're young. i'm old; you must be old one day; will you find then, as i do hour by hour, women their lovers kneel to, who cut curls from your fat lap-dog's ear to grace a brooch-- dukes, who petition just to kiss your ring-- with much beside you know or may conceive? suppose we die to-night: well, here am i, such were my gains, life bore this fruit to me, while writing all the same my articles on music, poetry, the fictile vase found at albano, chess, anacreon's greek. but you--the highest honor in your life, the thing you'll crown yourself with, all your days, is--dining here and drinking this last glass i pour you out in sign of amity before we part forever. of your power and social influence, worldly worth in short, judge what's my estimation by the fact, i do not condescend to enjoin, beseech, hint secrecy on one of all these words! you're shrewd and know that should you publish one the world would brand the lie--my enemies first, who'd sneer--"the bishop's an arch-hypocrite and knave perhaps, but not so frank a fool." whereas i should not dare for both my ears breathe one such syllable, smile one such smile, before the chaplain who reflects myself-- my shade's so much more potent than your flesh. what's your reward, self-abnegating friend? stood you confessed of those exceptional and privileged great natures that dwarf mine-- a zealot with a mad ideal in reach, a poet just about to print his ode, a statesman with a scheme to stop this war, an artist whose religion is his art-- i should have nothing to object: such men carry the fire, all things grow warm to them, their drugget's worth my purple, they beat me. but you--you 're just as little those as i-- you, gigadibs, who, thirty years of age, write statedly for blackwood's magazine, believe you see two points in hamlet's soul unseized by the germans yet--which view you'll print-- meantime the best you have to show being still that lively lightsome article we took almost for the true dickens--what's its name? "the slum and cellar, or whitechapel life limned after dark!" it made me laugh, i know, and pleased a month, and brought you in ten pounds. --success i recognize and compliment, and therefore give you, if you choose, three words (the card and pencil-scratch is quite enough) which whether here, in dublin or new york, will get you, prompt as at my eyebrow's wink, such terms as never you aspired to get in all our own reviews and some not ours. go write your lively sketches! be the first "blougram, or the eccentric confidence"-- or better simply say, "the outward-bound." why, men as soon would throw it in my teeth as copy and quote the infamy chalked broad about me on the church-door opposite. you will not wait for that experience though, i fancy, howsoever you decide, to discontinue--not detesting, not defaming, but at least--despising me! __________________________________________ over his wine so smiled and talked his hour sylvester blougram, styled <in partibus episcopus, nec non>--(the deuce knows what it's changed to by our novel hierarchy) with gigadibs the literary man, who played with spoons, explored his plate's design, and ranged the olive-stones about its edge, while the great bishop rolled him out a mind long crumpled, till creased consciousness lay smooth. for blougram, he believed, say, half he spoke. the other portion, as he shaped it thus for argumentatory purposes, he felt his foe was foolish to dispute. some arbitrary accidental thoughts that crossed his mind, amusing because new, he chose to represent as fixtures there, invariable convictions (such they seemed beside his interlocutor's loose cards flung daily down, and not the same way twice) while certain hell-deep instincts, man's weak tongue is never bold to utter in their truth because styled hell-deep ('t is an old mistake to place hell at the bottom of the earth) he ignored these--not having in readiness their nomenclature and philosophy: he said true things, but called them by wrong names. "on the whole," he thought, "i justify myself on every point where cavillers like this oppugn my life: he tries one kind of fence, i close, he's worsted, that's enough for him. he's on the ground: if ground should break away i take my stand on, there's a firmer yet beneath it, both of us may sink and reach. his ground was over mine and broke the first: so, let him sit with me this many a year!" he did not sit five minutes. just a week sufficed his sudden healthy vehemence. something had struck him in the "outward-bound" another way than blougram's purpose was: and having bought, not cabin-furniture but settler's-implements (enough for three) and started for australia--there, i hope, by this time he has tested his first plough, and studied his last chapter of st. john. notes "bishop blougram's apology" is made over the wine after dinner to defend himself from the criticisms of a doubting young literary man, who despises him because he considers that he cannot be true to his convictions in conforming to the doctrines of the catholic church. he builds up his defence from the proposition that the problem of life is not to conceive ideals which cannot be realized, but to find what is and make it as fair as possible. the bishop admits his unbelief, but being free to choose either belief or unbelief, since neither can be proved wholly true, chooses belief as his guiding principle, because he finds it the best for making his own life and that of others happy and comfortable in this world. once having chosen faith on this ground, the more absolute the form of faith, the more potent the results; besides, the bishop has that desire of domination in his nature, which the authorization of the church makes safer for him. to gigadibs' objection that were his nature nobler, he would not count this success, he replies he is as god made him, and can but make the best of himself as he is. to the objection that he addresses himself to grosser estimators than he ought, he replies that all the world is interested in the fact that a man of his sense and learning, too, still believes at this late hour. he points out the impossibility of his following an ideal like napoleon's, for, conceding the merest chance that doubt may be wrong, and judgment to follow this life, he would not dare to slaughter men as napoleon had for such slight ends. as for shakespeare's ideal, he can't write plays like his if he wanted to, but he has realized things in his life which shakespeare only imagined, and which he presumes shakespeare would not have scorned to have realized in his life, judging from his fulfilled ambition to be a gentleman of property at stratford. he admits, however, that enthusiasm in belief, such as luther's, would be far preferable to his own way of living, and after this, enthusiasm in unbelief, which he might have if it were not for that plaguy chance that doubt may be wrong. gigadibs interposes that the risk is as great for cool indifference as for bold doubt. blougram disputes that point by declaring that doubts prove faith, and that man's free will preferring to have faith true to having doubt true tips the balance in favor of faith, and shows that man's instinct or aspiration is toward belief; that unquestioning belief, such as that of the past, has no moral effect on man, but faith which knows itself through doubt is a moral spur. thus the arguments from expediency, instinct, and consciousness, all bear on the side of faith, and convince the bishop that it is safer to keep his faith intact from his doubts. he then proves that gigadibs, with all his assumption of superiority in his frankness of unbelief, is in about the same position as himself, since the moral law which he follows has no surer foundation than the religious law the bishop follows, both founded upon instinct. the bishop closes as he began, with the consciousness that rewards for his way of living are of a substantial nature, while gigadibs has nothing to show for his frankness, and does not hesitate to say that gigadibs will consider his conversation with the bishop the greatest honor ever conferred upon him. the poet adds some lines, somewhat apologetic for the bishop, intimating that his arguments were suited to the calibre of his critic, and that with a profounder critic he would have made a more serious defence. speaking of a review of this poem by cardinal wiseman ( - ), browning says in a letter to a friend, printed in <poet-lore>, may, : "the most curious notice i ever had was from cardinal wiseman on <blougram>--<i.e.>, himself. it was in the <rambler>, a catholic journal of those days, and certified to be his by father prout, who said nobody else would have dared put it in." this review praises the poem for its "fertility of illustration and felicity of argument," and says that "though utterly mistaken in the very groundwork of religion, though starting from the most unworthy notions of the work of a catholic bishop, and defending a self-indulgence every honest man must feel to be disgraceful, [it] is yet in its way triumphant." . brother pugin: ( - ), an eminent english architect, who, becoming a roman catholic, designed many structures for that church. . corpus christi day: thursday after trinity sunday, when the feast of the sacrament of the altar is celebrated. . che: what. . count d' orsay: ( - ), a clever frenchman, distinguished as a man of fashion, and for his drawings of horses. . parma's pride, the 'jerome . . . correggio . . . the modenese: the picture of saint jerome in the ducal academy at parma, by correggio, who was born in the territory of modena, italy. . a chorus-ending from euripides: the greek dramatist, euripides ( b. c.- b. c.), frequently ended his choruses with this thought--sometimes with slight variations in expression: "the gods perform many things contrary to our expectations, and those things which we looked for are not accomplished; but god hath brought to pass things unthought of." . peter's . . . or rather, hildebrand's: the claim of hildebrand, pope gregory vii ( - ) for temporal power and authority exceeding saint peter's, the founder of the roman church. . schelling: the german philosopher ( - ). . austrian marriage: the marriage of marie louise, daughter of the emperor of austria, to napoleon i. . austerlitz: fought with success by napoleon, in , against the coalition of austria, russia, and england, and resulting in the alliance mentioned with austria and fresh overtures to the papal power and the old french nobility. . trimmest house in stratford: new place, a mansion in the heart of the town, built for sir hugh clopton, and known for two centuries as his "great house," bought with nearly an acre of ground by shakespeare, in . . giulio romano: italian painter ( - ), referred to in "winter's tale," v. ii. . --dowland: english musician, praised for his lute-playing in a sonnet in "the passionate pilgrim," attributed to shakespeare. . "pandulph," etc.: quotation from "king john," iii. i. . . luther: martin ( - ), whose enthusiasm reformed the church. . strauss: ( - ), one of the tuebingen philosophers, author of a rationalistic "life of jesus." . "what think ye," etc.: matthew . . . ichors o'er the place: ichor=serum, which exudes where the skin is broken, coats the hurt, and facilitates its healing. . snake 'neath michael's foot: rafael's picture in the louvre of saint michael slaying the dragon. . brother newman: john henry ( - ), leader of the tractarian movement at oxford, which approached the doctrines of the roman church. the last ( th) tract was entirely written by him. the bishop of oxford was called upon to stop the series, and in dr. newman entered the romish church. . king bomba: means king puffcheek, king liar, a sobriquet given to ferdinand ii, late king of the two sicilies. --lazzaroni: naples beggars, so called from the lazarus of the parable, luke . . . antonelli: cardinal, secretary of pope pius ix. . naples' liquefaction: the supposed miracle of the liquefaction of the blood of saint januarius the martyr. a small quantity of it is preserved in a crystal reliquary in the great church at naples, and when brought into the presence of the head of the saint, it melts. . decrassify: make less crass or gross. . fichte: ( - ), celebrated german metaphysician, who defined god as the "moral order of the universe." . "<pastor est tui dominus>": the lord is your shepherd. . anacreon: greek lyric poet of the sixth century b. c. . <in partibus episcopus>, etc.: "in countries where the roman catholic faith is not regularly established, as it was not in england before the time of cardinal wiseman, there were no bishops of sees in the kingdom itself, but they took their titles from heathen lands." cleon "as certain also of your own poets have said"-- cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles, lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea, and laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "greece")-- to protus in his tyranny: much health! they give thy letter to me, even now: i read and seem as if i heard thee speak. the master of thy galley still unlades gift after gift; they block my court at last and pile themselves along its portico royal with sunset, like a thought of thee: and one white she-slave from the group dispersed of black and white slaves (like the chequer-work pavement, at once my nation's work and gift, now covered with this settle-down of doves), one lyric woman, in her crocus vest woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands commends to me the strainer and the cup thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine. well-counselled, king, in thy munificence! for so shall men remark, in such an act of love for him whose song gives life its joy, thy recognition of the use of life; nor call thy spirit barely adequate to help on life in straight ways, broad enough for vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest. thou, in the daily building of thy tower-- whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil, or through dim lulls of unapparent growth, or when the general work 'mid good acclaim climbed with the eye to cheer the architect-- didst ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake-- hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope of some eventual rest a-top of it, whence, all the tumult of the building hushed, thou first of men mightst look out to the east: the vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun. for this, i promise on thy festival to pour libation, looking o'er the sea, making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak thy great words, and describe thy royal face-- wishing thee wholly where zeus lives the most, within the eventual element of calm. thy letter's first requirement meets me here. it is as thou hast heard: in one short life i, cleon, have effected all those things thou wonderingly dost enumerate. that epos on thy hundred plates of gold is mine--and also mine the little chant, so sure to rise from every fishing-bark when, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net. the image of the sun-god on the phare, men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine; the poecile, o'er-storied its whole length, as thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too. i know the true proportions of a man and woman also, not observed before; and i have written three books on the soul, proving absurd all written hitherto, and putting us to ignorance again. for music--why, i have combined the moods, inventing one. in brief, all arts are mine; thus much the people know and recognize, throughout our seventeen islands. marvel not. we of these latter days, with greater mind than our forerunners, since more composite, look not so great, beside their simple way, to a judge who only sees one way at once, one mind-point and no other at a time-- compares the small part of a man of us with some whole man of the heroic age, great in his way--not ours, nor meant for ours. and ours is greater, had we skill to know: for, what we call this life of men on earth, this sequence of the soul's achievements here being, as i find much reason to conceive, intended to be viewed eventually. as a great whole, not analyzed to parts, but each part having reference to all-- how shall a certain part, pronounced complete, endure effacement by another part? was the thing done?--then, what's to do again? see, in the chequered pavement opposite, suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb, and next a lozenge, then a trapezoid-- he did not overlay them, superimpose the new upon the old and blot it out, but laid them on a level in his work, making at last a picture; there it lies. so, first the perfect separate forms were made, the portions of mankind; and after, so, occurred the combination of the same. for where had been a progress, otherwise? mankind, made up of all the single men-- in such a synthesis the labor ends. now mark me! those divine men of old time have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point the outside verge that rounds our faculty; and where they reached, who can do more than reach? it takes but little water just to touch at some one point the inside of a sphere, and, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest in due succession: but the finer air which not so palpably nor obviously, though no less universally, can touch the whole circumference of that emptied sphere, fills it more fully than the water did; holds thrice the weight of water in itself resolved into a subtler element. and yet the vulgar call the sphere first full up to the visible height--and after, void; not knowing air's more hidden properties. and thus our soul, misknown, cries out to zeus to vindicate his purpose in our life: why stay we on the earth unless to grow? long since, i imaged, wrote the fiction out, that he or other god descended here and, once for all, showed simultaneously what, in its nature, never can be shown, piecemeal or in succession;--showed, i say, the worth both absolute and relative of all his children from the birth of time, his instruments for all appointed work. i now go on to image--might we hear the judgment which should give the due to each, show where the labor lay and where the ease, and prove zeus' self, the latent everywhere! this is a dream;--but no dream, let us hope, that years and days, the summers and the springs, follow each other with unwaning powers. the grapes which dye thy wine are richer far, through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock; the wave plum than the savage-tasted drupe; the pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet; the flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers; that young and tender crescent-moon, thy slave, sleeping above her robe as buoyed by clouds, refines upon the women of my youth. what, and the soul alone deteriorates? i have not chanted verse like homer, no-- nor swept string like terpander, no--nor carved and painted men like phidias and his friend; i am not great as they are, point by point. but i have entered into sympathy with these four, running these into one soul, who, separate, ignored each other's art. say, is it nothing that i know them all? the wild flower was the larger; i have dashed rose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup's honey with wine, and driven its seed to fruit, and show a better flower if not so large: i stand myself. refer this to the gods whose gift alone it is! which, shall i dare (all pride apart) upon the absurd pretext that such a gift by chance lay in my hand, discourse of lightly or depreciate? it might have fallen to another's hand: what then? i pass too surely: let at least truth stay! and next, of what thou followest on to ask. this being with me as i declare, king, my works, in all these varicolored kinds, so done by me, accepted so by men-- thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's hearts) i must not be accounted to attain the very crown and proper end of life? inquiring thence how, now life closeth up, i face death with success in my right hand: whether i fear death less than dost thyself the fortunate of men? "for" (writest thou) "thou leavest much behind, while i leave naught. thy life stays in the poems men shall sing, the pictures men shall study; while my life, complete and whole now in its power and joy, dies altogether with my brain and arm, is lost indeed; since, what survives myself? the brazen statue to o'erlook my grave, see on the promontory which i named. and that--some supple courtier of my heir shall use its robed and sceptred arm, perhaps, to fix the rope to, which best drags it down. i go then: triumph thou, who dost not go!" nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind. is this apparent, when thou turn'st to muse upon the scheme of earth and man in chief, that admiration grows as knowledge grows? that imperfection means perfection hid, reserved in part, to grace the after-time? if, in the morning of philosophy, ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived, thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have looked on all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird, ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage-- thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deduced the perfectness of others yet unseen. conceding which--had zeus then questioned thee "shall i go on a step, improve on this, do more for visible creatures than is done?" thou wouldst have answered, "ay, by making each grow conscious in himself--by that alone. all's perfect else: the shell sucks fast the rock, the fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims and slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight, till life's mechanics can no further go-- and all this joy in natural life is put like fire from off thy finger into each, so exquisitely perfect is the same. but 't is pure fire, and they mere matter are; it has them, not they it: and so i choose for man, thy last premeditated work (if i might add a glory to the scheme) that a third thing should stand apart from both, a quality arise within his soul, which, intro-active, made to supervise and feel the force it has, may view itself, and so be happy." man might live at first the animal life: but is there nothing more? in due time, let him critically learn how he lives; and, the more he gets to know of his own life's adaptabilities, the more joy-giving will his life become. thus man, who hath this quality, is best. but thou, king, hadst more reasonably said: "let progress end at once--man make no step beyond the natural man, the better beast, using his senses, not the sense of sense." in man there's failure, only since he left the lower and inconscious forms of life. we called it an advance, the rendering plain man's spirit might grow conscious of man's life, and, by new lore so added to the old, take each step higher over the brute's head. this grew the only life, the pleasure-house, watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul, which whole surrounding flats of natural life seemed only fit to yield subsistence to; a tower that crowns a country. but alas, the soul now climbs it just to perish there! for thence we have discovered ('t is no dream-- we know this, which we had not else perceived) that there's a world of capability for joy, spread round about us, meant for us, inviting us; and still the soul craves all, and still the flesh replies, "take no jot more than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad! nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought deduction to it." we struggle, fain to enlarge our bounded physical recipiency, increase our power, supply fresh oil to life, repair the waste of age and sickness: no, it skills not! life's inadequate to joy, as the soul sees joy, tempting life to take. they praise a fountain in my garden here wherein a naiad sends the water-bow thin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise. what if i told her, it is just a thread from that great river which the hills shut up, and mock her with my leave to take the same? the artificer has given her one small tube past power to widen or exchange--what boots to know she might spout oceans if she could? she cannot lift beyond her first thin thread; and so a man can use but a man's joy while he sees god's. is it for zeus to boast, "see, man, how happy i live, and despair-- that i may be still happier--for thy use!" if this were so, we could not thank our lord, as hearts beat on to doing; 'tis not so-- malice it is not. is it carelessness? still, no. if care--where is the sign? i ask, and get no answer, and agree in sum, king, with thy profound discouragement, who seest the wider but to sigh the more. most progress is most failure: thou sayest well. the last point now:--thou dost except a case-- holding joy not impossible to one with artist-gifts--to such a man as i who leave behind me living works indeed; for, such a poem, such a painting lives. what? dost thou verily trip upon a word, confound the accurate view of what joy is (caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine) with feeling joy? confound the knowing how and showing how to live (my faculty) with actually living?--otherwise where is the artist's vantage o'er the king? because in my great epos i display how divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act-- is this as though i acted? if i paint, carve the young phoebus, am i therefore young? methinks i'm older that i bowed myself the many years of pain that taught me art! indeed, to know is something, and to prove how all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more; but, knowing naught, to enjoy is something too. yon rower, with the moulded muscles there, lowering the sail, is nearer it than i. i can write love-odes: thy fair slave's an ode. i get to sing of love, when grown too gray for being beloved: she turns to that young man, the muscles all a-ripple on his back. i know the joy of kingship: well, thou art king! "but," sayest thou--(and i marvel, i repeat, to find thee trip on such a mere word) "what thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die: sappho survives, because we sing her songs, and aeschylus, because we read his plays!" why, if they live still, let them come and take thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup, speak in my place. thou diest while i survive? say rather that my fate is deadlier still, in this, that every day my sense of joy grows more acute, my soul (intensified by power and insight) more enlarged, more keen; while every day my hairs fall more and more, my hand shakes, and the heavy years increase-- the horror quickening still from year to year, the consummation coming past escape when i shall know most, and yet least enjoy-- when all my works wherein i prove my worth, being present still to mock me in men's mouths, alive still, in the praise of such as thou, i, i the feeling, thinking, acting man, the man who loved his life so over-much, sleep in my urn. it is so horrible, i dare at times imagine to my need some future state revealed to us by zeus, unlimited in capability for joy, as this is in desire for joy, --to seek which, the joy-hunger forces us: that, stung by straitness of our life, made strait on purpose to make prized the life at large-- freed by the throbbing impulse we call death, we burst there as the worm into the fly, who, while a worm still, wants his wings. but no! zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas, he must have done so, were it possible! live long and happy, and in that thought die; glad for what was! farewell. and for the rest, i cannot tell thy messenger aright where to deliver what he bears of thine to one called paulus; we have heard his fame indeed, if christus be not one with him-- i know not, nor am troubled much to know. thou canst not think a mere barbarian jew, as paulus proves to be, one circumcised, hath access to a secret shut from us? thou wrongest our philosophy, king, in stooping to inquire of such an one, as if his answer could impose at all! he writeth, doth he? well, and he may write. oh, the jew findeth scholars! certain slaves who touched on this same isle, preached him and christ; and (as i gathered from a bystander) their doctrine could be held by no sane man. notes "cleon" expresses the approach of greek thought at the time of christ towards the idea of immortality as made known by cleon, a greek poet writing in reply to a greek patron whose princely gifts and letter asking comment on the philosophical significance of death have just reached him. the important conclusions reached by cleon in his answer are that the composite mind is greater than the minds of the past, because it is capable of accomplishing much in many lines of activity, and of sympathizing with each of those simple great minds that had reached the highest possible perfection "at one point." it is, indeed, the necessary next step in development, though all classes of mind fit into the perfected mosaic of life, no one achievement blotting out any other. this soul and mind development he deduces from the physical development he sees about him. but since with the growth of human consciousness and the increase of knowledge comes greater capability to the soul for joy while the failure of physical powers shuts off the possibility of realizing joy, it would have been better had man been left with nothing higher than mere sense like the brutes. dismissing the idea of immortality through one's works as unsatisfactory to the individual, he finally concludes that a long and happy life is all there is to be hoped for, since, had the future life which he has sometimes dared to hope for been possible, zeus would long before have revealed it. he dismisses the preaching of one paulus as untenable. "as certain also of your own poets have said": this motto hints that paul's speech at athens (acts . - ) suggests and justifies browning's conception of such greek poets as cleon seeking "the lord, if haply they might feel after him." paul's quotation, "for we are also his offspring," is from the "phoenomena" by aratus, a greek poet of his own town of tarsus. . sprinkled isles: probably the sporades, so named because they were scattered, and in opposition to the cyclades, which formed a circle around delos. . phare: light-house. the french authority, allard, says that though there is no mention in classical writings of any light-house in greece proper, it is probable that there was one at the port of athens as well as at other points in greece. there were certainly several along both shores of the hellespont, besides the famous father of all light-houses, on the island of pharos, near alexandria. hence the french name for light-house, phare. . poecile: the portico at athens painted with battle pictures by polygnotus the thasian. . combined the moods: in greek music the scales were called moods or modes, and were subject to great variation in the arrangement of tones and semitones. . rhomb . . . lozenge . . . trapezoid: all four-sided forms, but differing as to the parallel arrangement of their sides and the obliquity of their angles. . terpander: musician of lesbos (about b. c.), who added three strings to the four-stringed greek lyre. . phidias: the athenian sculptor (about b. c.) --and his friend: pericles, ruler of athens ( - b.c.). plutarch speaks of their friendship in his life of pericles. . sappho: poet of lesbos, supreme among lyricists (about b. c.). only fragments of her verse remain. . aeschylus: oldest of the three great athenian dramatists ( - b. c.). . paulus; we have have heard his fame: paul's mission to the gentiles carried him to many of the islands in the aegean sea as well as to athens and corinth (acts - ). rudel to the lady of tripoli i i know a mount, the gracious sun perceives first, when he visits, last, too, when he leaves the world; and, vainly favored, it repays the day-long glory of his steadfast gaze by no change of its large calm front of snow. and underneath the mount, a flower i know, he cannot have perceived, that changes ever at his approach; and, in the lost endeavor to live his life, has parted, one by one, with all a flower's true graces, for the grace of being but a foolish mimic sun, with ray-like florets round a disk-like face. men nobly call by many a name the mount as over many a land of theirs its large calm front of snow like a triumphal targe is reared, and still with old names, fresh names vie, each to its proper praise and own account: men call the flower, the sunflower, sportively. ii oh, angel of the east, one, one gold look across the waters to this twilight nook, --the far sad waters. angel, to this nook! iii dear pilgrim, art thou for the east indeed? go!--saying ever as thou dost proceed, that i, french rudel, choose for my device a sunflower outspread like a sacrifice before its idol. see! these inexpert and hurried fingers could not fail to hurt the woven picture; 't is a woman's skill indeed; but nothing baffled me, so, ill or well, the work is finished. say, men feed on songs i sing, and therefore bask the bees on my flower's breast as on a platform broad: but, as the flower's concern is not for these but solely for the sun, so men applaud in vain this rudel, he not looking here but to the east--the east! go, say this, pilgrim dear! notes "rudel to the lady of tripoli": rudel symbolizes his love as the aspiration of the sunflower that longs only to become like the sun, so losing a flower's true grace, while the sun does not even perceive the flower. he imagines himself as a pilgrim revealing to the lady of tripoli by means of this symbol the entire sinking of self in his love for her. even men's praise of his songs is no more to him than the bees which bask on a sunflower are to it. rudel was a provencal troubadour, and lived in the twelfth century. the crusaders, returning from the east, spread abroad wonderful reports of the beauty, learning, and wit of the countess of tripoli, a small duchy on the mediterranean, north of palestine. rudel, although never having seen her, fell in love with her and composed songs in honor of her beauty, and finally set out to the east in pilgrim's garb. on his way he was taken ill, but lived to reach the port of tripoli. the countess, being told of his arrival, went on board the vessel. when rudel heard she was coming, he revived, said she had restored him to life by her coming, and that he was willing to die, having seen her. he died in her arms; she gave him a rich and honorable burial in a sepulchre of porphyry on which were engraved verses in arabic. one word more to e. b. b. [originally appended to the collection of poems called "men and women," the greater portion of which has now been, more correctly, distributed under the other titles of this edition.-r. b.] i there they are, my fifty men and women naming me the fifty poems finished! take them, love, the book and me together: where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. ii rafael made a century of sonnets, made and wrote them in a certain volume dinted with the silver-pointed pencil else he only used to draw madonnas: these, the world might view--but one, the volume. who that one, you ask? your heart instructs you. did she live and love it all her life-time? did she drop, his lady of the sonnets, die, and let it drop beside her pillow where it lay in place of rafael's glory, rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving-- cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's? you and i would rather read that volume, (taken to his beating bosom by it) lean and list the bosom-beats of rafael, would we not? than wonder at madonnas-- her, san sisto names, and her, foligno, her, that visits florence in a vision, her, that's left with lilies in the louvre-- seen by us and all the world in circle. iv you and i will never read that volume. guido reni, like his own eye's apple guarded long the treasure-book and loved it. guido reni dying, all bologna cried, and the world cried too, "ours, the treasure!" suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. v dante once prepared to paint an angel: whom to please? you whisper "beatrice." while he mused and traced it and retraced it, (peradventure with a pen corroded still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, when, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked, back he held the brow and pricked its stigma, bit into the live man's flesh, for parchment, loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle, let the wretch go festering through florence)-- dante, who loved well because he hated, hated wickedness that hinders loving, dante standing, studying his angel-- in there broke the folk of his inferno. says he--"certain people of importance" such he gave his daily dreadful line to) "entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet." says the poet--"then i stopped my painting." you and i would rather see that angel, painted by the tenderness of dante, would we not?--than read a fresh inferno. vii you and i will never see that picture. while he mused on love and beatrice, while he softened o'er his outlined angel, in they broke, those "people of importance;" we and bice bear the loss forever. viii what of rafael's sonnets, dante's picture? this: no artist lives and loves, that longs not once, and only once, and for one only, (ah, the prize !) to find his love a language fit and fair and simple and sufficient-- using nature that's an art to others, not, this one time, art that's turned his nature. ay, of all the artists living, loving, none but would forego his proper dowry-- does he paint? he fain would write a poem-- does he write? he fain would paint a picture, put to proof art alien to the artist's, once, and only once, and for one only, so to be the man and leave the artist, gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow. ix wherefore? heaven's gift takes earth's abatement! he who smites the rock and spreads the water, bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, even he, the minute makes immortal, proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute, desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. while he smites, how can he but remember, so he smote before, in such a peril, when they stood and mocked--"shall smiting help us?" when they drank and sneered--"a stroke is easy!" when they wiped their mouths and went their journey, throwing him for thanks--"but drought was pleasant." thus old memories mar the actual triumph; thus the doing savors of disrelish; thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat; o'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate, carelessness or consciousness--the gesture. for he bears an ancient wrong about him, sees and knows again those phalanxed faces, hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude-- "how shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us?" guesses what is like to prove the sequel-- "egypt's flesh-pots-nay, the drought was better." x oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant! theirs, the sinai-forehead's cloven brilliance, right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat. never dares the man put off the prophet. xi did he love one face from out the thousands, (were she jethro's daughter, white and wifely, were she but the ethiopian bondslave), he would envy yon dumb patient camel, keeping a reserve of scanty water meant to save his own life in the desert; ready in the desert to deliver (kneeling down to let his breast be opened) hoard and life together for his mistress. xii i shall never, in the years remaining, paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues, make you music that should all-express me; so it seems: i stand on my attainment. this of verse alone, one life allows me; verse and nothing else have i to give you. other heights in other lives, god willing; all the gifts from all the heights, your own, love! xiii yet a semblance of resource avails us-- shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. take these lines, look lovingly and nearly, lines i write the first time and the last time. he who works in fresco, steals a hair brush, curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly, cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, makes a strange art of an art familiar, fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets. he who blows thro' bronze, may breathe thro' silver, fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. he who writes, may write for once as i do. xiv love, you saw me gather men and women, live or dead or fashioned by my fancy, enter each and all, and use their service, speak from every mouth--the speech, a poem. hardly shall i tell my joys and sorrows, hopes and tears, belief and disbelieving: i am mine and yours--the rest be all men's, karshish, cleon, norbert and the fifty. let me speak this once in my true person, not as lippo, roland or andrea, though the fruit of speech be just this sentence; pray you, look on these my men and women, take and keep my fifty poems finished; where my heart lies, let my brain lie also! poor the speech; be how i speak, for all things. not but that you know me! lo, the moon's self! here in london, yonder late in florence, still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured. curving on a sky imbrued with color, drifted over fiesole by twilight, came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth. full she flared it, lamping samminiato, rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder, perfect till the nightingales applauded. now, a piece of her old self, impoverished, hard to greet, she traverses the houseroofs, hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver, goes dispiritedly, glad to finish. xvi what, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy? nay: for if that moon could love a mortal, use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy), all her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos), she would turn a new side to her mortal, side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman-- blank to zoroaster on his terrace, blind to galileo on his turret, dumb to homer, dumb to keats--him, even! think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal-- when she turns round, comes again in heaven, opens out anew for worse or better! proves she like some portent of an iceberg swimming full upon the ship it founders, hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals? proves she as the paved work of a sapphire seen by moses when he climbed the mountain? moses, aaron, nadab and abihu climbed and saw the very god, the highest, stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. like the bodied heaven in his clearness shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved work, when they ate and drank and saw god also! xvii what were seen? none knows, none ever shall know. only this is sure--the sight were other, not the moon's same side, born late in florence, dying now impoverished here in london. god be thanked, the meanest of his creatures boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, one to show a woman when he loves her! xviii this i say of me, but think of you, love! this to you--yourself my moon of poets! ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder, thus they see you, praise you, think they know you! there, in turn i stand with them and praise you-- out of my own self, i dare to phrase it. but the best is when i glide from out them, cross a step or two of dubious twilight, come out on the other side, the novel silent silver lights and darks undreamed of, where i hush and bless myself with silence. xix oh, their rafael of the dear madonnas, oh, their dante of the dread inferno, wrote one song--and in my brain i sing it, drew one angel--borne, see, on my bosom! r. b. notes "one word more" is the dedication to elizabeth barrett browning which was appended to "men and women" as first published when it contained fifty poems since distributed under other titles. the poet, recalling how rafael when he would all-express his love, wrote sonnets to the loved one, and how dante prepared to paint an angel for beatrice, draws the conclusion that there is no artist but longs to give expression to his supreme love in some other art than his own which would be the medium of a spontaneous, natural outburst of feeling in a way impossible in the familiar forms of his own art. thus he would gain a man's joy and miss the artist's sorrow, for, like the miracles of moses, the work of the artist is subject to the cold criticism of the world, which expects him nevertheless always to be the artist, and has no sympathy for him as a man. since there is no other art but poetry in which it is possible for browning to express himself, he will at least drop his accustomed dramatic form and speak in his own person; though it be poor, let it stand as a symbol for all-expression. yet does she not know him, for he has shown her his soul-side as one might imagine the moon showing another side to a mortal lover, which would remain forever as much a mystery to the outside world as the vision seen by moses, etc. similarly, he has admired the side his moon of poets has shown the whole world in her poetry, but he blesses himself with the thought of the other side which he alone has seen. . century of sonnets: rafael is known to have written four love sonnets on the back of sketches for his wall painting, the "disputa," which are still preserved in collections, one of them in the british museum. the italian text of these sonnets with english translations are given in wolzogen's life of him translated by f. e. bunn<e`>tt. did he ever write a hundred? it is supposed that the lost book once owned by guido reni, apparently the one referred to in stanza iv, was a book of drawings. perhaps these also bore sonnets on their backs, or browning guessed they did. . who that one: margarita, a girl rafael met and loved in rome, two portraits of whom exist--one in the barberini palace, rome, the other in the pitti, in florence. they resemble the sistine and other madonnas by rafael. . madonnas, etc.: "san sisto," now in dresden; "foligno," in the vatican, rome; the one in florence is called "del granduca," and represents her appearing in a vision; the one in the louvre, called "la belle jardini<e`>re," is seated in a garden among lilies. . dante once, etc.: "on that day," writes dante, "vita nuova," xxxv, "which fulfilled the year since my lady had been made of the citizens of eternal life, remembering of her as i sat alone, i betook myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon certain tablets." that this lady was beatrice portinari, as browning supposes, dante's devotion to her, in both "the new life" and "the divine comedy," should leave no doubt. yet the literalness of mr. w. m. rossetti makes him obtuse here, as he and other commentators seem to be in their understanding of browning throughout this stanza. browning evidently contrasts dante's tenderness here towards beatrice with the remorselessness of his pen in the "inferno" (see cantos and ), where he stigmatized his enemies as if using their very flesh for his parchment, so that ever after in the eyes of all florence they seemed to bear the marks of the poet's hate of their wickedness. it was people of this sort, grandees of the town, browning fancies, who again "hinder loving," breaking in upon the poet and seizing him unawares forsooth at this intimate moment of loving artistry. "chancing to turn my head," dante continues, "i perceived that some were standing beside me to whom i should have given courteous greeting, and that they were observing what i did: also i learned afterwards that they had been there a while before i perceived them." the tender moment was over. he stopped the painting, simply saying, "another was with me." . he who smites the rock: moses, whose experience in smiting the rock for water (exodus . - ; numbers . - ) is likened to the sorrow of the artist, serving a reckless world. . sinai-forehead's . . . brilliance: exodus . , ; . . . jethro's daughter: moses' wife, zipporah (exodus . , ). . aethiopian bondslave: numbers . . . liberal hand: the free hand of the fresco-painter cramped to do the exquisite little designs fit for the missal marge = margin of a prayer-book. . samminiato: san miniato, a church in florence. . turn a new side, etc.: the side turned away from the earth which our world never sees. . zoroaster: ( - b. c.), founder of the persian religion, and worshipper of light, whose habit it was to observe the heavens from his terrace, . galileo: ( - ), constructor of the first telescope, leading him to discover that the milky way was an assemblage of starry worlds, and the earth a planet revolving on its axis and about an orbit, for which opinion he was tried and condemned. when forced to retire from his professorship at padua, he continued his observations from his own house in florence. . dumb to homer, dumb to keats: homer celebrates the moon in the "hymn to diana" (see shelley's translation), and makes artemis upbraid her brother phoebus when he claims that it is not meet for gods to concern themselves with mortals (iliad, xxi. ). keats, in "endymion," sings of her love for a mortal. . moses, aaron, nadab and abihu, etc.: exodus . , . browning's shorter poems selected and edited by franklin t. baker, a.m. professor of english in teachers college, columbia university fourth edition. revised and enlarged new york the macmillan company london; macmillan & co., ltd. copyright , by the macmillan company. * * * * * set up and electrotyped october, . reprinted january, ; april, ; may, ; may, ; january, ; january, june, ; january, july, ; february, ; september, ; february, ; march, ; july, ; july, ; january, july, ; july, ; january, september, . norwood press j.s. cushing co.--berwick & smith co., norwood, mass., u.s.a. * * * * * preface these selections from the poetry of robert browning have been made with especial reference to the tastes and capacities of readers of the high-school age. every poem included has been found by experience to be within the grasp of boys and girls. most of browning's best poetry is within the ken of any reader of imagination and diligence. to the reader who lacks these, not only browning, but the great world of literature, remains closed: browning is not the only poet who requires close study. the difficulties he offers are, in his best poems, not more repellent to the thoughtful reader than the nut that protects and contains the kernel. to a boy or girl of active mind, the difficulty need rarely be more than a pleasant challenge to the exercise of a little patience and ingenuity. browning, when at his best in vigor, clearness, and beauty, is peculiarly a poet for young people. his freedom from sentimentality, his liveliness of conception and narration, his high optimism, and his interest in the things that make for the life of the soul, appeal to the imagination and the feelings of youth. the present edition, attempts but little in the way of criticism. the notes cover such matters as are not readily settled by an appeal to the dictionary, and suggest, in addition, questions that are designed to help in interpretation and appreciation. teachers' college, new york, _july_, . contents life of browning browning as poet appreciations chronological list of browning's works bibliography the pied piper of hamelin tray incident of the french camp "how they brought the good news from ghent to aix" hervé riel pheidippides my star evelyn hope love among the ruins misconceptions natural magic apparitions a wall confessions a woman's last word a pretty woman youth and art a tale cavalier tunes home-thoughts, from the sea summum bonum a face songs from pippa passes the lost leader apparent failure fears and scruples instans tyrannus the patriot the boy and the angel memorabilia why i am a liberal prospice epilogue to "asolando" "de gustibus--" the italian in england my last duchess the bishop orders his tomb at saint praxed's church the laboratory home thoughts, from abroad up at a villa--down in the city a toccata of galuppi's abt vogler rabbi ben ezra a grammarian's funeral andrea del sarto caliban upon setebos "childe roland to the dark tower came" an epistle saul one word more notes introduction life of browning robert browning was born in camberwell, london, may , . he was contemporary with tennyson, dickens, thackeray, lowell, emerson, hawthorne, darwin, spencer, huxley, dumas, hugo, mendelssohn, wagner, and a score of other men famous in art and science. browning's good fortune began with his birth. his father, a clerk in the bank of england, possessed ample means for the education of his children. he had artistic and literary tastes, a mind richly stored with philosophy, history, literature, and legend, some repute as a maker of verses, and a liberality that led him to assist his gifted son in following his bent. from his father robert inherited his literary tastes and his vigorous health; in his father he found a critic and companion. his mother was described by carlyle as a type of the true scotch gentlewoman. her "fathomless charity," her love of music, and her deep religious feeling reappear in the poet. free from struggles with adversity, and devoid of public or stirring incidents, the story of browning's life is soon told. it was the life of a scholar and man of letters, devoted to the study of poetry, philosophy, history; to the contemplation of the lives of men and women; and to the exercise of his chosen vocation. his school life was of meagre extent. he attended a private academy, read at home under a tutor, and for two years attended the university of london. when asked in his later life whether he had been to oxford or cambridge, he used to say, "italy was my university," and, indeed, his many poems on italian themes bear testimony to the profound influence of italy upon him. in his teens, he came under the influence of pope and byron, and wrote verses after their styles. then shelley came by accident in his way, and became to the boy the model of poetic excellence. in appeared his first published poem, _pauline_. it bears the marks of his peculiar genius; it has the germs of his merits and his defects. though not widely read, it received favorable notice from some of the critics. in appeared _paracelsus_, in _strafford_, in _sordello_. from this time on, for the fifty remaining years of his life, his poetic activity hardly ceased, though his poetry was of uneven excellence. the middle period of his work, beginning with _bells and pomegranates_ in , and ending with _balaustion's adventure_ (a transcript of euripides' _alcestis_) in , was by far the richest in poetic value. in he married elizabeth barrett, the poet. they left england for italy, where, because of mrs. browning's feeble health, they continued to reside until her death in . the remainder of his life was divided between england and italy, with frequent visits to southern france. his reputation as a poet had steadily grown. he was now one of the best known men in england. his mental activity continued unabated to the end. within the last thirty years of his life he wrote _the ring and the book_--his longest work, one of the longest and, intellectually, one of the greatest, of english poems; translated the _agamemnon_ of Æschylus and the _alcestis_ of euripides; published many shorter poems; kept up the studies which had always been his labor and his pastime; and found leisure also to know a wide circle of men and women. william sharp gives a pleasing picture of the last years of his life: "everybody wished him to come and dine; and he did his utmost to gratify everybody. he saw everything; read all the notable books; kept himself acquainted with the leading contents of the journals and magazines; conducted a large correspondence; read new french, german, and italian books of mark; read and translated euripides and Æschylus: knew all the gossip of the literary clubs, salons, and the studios; was a frequenter of afternoon tea-parties; and then, over and above it, he was browning: the most profoundly subtle mind that has exercised itself in poetry since shakespeare."[ ] he died in venice, on december , , and was buried in the poet's corner of westminster abbey. [footnote : sharp's _life of browning_.] browning as poet the three generations of readers who have lived since browning's first publication have seen as many attitudes taken toward one of the ablest poetic spirits of the century. to the first he appeared an enigma, a writer hopelessly obscure, perhaps not even clear in his own mind, as to the message he wished to deliver; to the second he appeared a prophet and a philosopher, full of all wisdom and subtlety, too deep for common mortals to fathom with line and plummet,--concealing below green depths of ocean priceless gems of thought and feeling; to the third, a poet full of inequalities in conception and expression, who has done many good things well and has made many grave failures. no poet in our generation has fared so ill at the hands of the critics. already the browning library is large. some of the criticism is good; much of it, regarding the author as philosopher and symbolist, is totally askew. reams have been written in interpretation of _childe roland_, an imaginative fantasy composed in one day. abstruse ideas have been wrested from the simple story of _my last duchess_. his poetry has been the stamping-ground of theologians and the centre of prattling literary circles. in this tortuous maze of futile criticism the one thing lost sight of is the fact that a poet must be judged by the standards of art. it must be confessed, however, that browning is himself to blame for much of the smoke of commentary that has gathered round him. he has often chosen the oblique expression where the direct would serve better; often interpolated his own musing subtleties between the reader and the life he would present; often followed his theme into intricacies beyond his own power to resolve into the simple forms of art. thus it has come about that misguided readers became enigma hunters, and the poet their sphinx. the real question with browning, as with any poet, is, what is his work and worth as an artist? what of human life has he presented, and how clear and true are his presentations? what passions, what struggles, what ideals, what activities of men has he added to the art world? what beauty and dignity, what light, has he created? how does he view life: with what of hope, or aspiration, or strength? these questions may be discussed under his sense and mastery of form, and under his views of human life. browning's sense of form has often been attacked and defended. the first impression upon reading him is of harshness amounting to the grotesque. rhymes often clash and jangle like the music of savages. such rhymes as "fancy the fabric... ere mortar dab brick," strain dignity and beauty to the breaking-point. archaic and bizarre words are pressed into service to help out the rhyme and metre; instead of melodic rhythm there are harsh and jolting combinations; until the reader brought up in the traditions of shakespeare, milton, and tennyson, is fain to cry out, this is not poetry! in internal form, as well, browning often defies the established laws of literature. distorted and elliptical sentences, long and irrelevant parentheses, curious involutions of thought, and irregular or incoherent development of the narrative or the picture, often leave the reader in despair even of the meaning. nor can these departures from orderly beauty always be defended by the exigencies of the subjects. they do not fit the theme. they are the discords of a musician who either has not mastered his instrument or is not sensitive to all the finer effects. some of his work stands out clear from these faults: _a toccata of galuppi's_, _love among the ruins_, the songs from _pippa passes_, _apparitions_, _andrea del sarto_, and a score of others might be cited to show that browning could write with a sense of form as true, and an ear as delicate, as could any poet of the century, except tennyson. to browning belongs the credit of having created a new poetic form,--the dramatic monologue. in this form the larger number of his poems are cast. among the best examples in this volume are _my last duchess_, _the bishop orders his tomb_, _the laboratory_, and _confessions_. one person only is speaking, but reveals the presence, action, and thoughts of the others who are in the scene at the same time that he reveals his own character, as in a conversation in which but one voice is audible. the dramatic monologue has in a peculiar degree the advantages of compression and vividness, and is, in browning's hands, an instrument of great power. the charge of obscurity so often made against browning's poetry must in part be admitted. as has been said above he is often led off by his many-sided interests into irrelevancies and subtleties that interfere with simplicity and beauty. his compressed style and his fondness for unusual words often make an unwarranted demand upon the reader's patience. such passages are a challenge to his admirers and a repulse to the indifferent. sometimes, indeed, the ore is not worth the smelting; often it yields enough to reward the greatest patience. browning, like all great poets, knew life widely and deeply through men and books. he was born in london, near the great centres of the intellectual movements of his time; he travelled much, especially in italy and france; he read widely in the literatures and philosophies of many ages and many lands; and so grew into the cosmopolitanism of spirit that belonged to chaucer and to shakespeare. in all art human life is the matter of ultimate interest. to browning this was so in a peculiar degree. in the epistolary preface to _sordello_, written thirty years after its first publication, he said: "my stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul: little else is worth study." this interest in "the development of a soul" is the keynote of nearly all his work. to it are directly traceable many of the most obvious excellences and defects of his poetry. he came to look below the surfaces of things for the soul beneath them. he came to be "the subtlest assertor of the soul in song," and like his own pair of lovers on the campagna, "unashamed of soul." his early preference of shelley to keats indicated this bent. his readers are conscious always of revelations of the souls of the men and women he portrays; the sweet and tender womanhood of the duchess, the sordid and material soul of the old bishop of st. praxed's, the devoted and heroic soul of napoleon's young soldier, the weary and despairing soul of andrea del sarto,--and a host of others stand before us cleared of the veil of habit and convention. the souls of men appear as the victors over all material and immaterial obstacles. human affection transforms the bare room to a bower of fruits and flowers; human courage and resolution carry childe roland victoriously past the threats and terrors of malignant nature, and the despair from accumulated memories of failure; death itself is described in _evelyn hope_, in _prospice_, in _rabbi ben ezra_, as a phase, a transit of the soul, wherein the material aspects and the physical terrors disappear. in browning's poetry, the one real and permanent thing is the world of ideas, the world of the spirit. he is in this one of the truest platonists of modern times. to many young readers this method in art comes like a revelation. other poets also portray the souls of men; but browning does it more obviously, more intentionally, more insistently. it is well, therefore, to have read browning. to learn to read him aright is to enter the gateway to other good and great poetry. out of this predominating interest in the souls of men, and out of his intense intellectual activity and scientific curiosity, grows one of browning's greatest defects. he is often led too far afield, into intricacies and anomalies of character beyond the range of common experience and sympathy. the criminal, the "moral idiot," belong to the alienist rather than to the poet. the abnormalities of nature have no place in the world of great art; they do not echo the common experience of mankind. already the interest is decreasing in that part of his poetry which deals with such themes. bishop blougram and mr. sludge will not take place in the ranks of artistic creations. nor can the poet's "special pleading" for such types, however ingenious it may be, whatever philanthropy of soul it may imply, be regarded as justification. sometimes, indeed, the poet is led by his sympathy and his intellectual ingenuity into defences that are inconsistent with his own standards of the true and the beautiful. the trait in browning which appeals to the largest number of readers is his strenuous optimism. he will admit no evil or sorrow too great to be borne, too irrational to have some ultimate purpose of beneficence. "there shall never be one lost good," says abt vogler. the suicides in the morgue only serve to call forth his declaration:-- "my own hope is, a sun will pierce the thickest cloud earth ever stretched; * * * * * that what began best can't end worst, nor what god blessed once, prove accurst." he has no fear of death; he will face it gladly, in confidence of the life beyond. his grammarian is content to assume an order of things which will justify in the next life his ceaseless toil in this, merely to learn how to live. rabbi ben ezra's old age is serene in the hope of the continuity of life and the eternal development of character; he finds life good, and the plan of things perfect. in brief, browning accepts life as it is, and believes it good, piecing out his conception of the goodness of life by drawing without limit upon his hopes of the other world. with the exception of a few poems like _andrea del sarto_, this is the unbroken tone of his poetry. calvinism, asceticism, pessimism in any form, he rejects. he sustains his position not by argument, but by hope and assertion. it is a matter of temperament: he is optimistic because he was born so. different from the serene optimism of shakespeare's later life, in _the tempest_ and _the winter's tale_, in that it is not, like shakespeare's, born of long and deep suffering from the contemplation of the tragedies of human life, it bears, in that degree, less of solace and conviction. to browning's temperament, also, may be ascribed another prominent trait in his work. he steadily asserts the right of the individual to live out his own life, to be himself in fulfilling his desires and aspirations. _the statue and the bust_ is the famous exposition of this doctrine. it is a teaching that neither the poet's optimism nor his acumen has justified in the minds of men. it is a return to the unbridled freedom of nature advocated by whitman and rousseau; an extreme assertion of the value of the individual man, and of unregulated democracy; an outgrowth, it may be, of the robustness and originality of browning's nature, and interesting--not as a clew to his life, which conformed to that of organized society--but as a clew to his independence of classical and conventional forms in the exercise of his art. creative energy browning has in high degree. with the poet's insight into character and motives, the poet's grasp of the essential laws of human life, the poet's vividness of imagination, he has portrayed a host of types distinct from each other, true to life, strongly marked and consistent. with fine dramatic instinct he has shown these characters in true relation to the facts of life and to each other. in this respect he has satisfied the most exigent demands of art, and has already taken rank as one of the great creative minds of the nineteenth century. true poet he is, also, in his depth of feeling and range of sympathy. beneath a ruggedness of intellect, like his landscape in _de gustibus_, there is always sympathy and tenderness. it is, indeed, more like the serenity of chaucer's emotions than like the tragic fervor of shakespeare's. mrs. browning's estimate of him in _lady geraldine's courtship_,-- "or from browning some 'pomegranate,' which, if cut deep down the middle, shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity," is true criticism. his love of nature, and his sense of the joy and beauty of it, appear often in his poetry; but not with the same insistence as in wordsworth and burns, and seldom with the same pervasiveness, or with the same beauty, as in tennyson. he was rather the poet of men's souls. when he does use nature, it is generally to illustrate some phase or experience of the soul, and not for the sake of its beauty. he has, however, some nature-descriptions so exquisite that english poetry would be the poorer for their loss. witness _de gustibus_, _up at a villa_, _home thoughts from abroad_, _pippa's songs_, and _saul_. it is too early to guess at browning's permanent place in our literature. but his vigor of intellect, his insight into the human heart, his originality in phrase and conception, his unquenchable and fearless optimism, and his grasp of the problems of his century, make him beyond question one of its greatest figures. appreciations shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, therefore, on him no speech! and brief for thee, browning! since chaucer was alive and hale no man has walked along our roads with step so active, so inquiring eye, or tongue so varied in discourse. but warmer climes give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze of alpine heights thou playest with, borne on beyond sorrento and amalfi, where the siren waits thee, singing song for song. --walter savage landor. tennyson has a vivid feeling of the dignity and potency of _law_.... browning vividly feels the importance, the greatness and beauty of passions and enthusiasms, and his imagination is comparatively unimpressed by the presence of law and its operations.... it is not the order and regularity in the processes of the natural world which chiefly delight browning's imagination, but the streaming forth of power, and will, and love from the whole face of the visible universe.... tennyson considers the chief instruments of human progress to be a vast increase of knowledge and of political organization. browning makes that progress dependent on the production of higher passions, and aspirations,--hopes, and joys, and sorrows; tennyson finds the evidence of the truth of the doctrine of progress in the universal presence of a self-evolving law. browning obtains his assurance of its truth from inward presages and prophecies of the soul, from anticipations, types, and symbols of a higher greatness in store for man, which even now reside within him, a creature ever unsatisfied, ever yearning upward in thought, feeling, and endeavour. ... hence, it is not obedience, it is not submission to the law of duty, which points out to us our true path of life, but rather infinite desire and endless aspiration. browning's ideal of manhood in this world always recognizes the fact that it is the ideal of a creature who never can be perfected on earth, a creature whom other and higher lives await in an endless hereafter.... the gleams of knowledge which we possess are of chief value because they "sting with hunger for full light." the goal of knowledge, as of love, is god himself. its most precious part is that which is least positive--those momentary intuitions of things which eye hath not seen nor ear heard. the needs of the highest parts of our humanity cannot be supplied by ascertained truth, in which we might rest, or which we might put to use for definite ends; rather by ventures of faith, which test the courage of the soul, we ascend from surmise to assurance, and so again to higher surmise.--condensed from edward dowden, _studies in literature_. ... browning has not cared for that poetic form which bestows perennial charm, or else he was incapable of it. he fails in beauty, in concentration of interest, in economy of language, in selection of the best from the common treasure of experience. in those works where he has been most indifferent, as in the _red cotton night-cap country_, he has been merely whimsical and dull; in those works where the genius he possessed is most felt, as in _saul_, _a toccata of galuppi's_, _rabbi ben ezra_, _the flight of the duchess_, _the bishop orders his tomb in saint praxed's church_, _hervé riel_, _cavalier tunes_, _time's revenges_, and many more, he achieves beauty, or nobility, or fitness of phrase such as only a poet is capable of. it is in these last pieces and their like that his fame lies for the future. it was his lot to be strong as the thinker, the moralist, with "the accomplishment of verse," the scholar interested to rebuild the past of experience, the teacher with an explicit dogma in an intellectual form with examples from life, the anatomist of human passions, instincts, and impulses in all their gamut, the commentator on his own age; he was weak as the artist, often unnecessarily and by choice, in the repulsive form,--in the awkward, the obscure, the ugly. he belongs with jonson, with dryden, with the heirs of the masculine intellect, the men of power not unvisited by grace, but in whom mind is predominant. upon the work of such poets time hesitates, conscious of their mental greatness, but also of their imperfect art, their heterogeneous matter; at last the good is sifted from that whence worth has departed.--from george edward woodberry's _studies in letters and life_. when it is urged that for a poet the intellectual energies are too strong in browning, that for poetry the play of intellectual interests and activities is too great in his work, and that browning often and at times ruthlessly sacrifices the requirements and effects of art for the expression of thought, that "though he refreshes the heart he tires the brain," we should admit this with regard to a good deal of the work of the third period. we should allow that this is the side to which he leans generally, but still hold that, though to many his intellectual quality and energy may well seem excessive, yet in great part of his work, and that of course, his best, the passion of the poet and his kind of imagination are just as fresh and powerful as the intellectual force and subtlety are keen and abundant.--james frothingham, _studies of the mind and art of robert browning_. now dumb is he who waked the world to speak, and voiceless hangs the world beside his bier, our words are sobs, our cry or praise a tear: we are the smitten mortal, we the weak. we see a spirit on earth's loftiest peak shine, and wing hence the way he makes more clear: see a great tree of life that never sere dropped leaf for aught that age or storms might wreak; such ending is not death: such living shows what wide illumination brightness sheds from one big heart,--to conquer man's old foes: the coward, and the tyrant, and the force of all those weedy monsters raising heads when song is muck from springs of turbid source. --george meredith. * * * * * chronological list of browning's works . pauline. . paracelsus. . strafford (a tragedy). . sordello. . bells and pomegranates, no i., pippa passes. . bells and pomegranates, no. ii., king victor and king charles. . bells and pomegranates, no. iii., dramatic lyrics. cavalier tunes. italy and france. camp and cloister. in a gondola. artemis prologises. waring. queen worship. madhouse cells. through the metidja. the pied piper of hamelin. . bells and pomegranates, no. iv., the return of the druses (a tragedy). . bells and pomegranates, no. v., a blot in the 'scutcheon (a tragedy). . bells and pomegranates, no. vi., colombe's birthday (a play). . bells and pomegranates, no. vii. "how they brought the good news from ghent to aix." pictor ignotos. the italian in england. the englishman in italy. the lost leader. the lost mistress. home thoughts from abroad. the bishop orders his tomb. garden fancies. the laboratory. the confessional. the flight of the duchess. earth's immortalities. song: "nay, but you,--who do not love her." the boy and the angel. night and morning. claret and tokay. saul. time's revenges. the glove. . bells and pomegranates, no. viii., luria, and a soul's tragedy. . christmas eve and easterday. . introductory essay to shelley's letters. . men and women. volume i. love among the ruins. a lover's quarrel. evelyn hope. up at a villa--down in the city. a woman's last word. fra lippo lippi. a toccata of galuppi's. by the fireside. any wife to any husband. an epistle (karshish). mesmerism. a serenade at the villa. my star. instans tyrannus. a pretty woman. "childe roland to the dark tower came." respectability. a light woman. the statue and the bust. love in a life. life in a love. how it strikes a contemporary. the last ride together. the patriot. master hugues of saxe-gotha. bishop blougram's apology. memorabilia. volume ii. andrea del sarto. before and after. in three days. in a year. old pictures in florence. in a balcony. saul. "de gustibus--." women and roses. protus. holy-cross day. the guardian angel. cleon. the twins. popularity. the heretic's tragedy. two in the campagna. a grammarian's funeral. one way of love. another way of love. "transcendentalism." misconceptions. one word more. . dramatis personæ. 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, "the medium." apparent failure. epilogue. - . the ring and the book. . balaustion's adventure. . prince hohenstiel-schwangau. . fifine at the fair. . red cotton night-cap country. . aristophanes' apology. . the inn album. . pacchiarotto, and other poems (including natural magic and hervé riel). . the agamemnon of Æschylus. . la saisiaz, and the two poets of croisic. - . dramatic idyls. . jocoseria. . ferishtah's fancies. . parleyings with certain people. . asolando. bibliography the poetical works of robert browning (the macmillan company, ten vols.). browning's complete poetical works, cambridge edition (houghton, mifflin & co., one vol.). selections from browning (crowell & co., one vol.). life of browning, by william sharp. life of browning, by mrs. sutherland orr. introduction to browning, by hiram corson. guide book to browning, by george willis cook. browning cyclopædia, by edward berdoe. literary studies, by walter bagehot. studies in literature, by edward dowden. makers of literature, by george edward woodberry (new york, ). boston browning society papers. a handbook to the works of robert browning, by mrs sutherland orr. robert browning: personalia, by edmund gosse. life of the spirit in modern english poets, by vida d. scudder. victorian poetry, by edmund clarence stedman. studies of the mind and art of robert browning, by james fotheringham. browning society papers. our living poets, by h. buxton forman. browning's message to his times, by edward berdoe (london, ). browning studies, by edward berdoe (london, ). the poetry of robert browning, by stopford brooke (new york, ). browning, poet and man, by e.l. cary (new york, ). (an extensive bibliography, biographical and critical, is given in the appendix to sharp's life of browning; london, walter scott, .) * * * * * the pied piper of hamelin a child's story _(written for, and inscribed to w. m. the younger)_ i hamelin° town's in brunswick, ° by famous hanover city; the river weser, deep and wide, washes its walls on either side; a pleasanter spot you never spied; but, when begins my ditty, almost five hundred years ago, to see the townsfolk suffer so from vermin, was a pity. ii rats! they fought the dogs and killed the cats, and bit the babies in the cradles, and ate the cheeses out of the vats, and licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, split open the kegs of salted sprats. made nests inside men's sunday hats. and even spoiled the women's chats by drowning their speaking with shrieking and squeaking in fifty different sharps and flats. iii at last the people in a body to the town hall came flocking: "'tis clear," cried they, "our mayor's a noddy; and as for our corporation, shocking to think we buy gowns lined with ermine for dolts that can't or won't determine what's best to rid us of our vermin! you hope, because you're old and obese, to find in the furry civic robe ease! rouse up, sirs! give your brains a racking to find the remedy we're lacking, or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" at this the mayor and corporation quaked with a mighty consternation. iv an hour they sat in council; at length the mayor broke silence: "for a guilder i'd my ermine gown sell, i wish i were a mile hence! it's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- i'm sure my poor head aches again, i've scratched it so, and all in vain. oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" just as he said this, what should hap at the chamber door but a gentle tap? "bless us," cried the mayor, "what's that?" (with the corporation as he sat, looking little, though wondrous fat; nor brighter was his eye, nor moister than a too-long-opened oyster, save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous for a plate of turtle, green and glutinous) "only a scraping of shoes on the mat? anything like the sound of a rat makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" v "come in!"--the mayor cried, looking bigger: and in did come the strangest figure! his queer long coat from heel to head was half of yellow and half of red, and he himself was tall and thin, with sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, with light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, no tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin, but lips where smiles went out and in; there was no guessing his kith and kin: and nobody could enough admire the tall man and his quaint attire. quoth one: "it's as my great grandsire, starting up at the trump of doom's tone, had walked his way from his painted tombstone!" vi he advanced to the council-table: and, "please your honors," said he, "i'm able, by means of a secret charm, to draw all creatures living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run, after me so as you never saw! and i chiefly use my charm on creatures that do people harm, the mole and toad and newt and viper; and people call me the pied piper." (and here they noticed round his neck a scarf of red and yellow stripe, to match with his coat of self-same cheque: and at the scarf's end hung a pipe; and his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying, as if impatient to be playing upon this pipe, as low it dangled over his vesture so old-fangled.) "yet," said he, "poor piper as i am, in tartary i freed the cham,° ° last june, from his huge swarms of gnats; i eased in asia the nizam° ° of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: and as for what your brain bewilders, if i can rid your town of rats will you give me a thousand guilders?" "one? fifty thousand!"--was the exclamation of the astonished mayor and corporation. vii into the street the piper stept, smiling first a little smile, as if he knew what magic slept in his quiet pipe the while: then, like a musical adept, to blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, and green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; and ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, you heard as if an army muttered: and the muttering grew to a grumbling; and the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; and out of the houses the rats came tumbling. great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, grave old plodders, gay young friskers, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, cocking tails and pricking whiskers, families by tens and dozens, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- followed the piper for their lives. from street to street he piped advancing, and step for step they followed dancing, until they came to the river weser, wherein all plunged and perished! --save one, who, stout as julius cæsar, swam across and lived to carry (as he, the manuscript he cherished) to rat-land home his commentary: which was: "at the first shrill notes of the pipe, i heard a sound as of scraping tripe, and putting apples, wondrous ripe, into a cider press's gripe; and a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, and a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, and a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, and a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: and it seemed as if a voice (sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery is breathed) called out, 'oh, rats, rejoice! the world is grown to one vast drysaltery! so munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' and just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, already staved, like a great sun shone glorious scarce an inch before me, just as methought it said, 'come, bore me!' --i found the weser rolling o'er me." viii you should have heard the hamelin people ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "go," cried the mayor, "and get long poles, poke out the nests and block up the holes! consult with carpenters and builders, and leave in our town, not even a trace of the rats!"--when suddenly, up the face of the piper perked in the market-place, with a, "first, if you please, my thousand guilders!" ix a thousand guilders! the mayor looked blue; so did the corporation, too. for council dinners made rare havoc with claret,° moselle,° vin-de-grave,° hock°; ° and half the money would replenish their cellar's biggest butt with rhenish°. ° to pay this sum to a wandering fellow with a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "beside," quoth the mayor, with a knowing wink, "our business was done at the river's brink; we saw with our eyes the vermin sink, and what's dead can't come to life, i think. so, friend, we're not the folks to shrink from the duty of giving you something for drink, and a matter of money to put in your poke; but as for the guilders, what we spoke of them, as you very well know, was in joke. beside, our losses have made us thrifty. a thousand guilders! come, take fifty!" x the piper's face fell, and he cried, "no trifling! i can't wait! beside, i've promised to visit by dinner-time bagdat, and accept the prime of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in, for having left, in the caliph's° kitchen, ° of a nest of scorpions no survivor: with him i proved no bargain-driver, with you, don't think i'll bate a stiver! and folks who put me in a passion may find me pipe after another fashion." xi "how?" cried the mayor, "d'ye think i brook being worse treated than a cook? insulted by a lazy ribald with idle pipe and vesture piebald? you threaten us, fellow? do your worst! blow your pipe there till you burst!" xii once more he stept into the street, and to his lips again laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; and ere he blew three notes (such sweet, soft notes as yet musician's cunning never gave the enraptured air) there was a rustling that seemed like a bustling of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, and, like fowls in a farm-yard, when barley is scattering, out came the children running. all the little boys and girls. with rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, and sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, tripping and skipping, ran merrily after the wonderful music with shouting and laughter. xiii the mayor was dumb, and the council stood as if they were changed into blocks of wood. unable to move a step, or cry to the children merrily skipping by, --could only follow with the eye that joyous crowd at the piper's back. but how the mayor was on the rack, and the wretched council's bosom beat, as the piper turned from the high street to where the weser rolled its waters, right in the way of their sons and daughters! however, he turned from south to west, and to koppelberg hill his steps addressed, and after him the children pressed: great was the joy in every breast. "he never can cross that mighty top! he's forced to let the piping drop, and we shall see our children stop." when lo, as they reached the mountain-side, a wondrous portal opened wide, as if a cavern were suddenly hollowed; and the piper advanced, and the children followed, and when all were in, to the very last, the door in the mountain-side shut fast. did i say all? no! one was lame, and could not dance the whole of the way; and in after years, if you would blame his sadness, he was used to say,-- "it's dull in our town since my playmates left! i can't forget that i'm bereft of all the pleasant sights they see, which the piper also promised me. for he led us, he said, to a joyous land. joining the town, and just at hand, where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, and flowers put forth a fairer hue, and everything was strange and new: the sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, and their dogs outran our fallow deer. and honey-bees had lost their stings, and horses were born with eagles' wings; and just as i became assured, my lame foot would be speedily cured, the music stopped and i stood still, and found myself outside the hill, left alone against my will, to go now limping as before. and never hear of that country more!" xiv alas, alas for hamelin! there came into many a burgher's pate a text which says that heaven's gate opes to the rich at as easy a rate as the needle's eye takes a camel in! the mayor sent east, west, north, and south, to offer the piper, by word of mouth, wherever it was men's lot to find him, silver and gold to his heart's content, if he'd only return the way he went, and bring the children behind him. but when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, and piper and dancers were gone forever, they made a decree that lawyers never should think their records dated duly if, after the day of the month and year, these words did not as well appear, "and so long after what happened here on the twenty-second of july, thirteen hundred and seventy-six;" and the better in memory to fix the place of the children's last retreat, they called it the pied piper's street-- where any one playing on pipe or tabor was sure for the future to lose his labour. nor suffered they hostelry or tavern to shock with mirth a street so solemn; but opposite the place of the cavern they wrote the story on a column, and on the great church window painted the same, to make the world acquainted how their children were stolen away. and there it stands to this very day. and i must not omit to say that in transylvania there's a tribe of alien people who ascribe the outlandish ways and dress on which their neighbours lay such stress, to their fathers and mothers having risen out of some subterraneous prison into which they were trepanned long time ago in a mighty band out of hamelin town in brunswick land, but how or why, they don't understand. xv so, willy, let me and you be wipers of scores out with all men--especially pipers! and, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, if we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! * * * * * tray sing me a hero! quench my thirst of soul, ye bards! quoth bard the first: "sir olaf,° the good knight, did don ° his helm, and eke his habergeon ..." sir olaf and his bard----! "that sin-scathed brow"° (quoth bard the second), ° "that eye wide ope as tho' fate beckoned my hero to some steep, beneath which precipice smiled tempting death ..." you too without your host have reckoned! "a beggar-child" (let's hear this third!) "sat on a quay's edge: like a bird sang to herself at careless play, and fell into the stream. 'dismay! help, you the standers-by!' none stirred. "bystanders reason, think of wives and children ere they risk their lives. over the balustrade has bounced a mere instinctive dog, and pounced plumb on the prize. 'how well he dives! "'up he comes with the child, see, tight in mouth, alive too, clutched from quite a depth of ten feet--twelve, i bet! good dog! what, off again? there's yet another child to save? all right! "'how strange we saw no other fall! it's instinct in the animal. good dog! but he's a long while under: if he got drowned i should not wonder-- strong current, that against the wall! "'here he comes, holds in mouth this time --what may the thing be? well, that's prime! now, did you ever? reason reigns in man alone, since all tray's pains have fished--the child's doll from the slime!' "and so, amid the laughter gay, trotted my hero off,--old tray,-- till somebody, prerogatived with reason, reasoned: 'why he dived, his brain would show us, i should say. "'john, go and catch--or, if needs be, purchase that animal for me! by vivisection, at expense of half-an-hour and eighteen pence, how brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see!'" * * * * * incident of the french camp you know, we french stormed ratisbon°: ° a mile or so away on a little mound, napoleon stood on our storming-day; with neck out-thrust, you fancy how, legs wide, arms locked behind, as if to balance the prone brow oppressive with its mind. just as perhaps he mused "my plans that soar, to earth may fall, let once my army-leader lannes° ° waver at yonder wall"-- out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew a rider, bound on bound full-galloping; nor bridle drew until he reached the mound, then off there flung in smiling joy, and held himself erect by just his horse's mane, a boy: you hardly could suspect°-- ° (so tight he kept his lips compressed. scarce any blood came through) you looked twice ere you saw his breast was all but shot in two. "well," cried he, "emperor, by god's grace we've got you ratisbon! the marshal's in the market-place, and you'll be there anon to see your flag-bird flap his vans where i, to heart's desire, perched him!" the chief's eye flashed; his plans soared up again like fire. the chief's eye flashed; but presently softened itself, as sheathes a film the mother-eagle's eye when her bruised eaglet breathes. "you're wounded!" "nay," the soldier's pride touched to the quick, he said: "i'm killed, sire!" and his chief beside, smiling, the boy fell dead. * * * * * "how they brought the good news from ghent to aix" [ --] i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he; i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, and into the midnight we galloped abreast. not a word to each other; we kept the great pace neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; i turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily roland a whit. 'twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near lokeren°, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear: ° at boom°, a great yellow star came out to see; ° at düffeld°, 'twas morning as plain as could be; ° and from mecheln° church-steeple we heard the half-chime, ° so, joris broke silence with, "yet there is time!" at aershot° up leaped of a sudden the sun, ° and against him the cattle stood black every one, to stare through the mist at us galloping past, and i saw my stout galloper roland, at last, with resolute shoulders, each butting away the haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: and his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back for my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; and one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance o'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! and the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon his fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. by hasselt, dirck groaned; and cried joris, "stay spur! your roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, we'll remember at aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, and sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, as down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. so, we were left galloping, joris and i, past looz and past tongres, no cloud in the sky; the broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; till over by dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, and "gallop," gasped joris, "for aix is in sight!" "how they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; and there was my roland to bear the whole weight of the news which alone could save aix from her fate, with his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, and with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. then i cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, called my roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, till at length, into aix roland galloped and stood. and all i remember is,--friends flocking round as i sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; and no voice but was praising this roland of mine, as i poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which (the burgesses voted by common consent) was no more than his due who brought good news from ghent. * * * * * hervÉ riel on the sea and at the hogue, sixteen hundred ninety two, did the english fight the french,--woe to france! and, the thirty-first of may, helter-skelter thro' the blue. like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, came crowding ship on ship to st. malo on the rance,° ° with the english fleet in view. 'twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; first and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, damfreville; close on him fled, great and small, twenty-two good ships in all; and they signalled to the place "help the winners of a race! get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still, here's the english can and will!" then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, shall the '_formidable_' here, with her twelve and eighty guns think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, and with flow at full beside? now 'tis slackest ebb of tide. reach the mooring? rather say, while rock stands or water runs, not a ship will leave the bay!" then was called a council straight. brief and bitter the debate: "here's the english at our heels; would you have them take in tow all that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, for a prize to plymouth sound? better run the ships aground!" (ended damfreville his speech). not a minute more to wait! "let the captains all and each shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! france must undergo her fate. "give the word!" but no such word was ever spoke or heard; for up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these --a captain? a lieutenant? a mate--first, second, third? no such man of mark, and meet with his betters to compete! but a simple breton sailor pressed° by tourville for the fleet, ° a poor coasting-pilot he, hervé riel the croisickese.° ° and, "what mockery or malice have we here?" cries hervé riel: "are you mad, you malouins°? are you cowards, fools, or rogues? ° talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell on my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'twixt the offing here and grève where the river disembogues? are you bought by english gold? is it love the lying's for? morn and eve, night and day, have i piloted your bay, entered free and anchored fast at the foot of solidor. burn the fleet and ruin france? that were worse than fifty hogues! sirs, they know i speak the truth! sirs, believe me there's a way! only let me lead the line, have the biggest ship to steer, get this '_formidable_' clear, make the others follow mine, and i lead them, most and least, by a passage i know well, right to solidor past grève, and there lay them safe and sound; and if one ship misbehave, --keel so much as grate the ground. why, i've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries hervé riel. not a minute more to wait. "steer us in then, small and great! take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. captains, give the sailor place! he is admiral, in brief. still the north-wind, by god's grace! see the noble fellow's face as the big ship, with a bound, clears the entry like a hound, keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! see, safe thro' shoal and rock, how they follow in a flock, not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, not a spar that comes to grief! the peril, see, is past, all are harboured to the last, and just as hervé kiel hollas "anchor!"--sure as fate up the english come, too late! so, the storm subsides to calm: they see the green trees wave on the heights o'erlooking grève. hearts that bled are staunched with balm. "just our rapture to enhance, let the english rake the bay, gnash their teeth and glare askance as they cannonade away! 'neath rampired solidor pleasant riding on the rance!" how hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! out burst all with one accord, "this is paradise for hell! let france, let france's king thank the man that did the thing!" what a shout, and all one word, "hervé riel!" as he stepped in front once more, not a symptom of surprise in the frank blue breton eyes, just the same man as before. then said damfreville, "my friend, i must speak out at the end, tho' i find the speaking hard. praise is deeper than the lips: you have saved the king his ships, you must name your own reward, 'faith our sun was near eclipse! demand whate'er you will, france remains your debtor still. ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not damfreville." then a beam of fun outbroke on the bearded mouth that spoke, as the honest heart laughed through those frank eyes of breton blue: "since i needs must say my say, since on board the duty's done, and from malo roads to croisic point, what is it but a run?-- since 'tis ask and have, i may-- since the others go ashore-- come! a good whole holiday! leave to go and see my wife, whom i call the belle aurore!" that he asked and that he got,--nothing more. name and deed alike are lost: not a pillar nor a post in his croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; not a head in white and black on a single fishing smack, in memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack all that france saved from the fight whence england bore the bell. go to paris: rank on rank. search, the heroes flung pell-mell on the louvre,° face and flank! ° you shall look long enough ere you come to hervé riel. so, for better and for worse, hervé riel, accept my verse! in my verse, hervé riel, do thou once more save the squadron, honour france, love thy wife the belle aurore! * * * * * pheidippides [greek: chairete, nikômen]° first i salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock! gods of my birthplace, dæmons and heroes, honour to all! then i name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise --ay, with zeus° the defender, with her° of the ægis and spear! ° also, ye of the bow and the buskin,° praised be your peer, ° now, henceforth, and forever,--o latest to whom i upraise hand and heart and voice! for athens, leave pasture and flock! present to help, potent to save, pan°--patron i call! ° archons° of athens, topped by the tettix,° see, i return! ° see, 'tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks! crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, athens and you, "run, pheidippides, run and race, reach sparta for aid! persia has come,° we are here, where is she?" your command i obeyed, ° ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through, was the space between city and city: two days, two nights did i burn over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. into their midst i broke: breath served but for "persia has come! persia bids athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth°; ° razed to the ground is eretria.°--but athens, shall athens sink, ° drop into dust and die--the flower of hellas° utterly die, ° die with the wide world spitting at sparta, the stupid, the stander-by°? ° answer me quick,--what help, what hand do you stretch o'er destruction's brink? how,--when? no care for my limbs!--there's lightning in all and some-- fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth!" o my athens--sparta love thee? did sparta respond? every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust, malice,--each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate! gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. i stood quivering,--the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry wood: "persia has come, athens asks aid, and still they debate? thunder, thou zeus! athene, are spartans a quarry beyond swing of thy spear? phoibos° and artemis,° clang them 'ye must'!" ° no bolt launched from olumpos°! lo, their answer at last! ° "has persia come,--does athens ask aid,--may sparta befriend? nowise precipitate judgment--too weighty the issue at stake! count we no time lost time which lags thro' respect to the gods! ponder that precept of old, 'no warfare, whatever the odds in your favour, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to take full-circle her state in the sky!' already she rounds to it fast: athens must wait, patient as we--who judgment suspend." athens,--except for that sparkle,--thy name, i had mouldered to ash! that sent a blaze thro' my blood; off, off and away was i back, --not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile! yet "o gods of my land!" i cried, as each hillock and plain, wood and stream, i knew, i named, rushing past them again, "have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honours we paid you erewhile? vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! too rash love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack! "oak and olive and bay,--i bid you cease to en-wreathe brows made bold by your leaf! fade at the persian's foot, you that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave! rather i hail thee, parnes,°--trust to thy wild waste tract! ° treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! what matter if slacked my speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave no deity deigns to drape with verdure?--at least i can breathe, fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute!" such my cry as, rapid, i ran over parnes' ridge; gully and gap i clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. right! for i minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across: "where i could enter, there i depart by! night in the fosse? athens to aid? tho' the dive were thro' erebos,° thus i obey-- ° out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! no bridge better!"--when--ha! what was it i came on, of wonders that are? there, in the cool of a cleft, sat he--majestical pan! ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof; all the great god was good in the eyes grave-kindly--the curl carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe as, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand i saw. "halt, pheidippides!"--halt i did, my brain of a whirl: "hither to me! why pale in my presence?"! he gracious began: "how is it,--athens, only in hellas, holds me aloof? "athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast! wherefore? than i what godship to athens more helpful of old? ay, and still, and forever her friend! test pan, trust me! go bid athens take heart, laugh persia to scorn, have faith in the temples and tombs! go, say to athens, 'the goat-god saith: when persia--so much as strews not the soil--is cast in the sea, then praise pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least, goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!' "say pan saith: 'let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!'" (gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage i bear --fennel,--i grasped it a-tremble with dew--whatever it bode), "while, as for thee..." but enough! he was gone. if i ran hitherto-- be sure that the rest of my journey, i ran no longer, but flew. parnes to athens--earth no more, the air was my road; here am i back. praise pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge! pan for athens, pan for me! i too have a guerdon rare! * * * * * then spoke miltiades.° "and thee, best runner of greece, ° whose limbs did duty indeed,--what gift is promised thyself? tell it us straightway,--athens the mother demands of her son!" rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at length his eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strength into the utterance--"pan spoke thus: 'for what thou hast done count on a worthy reward! henceforth be allowed thee release from the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!' "i am bold to believe, pan means reward the most to my mind! fight i shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow,-- pound--pan helping us--persia to dust, and, under the deep, whelm her away forever; and then,--no athens to save,-- marry a certain maid, i know keeps faith to the brave,-- hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall creep close to my knees,--recount how the god was awful yet kind, promised their sire reward to the full--rewarding him--so!" * * * * * unforeseeing one! yes, he fought on the marathon day: so, when persia was dust, all cried "to akropolis°! ° run, pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! 'athens is saved, thank pan,' go shout!" he flung down his shield, ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the fennel-field° ° and athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, till in he broke: "rejoice, we conquer!" like wine thro' clay, joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died--the bliss! so, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute is still "rejoice!"--his word which brought rejoicing indeed. so is pheidippides happy forever,--the noble strong man who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved so well, he saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, so to end gloriously--once to shout, thereafter be mute: "athens is saved!"--pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed. * * * * * my star all that i know of a certain star is, it can throw (like the angled spar°) ° now a dart of red, now a dart of blue; till my friends have said they would fain see, too, my star that dartles the red and the blue! then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled: they must solace themselves with the saturn° above it. ° what matter to me if their star is a world? mine has opened its soul to me; therefore i love it. * * * * * evelyn hope beautiful evelyn hope is dead! sit and watch by her side an hour. that is her book-shelf, this her bed; she plucked that piece of geranium-flower, beginning to die too, in the glass; little has yet been changed, i think: the shutters are shut, no light may pass save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. sixteen years old when she died! perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; it was not her time to love; beside, her life had many a hope and aim, duties enough and little cares, and now was quiet, now astir, till god's hand beckoned unawares,-- and the sweet white brow is all of her. is it too late then, evelyn hope? what, your soul was pure and true, the good stars met in your horoscope, made you of spirit, fire and dew-- and just because i was thrice as old and our paths in the world diverged so wide, each was naught to each, must i be told? we were fellow mortals, naught beside? no, indeed! for god above is great to grant, as mighty to make, and creates the love to reward the love: i claim you still, for my own love's sake! delayed it may be for more lives yet, thro' worlds i shall traverse, not a few: much is to learn, much, to forget ere the time be come for taking you. but the time will come, at last it will, when, evelyn hope, what meant (i shall say) in the lower earth in the years long still, that body and soul so pure and gay? why your hair was amber, i shall divine, and your mouth of your own geranium's red-- and what would you do with me, in fine, in the new life come in the old one's stead. i have lived (i shall say) so much since then, given up myself so many times, gained me the gains of various men, ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, either i missed or itself missed me: and i want and find you, evelyn hope! what is the issue? let us see! i loved you, evelyn, all the while! my heart seemed full as it could hold; there was place and to spare for the frank young smile, and the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. so hush,--i will give you this leaf to keep: see, i shut it inside the sweet cold hand! there, that is our secret: go to sleep! you will wake, and remember, and understand. * * * * * love among the ruins where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles miles and miles on the solitary pastures where our sheep half-asleep tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop as they crop-- was the site once of a city great and gay, (so they say) of our country's very capital, its prince ages since held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far peace or war. now,--the country does not even boast a tree, as you see, to distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills from the hills intersect and give a name to (else they run into one), where the domed and daring palace shot its spires up like fires o'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall bounding all, made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, twelve abreast. and such plenty and perfection, see, of grass never was! such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads and embeds every vestige of the city, guessed alone, stock or stone-- where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe long ago; lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame struck them tame; and that glory and that shame alike, the gold bought and sold. now,--the single little turret that remains on the plains, by the caper overrooted, by the gourd overscored, while the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks thro' the chinks-- marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time sprang sublime, and a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced as they raced, and the monarch and his minions and his dames viewed the games. and i know--while thus the quiet-coloured eve smiles to leave to their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece in such peace, and the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray melt away-- that a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair waits me there in the turret whence the charioteers caught soul for the goal, when the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb till i come, but he looked upon the city, every side, far and wide, all the mountains topped with temples, all the glades' colonnades, all the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,--and then, all the men! when i do come, she will speak not, she will stand, either hand on my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace of my face, ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech each on each. in one year they sent a million fighters forth south and north, and they built their gods a brazen pillar high as the sky, yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force-- gold, of course. oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! earth's returns for whole centuries of folly, noise, and sin! shut them in, with their triumphs and their glories and the rest! love is best. * * * * * misconceptions this is a spray the bird clung to, making it blossom with pleasure, ere the high tree-top she sprung to, fit for her nest and her treasure. oh, what a hope beyond measure was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,-- so to be singled out, built in, and sung to! this is a heart the queen leant on, thrilled in a minute erratic, ere the true bosom she bent on, meet for love's regal dalmatic.° ° oh, what a fancy ecstatic was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on-- love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on! * * * * * natural magic all i can say is--i saw it! the room was as bare as your hand. i locked in the swarth little lady,--i swear, from the head to the foot of her--well, quite as bare! "no nautch° shall cheat me," said i, "taking my stand ° at this bolt which i draw!" and this bolt--i withdraw it, and there laughs the lady, not bare, but embowered with--who knows what verdure, o'erfruited, o'erflowered? impossible! only--i saw it! all i can sing is--i feel it! this life was as blank as that room; i let you pass in here. precaution, indeed? walls, ceiling, and floor,--not a chance for a weed! wide opens the entrance: where's cold, now, where's gloom? no may to sow seed here, no june to reveal it, behold you enshrined in these blooms of your bringing, these fruits of your bearing--nay, birds of your winging! a fairy-tale! only--i feel it! * * * * * apparitions (_prologue to "the two poets of croisic."_) such a starved bank of moss till, that may-morn, blue ran the flash across: violets were born! sky--what a scowl of cloud till, near and far, ray on ray split the shroud: splendid, a star! world--how it walled about life with disgrace, till god's own smile came out: that was thy face! * * * * * a wall o the old wall here! how i could pass life in a long midsummer day, my feet confined to a plot of grass, my eyes from a wall not once away! and lush and lithe do the creepers clothe yon wall i watch, with a wealth of green: its bald red bricks draped, nothing loath, in lappets of tangle they laugh between. now, what is it makes pulsate the robe? why tremble the sprays? what life o'erbrims the body,--the house no eye can probe,-- divined, as beneath a robe, the limbs? and there again! but my heart may guess who tripped behind; and she sang, perhaps: so the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess died out and away in the leafy wraps. wall upon wall are between us: life and song should away from heart to heart! i--prison-bird, with a ruddy strife at breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start-- hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing that's spirit: tho' cloistered fast, soar free; account as wood, brick, stone, this ring of the rueful neighbours, and--forth to thee! * * * * * confessions what is he buzzing in my ears? "now that i come to die, do i view the world as a vale of tears?" ah, reverend sir, not i! what i viewed there once, what i view again where the physic bottles stand on the table's edge,--is a suburb lane, with a wall to my bedside hand. that lane sloped, much as the bottles do, from a house you could descry o'er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue or green to a healthy eye? to mine, it serves for the old june weather blue above lane and wall; and that farthest bottle labelled "ether" is the house o'er-topping all. at a terrace, somewhere near the stopper, there watched for me, one june, a girl: i know, sir, it's improper, my poor mind's out of tune. only, there was a way ... you crept close by the side, to dodge eyes in the house, two eyes except: they styled their house "the lodge." what right had a lounger up their lane? but, by creeping very close, with the good wall's help,--their eyes might strain and stretch themselves to oes, yet never catch her and me together, as she left the attic, there, by the rim of the bottle labelled "ether," and stole from stair to stair and stood by the rose-wreathed gate. alas, we loved, sir--used to meet; how sad and bad and mad it was-- but then, how it was sweet! * * * * * a woman's last word let's contend no more, love, strive nor weep: all be as before, love, --only sleep! what so wild as words are? i and thou in debate, as birds are, hawk on bough! see the creature stalking while we speak! hush and hide the talking, cheek on cheek. what so false as truth is, false to thee? where the serpent's tooth is, shun the tree-- where the apple reddens, never pry-- lest we lose our edens, eve and i. be a god and hold me with a charm! be a man and fold me with thine arm! teach me, only teach, love! as i ought i will speak thy speech, love, think thy thought-- meet, if thou require it, both demands, laying flesh and spirit in thy hands. that shall be to-morrow, not to-night: i must bury sorrow out of sight: --must a little weep, love, (foolish me!) and so fall asleep, love, loved by thee. * * * * * a pretty woman that fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers, and the blue eye dear and dewy, and that infantine fresh air of hers! to think men cannot take you, sweet, and infold you, ay, and hold you, and so keep you what they make you, sweet! you like us for a glance, you know-- for a word's sake or a sword's sake: all's the same, whate'er the chance, you know. and in turn we make you ours, we say-- you and youth too, eyes and mouth too, all the face composed of flowers, we say. all's our own, to make the most of, sweet-- sing and say for, watch and pray for, keep a secret or go boast of, sweet! but for loving, why, you would not, sweet, tho' we prayed you, paid you, brayed you in a mortar--for you could not, sweet! so, we leave the sweet face fondly there, be its beauty its sole duty! let all hope of grace beyond, lie there! and while the face lies quiet there, who shall wonder that i ponder a conclusion? i will try it there. as,--why must one, for the love foregone scout mere liking? thunder-striking earth,--the heaven, we looked above for, gone! why, with beauty, needs there money be, love with liking? crush the fly-king in his gauze, because no honey-bee? may not liking be so simple-sweet, if love grew there 'twould undo there all that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet? is the creature too imperfect, say? would you mend it and so end it? since not all addition perfects aye! or is it of its kind, perhaps, just perfection-- whence, rejection of a grace not to its mind, perhaps? shall we burn up, tread that face at once into tinder, and so hinder sparks from kindling all the place at once? or else kiss away one's soul on her? your love-fancies! --a sick man sees truer, when his hot eyes roll on her! thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,-- plucks a mould-flower for his gold flower, uses fine things that efface the rose. rosy rubies make its cup more rose. precious metals ape the petals,-- last, some old king locks it up, morose! then how grace a rose? i know a way! leave it, rather. must you gather? smell, kiss, wear it--at last, throw away. * * * * * youth and art it once might have been, once only: we lodged in a street together, you, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, i, a lone she-bird of his feather. your trade was with sticks and clay, you thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished, then laughed "they will see some day, smith made, and gibson° demolished." ° my business was song, song, song; i chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered, "kate brown's on the boards ere long, and grisi's° existence embittered!" ° i earned no more by a warble than you by a sketch in plaster; you wanted a piece of marble, i needed a music-master. we studied hard in our styles, chipped each at a crust like hindoos,° ° for air, looked out on the tiles, for fun, watched each other's windows. you lounged, like a boy of the south, cap and blouse--nay, a bit of beard too; or you got it, rubbing your mouth with fingers the clay adhered to. and i--soon managed to find weak points in the flower-fence facing, was forced to put up a blind and be safe in my corset-lacing. no harm! it was not my fault if you never turned your eye's tail up as i shook upon e _in alt_, or ran the chromatic scale up: for spring bade the sparrows pair. and the boys and girls gave guesses, and stalls in our street looked rare with bulrush and watercresses. why did not you pinch a flower in a pellet of clay and fling it? why did not i put a power of thanks in a look or sing it? i did look, sharp as a lynx, (and yet the memory rankles) when models arrived, some minx tripped up stairs, she and her ankles. but i think i gave you as good! "that foreign fellow,--who can know how she pays, in a playful mood, for his tuning her that piano?" could you say so, and never say "suppose we join hands and fortunes, and i fetch her from over the way, her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?" no, no: you would not be rash, nor i rasher and something over; you've to settle yet gibson's hash, and grisi yet lives in clover. but you meet the prince at the board, i'm queen myself at _bals-parés_,° ° i've married a rich old lord, and you're dubbed knight and an r.a. each life unfulfilled, you see; it hangs still, patchy and scrappy: we have not sighed deep, laughed free, starved, feasted, despaired,--been happy and nobody calls you a dunce, and people suppose me clever; this could but have happened once, and we missed it, lost it forever. * * * * * a tale (_epilogue to "the two poets of croisic."_) what a pretty tale you told me once upon a time --said you found it somewhere (scold me!) was it prose or was it rhyme, greek or latin? greek, you said, while your shoulder propped my head. anyhow there's no forgetting this much if no more, that a poet (pray, no petting!) yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, went where suchlike used to go, singing for a prize, you know. well, he had to sing, nor merely sing but play the lyre; playing was important clearly quite as singing: i desire, sir, you keep the fact in mind for a purpose that's behind. there stood he, while deep attention held the judges round, --judges able, i should mention, to detect the slightest sound sung or played amiss: such ears had old judges, it appears! none the less he sang out boldly, played in time and tune, till the judges, weighing coldly each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, sure to smile "in vain one tries picking faults out: take the prize!" when, a mischief! were they seven strings the lyre possessed? oh, and afterwards eleven, thank you! well, sir,--who had guessed such ill luck in store?--it happed one of those same seven strings snapped. all was lost, then! no! a cricket (what "cicada"? pooh!) --some mad thing that left its thicket for mere love of music--flew with its little heart on fire, lighted on the crippled lyre. so that when (ah joy!) our singer for his truant string feels with disconcerted finger, what does cricket else but fling fiery heart forth, sound the note wanted by the throbbing throat? ay and, ever to the ending, cricket chirps at need, executes the hand's intending, promptly, perfectly,--indeed saves the singer from defeat with her chirrup low and sweet. till, at ending, all the judges cry with one assent "take the prize--a prize who grudges such a voice and instrument? why, we took your lyre for harp, so it shrilled us forth f sharp!" did the conqueror spurn the creature once its service done? that's no such uncommon feature in the case when music's son finds his lotte's° power too spent ° for aiding soul development. no! this other, on returning homeward, prize in hand, satisfied his bosom's yearning: (sir, i hope you understand!) --said "some record there must be of this cricket's help to me!" so, he made himself a statue: marble stood, life size; on the lyre, he pointed at you, perched his partner in the prize; never more apart you found her, he throned, from him, she crowned. that's the tale: its application? somebody i know hopes one day for reputation thro' his poetry that's--oh, all so learned and so wise and deserving of a prize! if he gains one, will some ticket when his statue's built, tell the gazer "'twas a cricket helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt sweet and low, when strength usurped softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? "for as victory was nighest, while i sang and played,-- with my lyre at lowest, highest, right alike,--one string that made 'love' sound soft was snapt in twain never to be heard again,-- "had not a kind cricket fluttered, perched upon the place vacant left, and duly uttered 'love, love, love,' whene'er the bass asked the treble to atone for its somewhat sombre drone." but you don't know music! wherefore keep on casting pearls to a--poet? all i care for is--to tell him that a girl's "love" comes aptly in when gruff grows his singing, (there, enough!) * * * * * cavalier tunes i. marching along kentish sir byng° stood for his king, ° bidding the crop-headed° parliament swing: ° and, pressing a troop unable to stoop and see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, marched them along, fifty score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. god for king charles!° pym° and such carles ° to the devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles! cavaliers, up! lips from the cup, hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup till you're-- chorus.--marching along, fifty score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. hampden° to hell, and his obsequies knell. ° serve hazelrig,° fiennes,° and young harry° as well! ° england, good cheer! rupert° is near! ° kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, cho.--marching along, fifty score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. then, god for king charles! pym and his snarls to the devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! hold by the right, you double your might; so, onward to nottingham,° fresh for the fight, ° cho.--march we along, fifty score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! ii. give a rouse i king charles, and who'll do him right now? king charles, and who's ripe for fight now? give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now, king charles! ii who gave me the goods that went since? who raised me the house that sank once? who helped me to gold i spent since? who found me in wine you drank once? cho.--king charles, and who'll do him right now? king charles, and who's ripe for fight now? give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now, king charles! iii to whom used my boy george quaff else, by the old fool's side that begot him? for whom did he cheer and laugh else, while noll's° damned troopers shot him? ° cho.--king charles, and who'll do him right now? king charles, and who's ripe for fight now? give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, king charles! iii. boot and saddle i boot, saddle, to horse, and away! rescue my castle before the hot day brightens to blue from its silvery gray, cho.--boot, saddle, to horse, and away! ii ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; many's the friend there, will listen and pray "god's luck to gallants that strike up the lay-- cho.--boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" iii forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, flouts castle brancepeth the roundheads' array: who laughs, "good fellows ere this, by my fay, cho.--boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" iv who? my wife gertrude; that, honest and gay, laughs when you talk of surrendering, "nay! i've better counsellors; what counsel they? cho.-- boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" * * * * * home-thoughts, from the sea nobly, nobly, cape saint vincent to the northwest died away; sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into cadiz bay; bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face trafalgar° lay; ° in the dimmest northeast distance dawned gibraltar° grand and gray; ° "here and here did england help me: how can i help england?"--say, whoso turns as i, this evening, turn to god and pray, while jove's planet rises yonder, silent over africa. * * * * * summum bonum all the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee: all the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem: in the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea: breath and bloom, shade and shine,--wonder, wealth, and--how far above them-- truth, that's brighter than gem, trust, that's purer than pearl,-- brightest truth, purest trust in the universe,--all were for me in the kiss of one girl. * * * * * a face if one could have that little head of hers painted upon a background of pure gold, such as the tuscan's early art prefers! no shade encroaching on the matchless mould of those two lips, which should be opening soft in the pure profile; not as when she laughs, for that spoils all: but rather as if aloft yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's burden of honey-colored buds to kiss and capture 'twixt the lips apart for this. then her little neck, three fingers might surround, how it should waver on the pale gold ground up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! i know, correggio loves to mass, in rifts of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb breaking its outline, burning shades absorb: but these are only massed there, i should think, waiting to see some wonder momently grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky (that's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), all heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink. * * * * * songs from pippa passes day! faster and more fast, o'er night's brim, day boils at last: boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim. where spurting and suppressed it lay, for not a froth-flake touched the rim of yonder gap in the solid gray of the eastern cloud, an hour away; but forth one wavelet, then another, curled, till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, rose, reddened, and its seething breast flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world. all service ranks the same with god: if now, as formerly he trod paradise, his presence fills our earth, each only as god wills can work--god's puppets, best and worst, are we: there is no last nor first. the year's at the spring and day's at the morn: morning's at seven; the hillside's dew-pearled; the lark's on the wing; the snail's on the thorn: god's in his heaven-- all's right with the world! give her but a least excuse to love me! when--where-- how--can this arm establish her above me, if fortune fixed her as my lady there, there already, to eternally reprove me? ("hist!"--said kate the queen; but "oh," cried the maiden, binding her tresses, "'tis only a page that carols unseen, crumbling your hounds their messes!") is she wronged?--to the rescue of her honour, my heart! is she poor?--what costs it to be styled a donor? merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. but that fortune should have thrust all this upon her! ("nay, list!"--bade kate the queen; and still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, "'tis only a page that carols unseen, fitting your hawks their jesses!") * * * * * the lost leader just for a handful of silver he left us, just for a riband to stick in his coat-- found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, lost all the others she lets us devote; they, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, so much was theirs who so little allowed; how all our copper had gone for his service! rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud! we that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, lived in his mild and magnificent eye, learned his great language, caught his clear accents, made him our pattern to live and to die! shakespeare° was of us, milton° was for us, ° burns,° shelley,° were with us,--they watch from their graves! ° he alone breaks from the van and the freemen, he alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! we shall march prospering--not through his presence; songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre: deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence, still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, one task more declined, one more footpath untrod, one more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, one wrong more to man, one more insult to god! life's night begins: let him never come back to us! there would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight, never glad confident morning again! best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly, menace our heart ere we master his own; then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! * * * * * apparent failure "we shall soon lose a celebrated building." --_paris newspaper_. no, for i'll save it! seven years since i passed through paris, stopped a day to see the baptism of your prince,° ° saw, made my bow, and went my way: walking the heat and headache off, i took the seine-side, you surmise, thought of the congress,° gortschakoff,° ° cavour's° appeal and buol's° replies, ° so sauntered till--what met my eyes? only the doric little morgue! the dead-house where you show your drowned: petrarch's vaucluse° makes proud the sorgue,° ° your morgue has made the seine renowned. one pays one's debt° in such a case; ° i plucked up heart and entered,--stalked, keeping a tolerable face compared with some whose cheeks were chalked: let them! no briton's to be balked! first came the silent gazers; next, a screen of glass, we're thankful for; last, the sight's self, the sermon's text, the three men who did most abhor their life in paris yesterday, so killed themselves: and now, enthroned each on his copper couch, they lay fronting me, waiting to be owned. i thought, and think, their sin's atoned. poor men, god made, and all for that! the reverence struck me; o'er each head religiously was hung its hat, each coat dripped by the owner's bed, sacred from touch: each had his berth, his bounds, his proper place of rest, who last night tenanted on earth some arch, where twelve such slept abreast,-- unless the plain asphalt seemed best. how did it happen, my poor boy? you wanted to be buonaparte and have the tuileries° for toy, ° and could not, so it broke your heart? you, old one by his side, i judge, were, red as blood, a socialist, a leveller! does the empire grudge you've gained what no republic missed? be quiet, and unclench your fist! and this--why, he was red in vain, or black,--poor fellow that is blue°! ° what fancy was it, turned your brain? oh, women were the prize for you! money gets women, cards and dice get money, and ill-luck gets just the copper couch and one clear nice cool squirt of water o'er your bust, the right thing to extinguish lust! it's wiser being good than bad; it's safer being meek than fierce: it's fitter being sane than mad. my own hope is, a sun will pierce the thickest cloud earth ever stretched; that, after last, returns the first, tho' a wide compass round be fetched; that what began best, can't end worst, nor what god blessed once, prove accurst. * * * * * fears and scruples here's my case. of old i used to love him. this same unseen friend, before i knew: dream there was none like him, none above him,-- wake to hope and trust my dream was true. loved i not his letters° full of beauty? ° not his actions famous far and wide? absent, he would know i vowed him duty, present, he would find me at his side. pleasant fancy! for i had but letters, only knew of actions by hearsay: he himself was busied with my betters; what of that? my turn must come some day. "some day" proving--no day! here's the puzzle. passed and passed my turn is. why complain? he's so busied! if i could but muzzle people's foolish mouths that give me pain! "letters?" (hear them!) "you a judge of writing? ask the experts!--how they shake the head o'er these characters, your friend's inditing-- call them forgery from a to z°! ° "actions? where's your certain proof" (they bother) "he, of all you find so great and good, he, he only, claims this, that, the other action--claimed by men, a multitude?" i can simply wish i might refute you, wish my friend would,--by a word, a wink,-- bid me stop that foolish mouth,--you brute you! he keeps absent,--why, i cannot think. never mind! tho' foolishness may flout me. one thing's sure enough; 'tis neither frost, no, nor fire, shall freeze or burn from out me thanks for truth--tho' falsehood, gained--tho' lost. all my days, i'll go the softlier, sadlier, for that dream's sake! how forget the thrill thro' and thro' me as i thought, "the gladlier lives my friend because i love him still!" ah, but there's a menace some one utters! "what and if your friend at home play tricks? peep at hide-and-seek behind the shutters? mean your eyes should pierce thro' solid bricks? 'what and if he, frowning, wake you, dreamy? lay on you the blame that bricks--conceal? say '_at least i saw who did not see me, does see now, and presently shall feel_'?" "why, that makes your friend a monster!" say you; "had his house no window? at first nod, would you not have hailed him?" hush, i pray you! what if this friend happen to be--god? * * * * * instans tyrannus of the million or two, more or less, i rule and possess, one man, for some cause undefined, was least to my mind. i struck him, he grovelled of course-- for, what was his force? i pinned him to earth with my weight and persistence of hate; and he lay, would not moan, would not curse, as his lot might be worse. "were the object less mean? would he stand at the swing of my hand! for obscurity helps him, and blots the hole where he squats." so, i set my five wits on the stretch. to inveigle the wretch. all in vain! gold and jewels i threw, still he couched there perdue; i tempted his blood and his flesh, hid in roses my mesh, choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth: still he kept to his filth. had he kith now or kin, were access to his heart, did i press: just a son or a mother to seize! no such booty as these. were it simply a friend to pursue 'mid my million or two, who could pay me, in person or pelf, what he owes me himself! no: i could not but smile thro' my chafe: for the fellow lay safe as his mates do, the midge and the nit, --thro' minuteness, to wit. then a humour more great took its place at the thought of his face: the droop, the low cares of the mouth, the trouble uncouth 'twixt the brows, all that air one is fain to put out of its pain, and, "no!" i admonished myself, "is one mocked by an elf. is one baffled by toad or by rat? the gravamen's° in that! ° how the lion, who crouches to suit his back to my foot, would admire that i stand in debate! but the small turns the great if it vexes you,--that is the thing! toad or rat vex the king? tho' i waste half my realm to unearth toad or rat, 'tis well worth!" so, i soberly laid my last plan to extinguish the man. round his creep-hole, with never a break ran my fires for his sake; overhead, did my thunder combine with my under-ground mine: till i looked from my labour content to enjoy the event. when sudden ... how think ye, the end? did i say "without friend?" say rather, from marge to blue marge the whole sky grew his targe with the sun's self for visible boss, while an arm ran across which the earth heaved beneath like a breast! where the wretch was safe prest! do you see! just my vengeance complete, ° the man sprang to his feet, stood erect, caught at god's skirts, and prayed! --so, _i_ was afraid! * * * * * the patriot an old story it was roses, roses, all the way, with myrtle mixed in my path like mad; the house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, the church-spires flamed, such flags they had, a year ago on this very day. the air broke into a mist with bells, the old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. had i said, "good folk, mere noise repels-- but give me your sun from yonder skies!" they had answered "and afterward, what else?" alack, it was i who leaped at the sun to give it my loving friends to keep! naught man could do, have i left undone: and you see my harvest, what i reap this very day, now a year is run. there's nobody on the house-tops now-- just a palsied few at the windows set; for the best of the sight is, all allow, at the shambles' gate--or, better yet, by the very scaffold's foot, i trow. i go in the rain, and, more than needs, a rope cuts both my wrists behind; and i think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, for they fling, whoever has a mind, stones at me for my year's misdeeds. thus i entered, and thus i go! in triumphs, people have dropped down dead, "paid by the world, what dost thou owe me? "--god might question; now instead, 'tis god shall repay: i am safer so. * * * * * the boy and the angel morning, evening, noon, and night, "praise god!" sang theocrite. then to his poor trade he turned, whereby the daily meal was earned. hard he laboured, long and well; o'er his work the boy's curls fell. but ever, at each period, he stopped and sang, "praise god!" then back again his curls he threw, and cheerful turned to work anew. said blaise, the listening monk, "well done; i doubt not thou art heard, my son: "as well as if thy voice to-day were praising god, the pope's great way. "this easter day, the pope at rome praises god from peter's dome." said theocrite, "would god that i might praise him that great way, and die!" night passed, day shone, and theocrite was gone. with god a day endures alway, a thousand years are but a day. god said in heaven, "nor day nor night now brings the voice of my delight."° ° then gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, spread his wings and sank to earth; entered, in flesh, the empty cell, lived there, and played the craftsman well; and morning, evening, noon, and night, praised god in place of theocrite. and from a boy, to youth he grew: the man put off the stripling's hue: the man matured and fell away into the season of decay: and ever o'er the trade he bent, and ever lived on earth content. (he did god's will; to him, all one if on the earth or in the sun.) god said, "a praise is in mine ear; there is no doubt in it, no fear: "so sing old worlds, and so new worlds that from my footstool go. "clearer loves sound other ways: i miss my little human praise." then forth sprang gabriel's wings, off fell the flesh disguise, remained the cell. 'twas easter day: he flew to rome, and paused above saint peter's dome. in the tiring-room close by the great outer gallery, with his holy vestments dight, stood the new pope, theocrite: and all his past career came back upon him clear, since when, a boy, he plied his trade, till on his life the sickness weighed; and in his cell, when death drew near, an angel in a dream brought cheer: and rising from the sickness drear, he grew a priest, and now stood here. to the east with praise he turned, and on his sight the angel burned. "i bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, and set thee here; i did not well. "vainly i left my angel-sphere, vain was thy dream of many a year, "thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped-- creation's chorus stopped! "go back and praise again the early way, while i remain. "with that weak voice of our disdain, take up creation's pausing strain. "back to the cell and poor employ: resume the craftsman and the boy!" theocrite grew old at home; a new pope dwelt in peter's dome. one vanished as the other died: they sought god side by side. * * * * * memorabilia ah, did you once see shelley plain, and did he stop and speak to you, and did you speak to him again? how strange it seems and new! but you were living before that, and also you are living after; and the memory i started at-- my starting moves your laughter! i crossed a moor with a name of its own and a certain use in the world, no doubt, yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 'mid the blank miles round about. for there i picked upon the heather and there i put inside my breast a moulted feather, an eagle-feather! well, i forget the rest. * * * * * why i am a liberal "why?" because all i haply can and do, all that i am now, all i hope to be,-- whence comes it save from fortune setting free body and soul the purpose to pursue, god traced for both? if fetters, not a few, of prejudice, convention, fall from me, these shall i bid men--each in his degree also god-guided--bear, and gayly too? but little do or can the best of us: that little is achieved thro' liberty. who then dares hold, emancipated thus, his fellow shall continue bound? not i, who live, love, labour freely, nor discuss a brother's right to freedom. that is "why." * * * * * prospice fear death? to feel the fog in my throat, the mist in my face, when the snows begin, and the blasts denote i am nearing the place, the power of the night, the press of the storm, the post of the foe; where he stands, the arch fear in a visible form, yet the strong man must go: for the journey is done and the summit attained, and the barriers fall, though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, the reward of it all. i was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, the best and the last! i would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, and bade me creep past, no! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers the heroes of old, bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears of pain, darkness, and cold. for sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, the black minute's at end, and the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, shall dwindle, shall blend, shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, then a light, then thy breast, o thou soul of my soul! i shall clasp thee again, and with god be the rest! * * * * * epilogue to "asolando" at the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, when you set your fancies free, will they pass to where--by death, fools think, imprisoned-- low he lies who once so loved you whom you loved so, --pity me? oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! what had i on earth to do with the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did i drivel --being--who? one who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, never dreamed, tho' right were worsted, wrong would triumph, held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake. no, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time greet the unseen with a cheer! bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, "strive and thrive!" cry "speed,--fight on, fare ever there as here!" * * * * * "de gustibus--" your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, (if our loves remain) in an english lane, by a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. hark, those two in the hazel coppice-- a boy and a girl, if the good fates please, making love, say,-- the happier they! draw yourself up from the light of the moon. and let them pass, as they will too soon, with the beanflower's boon, and the blackbird's tune, and may, and june! what i love best in all the world is a castle, precipice-encurled, in a gash of the wind-grieved apennine. or look for me, old fellow of mine, (if i get my head from out the mouth o' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands, and come again to the land of lands)-- in a sea-side house to the farther south, where the baked cicala dies of drouth, and one sharp tree--'tis a cypress--stands, by the many hundred years red-rusted, bough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted, my sentinel to guard the sands to the water's edge. for, what expands before the house, but the great opaque blue breadth of sea without a break? while, in the house, forever crumbles some fragment of the frescoed walls, from blisters where a scorpion sprawls. a girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles down on the pavement, green-flesh melons, and says there's news to-day--the king was shot at, touched in the liver-wing, goes with his bourbon arm in a sling: --she hopes they have not caught the felons. italy, my italy! queen mary's saying serves for me-- (when fortune's malice lost her, calais) open my heart and you will see graved inside of it, "italy." such lovers old are i and she: so it always was, so shall ever be! * * * * * the italian in england that second time they hunted me from hill to plain, from shore to sea, and austria, hounding far and wide her blood-hounds thro' the country-side, breathed hot an instant on my trace,-- i made, six days, a hiding-place of that dry green old aqueduct where i and charles,° when boys, have plucked ° the fire-flies from the roof above, bright creeping thro' the moss they love: --how long it seems since charles was lost! six days the soldiers crossed, and crossed the country in my very sight; and when that peril ceased at night, the sky broke out in red dismay with signal-fires. well, there i lay close covered o'er in my recess, up to the neck in ferns and cress. thinking on metternich,° our friend, ° and charles's miserable end, and much beside, two days; the third, hunger o'ercame me when i heard the peasants from the village go to work among the maize: you know, with us in lombardy,° they bring ° provisions packed on mules, a string, with little bells that cheer their task, and casks, and boughs on every cask to keep the sun's heat from the wine; these i let pass in jingling line; and, close on them, dear noisy crew, the peasants from the village, too; for at the very rear would troop their wives and sisters in a group to help, i knew. when these had passed, i threw my glove to strike the last, taking the chance: she did not start, much less cry out, but stooped apart, one instant rapidly glanced round, and saw me beckon from the ground. a wild bush grows and hides my crypt; she picked my glove up while she stripped a branch off, then rejoined the rest with that; my glove lay in her breast: then i drew breath; they disappeared: it was for italy i feared. an hour, and she returned alone exactly where my glove was thrown. meanwhile came many thoughts: on me rested the hopes of italy. i had devised a certain tale which, when 'twas told her, could not fail persuade a peasant of its truth; i meant to call a freak of youth this hiding, and give hopes of pay, and no temptation to betray. but when i saw that woman's face, its calm simplicity of grace, our italy's own attitude in which she walked thus far, and stood, planting each naked foot so firm, to crush the snake and spare the worm-- at first sight of her eyes, i said, "i am that man upon whose head they fix the price, because i hate the austrians over us; the state will give you gold--oh, gold so much!-- if you betray me to their clutch. and be your death, for aught i know, if once they find you saved their foe. now, you must bring me food and drink, and also paper, pen and ink, and carry safe what i shall write to padua, which you'll reach at night before the duomo shuts; go in, and wait till tenebrae° begin; ° walk to the third confessional, between the pillar and the wall, and kneeling whisper, _whence comes peace?_ say it a second time, then cease; and if the voice inside returns, _from christ and freedom; what concerns the cause of peace?_--for answer, slip my letter where you placed your lip; then come back happy we have done our mother service--i, the son, as you the daughter of our land!" three mornings more, she took her stand in the same place, with the same eyes: i was no surer of sun-rise than of her coming. we conferred of her own prospects, and i heard she had a lover--stout and tall, she said--then let her eyelids fall, "he could do much"--as if some doubt entered her heart,--then, passing out, "she could not speak for others, who had other thoughts; herself she knew;" and so she brought me drink and food. after four days, the scouts pursued another path; at last arrived the help my paduan friends contrived to furnish me: she brought the news. for the first time i could not choose but kiss her hand, and lay my own upon her head--"this faith was shown to italy, our mother; she uses my hand and blesses thee." she followed down to the sea-shore; i left and never saw her more. how very long since i have thought concerning--much less wished for--aught beside the good of italy, for which i live and mean to die! i never was in love; and since charles proved false, what shall now convince my inmost heart i have a friend? however, if i pleased to spend real wishes on myself--say, three-- i know at least what one should be. i would grasp metternich until i felt his red wet throat distil in blood thro' these two hands. and next, --nor much for that am i perplexed-- charles, perjured traitor, for his part, should die slow of a broken heart under his new employers. last --ah, there, what should i wish? for fast do i grow old and out of strength. if i resolved to seek at length my father's house again, how scared they all would look, and unprepared! my brothers live in austria's pay --disowned me long ago, men say; and all my early mates who used to praise me so--perhaps induced more than one early step of mine-- are turning wise: while some opine "freedom grows license," some suspect "haste breeds delay," and recollect they always said, such premature beginnings never could endure! so, with a sullen "all's for best," the land seems settling to its rest. i think then, i should wish to stand this evening in that dear, lost land, over the sea the thousand miles, and know if yet that woman smiles with the calm smile; some little farm she lives in there, no doubt: what harm if i sat on the door-side bench, and while her spindle made a trench fantastically in the dust, inquired of all her fortunes--just her children's ages and their names, and what may be the husband's aims for each of them. i'd talk this out, and sit there, for an hour about, then kiss her hand once more, and lay mine on her head, and go my way. so much for idle wishing--how it steals the time! to business now. * * * * * my last duchess ferrara that's my last duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive. i call that piece a wonder, now: frà pandolf's° hands ° worked busily a day, and there she stands. will't please you sit and look at her? i said "frà pandolf" by design: for never read strangers like you that pictured countenance, the depth and passion of its earnest glance, but to myself they turned (since none puts by the curtain i have drawn for you, but i) and seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, how such a glance came there; so, not the first are you to turn and ask thus. sir, 'twas not her husband's presence only, called that spot of joy into the duchess' cheek: perhaps frà pandolf chanced to say "her mantle laps over my lady's wrist too much," or "paint must never hope to reproduce the faint half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough for calling up that spot of joy. she had a heart--how shall i say?--too soon made glad, too easily impressed; she liked whate'er she looked on, and her looks went everywhere. sir, 'twas all one! my favour at her breast, the dropping of the daylight in the west, the bough of cherries some officious fool broke in the orchard for her, the white mule she rode with round the terrace--all and each would draw from her alike the approving speech, or blush, at least. she thanked men,--good! but thanked somehow--i know not how--as if she ranked my gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name with anybody's gift. who'd stoop to blame this sort of trifling? even had you skill in speech--(which i have not)--to make your will quite clear to such an one, and say, "just this or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, or there exceed the mark"--and if she let herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, --e'en then would be some stooping: and i choose never to stoop. oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, whene'er i passed her; but who passed without much the same smile? this grew; i gave commands; then all smiles stopped together.° there she stands ° as if alive. will't please you rise? we'll meet the company below, then. i repeat, the count your master's known munificence is ample warrant that no just pretence of mine for dowry will be disallowed; though his fair daughter's self, as i avowed at starting, is my object. nay, we'll go together down, sir. notice neptune, though, taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, which claus of innsbruck° cast in bronze for me! ° * * * * * the bishop orders his tomb at saint praxed's church rome, -- vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! draw round my bed: is anselm keeping back? nephews--sons mine ... ah god, i know not! well, she, men would have to be your mother once, old gandolf° envied me, so fair she was! ° what's done is done, and she is dead beside, dead long ago, and i am bishop since. and as she died so must we die ourselves, and thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. life, how and what is it? as here i lie in this state-chamber, dying by degrees, hours and long hours in the dead night, i ask "do i live, am i dead?" peace, peace seems all. saint praxed's ever was the church for peace; and so, about this tomb of mine. i fought with tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: --old gandolf cozened me, despite my care; shrewd was that snatch from out the corner south he graced his carrion with, god curse the same! yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence one sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, and somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, and up into the aery dome where live the angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: and i shall fill my slab of basalt there, and 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, with those nine columns round me, two and two, the odd one at my feet where anselm stands: peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe as fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse, --old gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,° ° put me where i may look at him! true peach, rosy and flawless: how i earned the prize! draw close: that conflagration of my church --what then? so much was saved if aught were missed! my sons, ye would not be my death? go dig the white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, drop water gently till the surface sink, and if ye find... ah god, i know not, i!... bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, and corded up in a tight olive-frail,° ° some lump, ah god, of _lapis lazuli_,° ° big as a jew's head cut off at the nape, blue as a vein o'er the madonna's breast... sons, all have i bequeathed you, villas, all, that brave frascati° villa, with its bath, ° so, let the blue lump poise between my knees, like god the father's globe on both his hands ye worship in the jesu church, so gay, for gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: man goeth to the grave, and where is he? did i say, basalt for my slab, sons? black-- 'twas ever antique-black i meant! how else shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? the bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, those pans and nymphs ye wot of, and perchance some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, the saviour at his sermon on the mount, saint praxed in a glory, and one pan ready to twitch the nymph's last garment off, and moses with the tables° ... but i know ° ye mark me not! what do they whisper thee, child of my bowels, anselm? ah, ye hope to revel down my villas while i gasp bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine which gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then! 'tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest i grieve my bath must needs be left behind, alas! one block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, there's plenty jasper somewhere in the world-- and have i not saint praxed's ear to pray horses for ye, and brown greek manuscripts, and mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? --that's if ye carve my epitaph aright, choice latin, picked phrase, tully's° every word, ° no gaudy ware like gandolf's second line-- tully, my masters? ulpian° serves his need! ° and then how i shall lie thro' centuries, and hear the blessed mutter of the mass, and see god made and eaten all day long, and feel the steady candle-flame, and taste good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! for as i lie here, hours of the dead night, dying in state and by such slow degrees, i fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, and stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, and let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work: and as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts grow, with a certain humming in my ears, about the life before i lived this life, and this life too, popes, cardinals, and priests, saint praxed at his sermon on the mount, your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, and new-found agate urns as fresh as day, and marble's language, latin pure, discreet, --aha, elucescebat° quoth our friend? ° no tully, said i, ulpian at the best! evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. all _lapis_, all, sons! else i give the pope my villas! will ye ever eat my heart? ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, they glitter like your mother's for my soul. or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, piece out its starved design, and fill my vase with grapes, and add a visor and a term, and to the tripod ye would tie a lynx that in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, to comfort me on my entablature whereon i am to lie till i must ask "do i live, am i dead?" there, leave me, there! for ye have stabbed me with ingratitude to death--ye wish it--god, ye wish it! stone-- gritstone, a-crumble! clammy squares which sweat as if the corpse they keep were oozing through-- and no more _lapis_ to delight the world! well, go! i bless ye. fewer tapers there, but in a row: and, going, turn your backs --ay, like departing altar-ministrants, and leave me in my church, the church for peace, that i may watch, at leisure if he leers-- old gandolf--at me, from his onion-stone, as still he envied me, so fair she was! * * * * * the laboratory ancien rÉgime now that i, tying thy glass mask tightly, may gaze through these faint smokes curling whitely, as thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy-- which is the poison to poison her, prithee? he is with her, and they know that i know where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow while they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear empty church, to pray god in, for them!--i am here! grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, pound at thy powder, i am not in haste! better sit thus and observe thy strange things, than go where men wait me, and dance at the king's. that in the mortar--you call it a gum? ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come! and yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue, sure to taste sweetly,--is that poison, too? had i but all of them, thee and thy treasures, what a wild crowd of invisible pleasures! to carry pure death in an earring, a casket, a signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket! soon, at the king's, a mere lozenge to give and pauline should have just thirty minutes to live! but to light a pastille, and elise, with her head and her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead! quick--is it finished? the colour's too grim! why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim? let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir, and try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer! what a drop! she's not little, no minion like me! that's why she ensnared him: this never will free the soul from those masculine eyes,--say "no!" to that pulse's magnificent come-and-go. for only last night, as they whispered, i brought my own eyes to bear on her so that i thought could i keep them one half-minute fixed, she would fall shrivelled; she fell not: yet this does it all! not that i bid you spare her the pain; let death be felt and the proof remain: brand, burn up, bite into its grace-- he is sure to remember her dying face! is it done? take my mask off! nay, be not morose; it kills her, and this prevents seeing it close: the delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee! if it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me? now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill, you may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will! but brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings ere i know it--next moment i dance at the king's! * * * * * home thoughts, from abroad oh, to be in england now that april's there, and whoever wakes in england sees, some morning, unaware, that the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, while the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough in england--now! and after april, when may follows, and the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! hark i where my blossomed pear tree in the hedge leans to the field and scatters on the clover blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- that's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture! and though the fields look rough with hoary dew, all will be gay when noontide wakes anew the buttercups, the little children's dower --far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! * * * * * up at a villa--down in the city _(as distinguished by an italian person of quality.)_ had i but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, the house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city square; ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there! something to see, by bacchus°, something to hear, at least! ° there, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; while up at a villa one lives, i maintain it, no more than a beast. well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull just on a mountain edge as bare as the creature's skull, save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull! --i scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool. but the city, oh the city--the square with the houses! why? they are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye! houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry; you watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high; and the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. what of a villa? tho' winter be over in march, by rights, 'tis may perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights: you've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, and the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive trees. is it better in may, i ask you? you've summer all at once; in a day he leaps complete with a few strong april suns, 'mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, the wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell. is it ever hot in the square? there's a fountain to spout and splash! in the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flash on the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash round the lady atop in her conch--fifty gazers do not abash, tho' all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash. all the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger, except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger. some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i' the corn and mingle, or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. late august or early september, the stunning cicala is shrill, and the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. enough of the seasons,--i spare you the months of the fever and chill. ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin: no sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in: you get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. by and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth; or the pulcinello°-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. ° at the post-office such a scene-picture--the new play, piping hot! and a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. above it, behold the archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, and beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the duke's! or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the reverend don so-and-so, who is dante,° boccaccio,° petrarca,° st. jerome° and cicero,° ° "and moreover" (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of st. paul has reached,° ° having preached us those six lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached." noon strikes,--here sweeps the procession! our lady° borne smiling and smart. ° with a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords° stuck in her heart! ° _bang-whang-whang_ goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife; no keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life. but bless you, it's dear--it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. they have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate it's a horror to think of. and so, the villa for me, not the city! beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity! look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, and the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles; one, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, and the duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals: _bang-whang-whang_ goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife. oh, a day in the city square, there is no such pleasure in life! * * * * * a toccata of galuppi's oh galuppi,° baldassaro, this is very sad to find! ° i can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind; but altho' i take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind! here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings. what, they lived once thus at venice where the merchants were the kings, where st. mark's° is, where the doges used to wed the sea with rings°? ° ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by ... what you call ... shylock's bridge° with houses on it, where they kept the carnival: ° i was never out of england--it's as if i saw it all. did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in may? balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day, when they make up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say? was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,-- on her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed, o'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head? well, and it was graceful of them: they'd break talk off and afford --she, to bite her mask's black velvet--he, to finger on his sword, while you sat and played toccatas, stately at the clavichord°? ° what? those lesser thirds° so plaintive, sixths° diminished sigh on sigh, ° told them something? those suspensions,° those solutions°--"must we die?" ° those commiserating sevenths°--"life might last! we can but try!" ° "were you happy?"--"yes."--"and are you still as happy?"--"yes. and you?" --"then, more kisses !"--"did _i_ stop them, when, a million seemed so few?" hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to! so, an octave struck the answer. oh, they praised you, i dare say! "brave galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay! i can always leave off talking when i hear a master play!" then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one, some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone, death, stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.° ° but when i sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve, while i triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve, in you come with your cold music till i creep thro' every nerve. yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned: "dust and ashes, dead and done with, venice spent what venice earned. the soul, doubtless, is immortal--where a soul can be discerned. "yours, for instance: you know physics, something of geology, mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree; butterflies may dread extinction,--you'll not die, it cannot be!° ° "as for venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop, here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop: what of soul was left, i wonder, when the kissing had to stop? "dust and ashes!" so you creak it, and i want the heart to scold. dear dead women, with such hair, too--what's become of all the gold used to hang and brush their bosoms? i feel chilly and grown old. * * * * * abt vogler (after he has been extemporizing upon the musical instrument of his invention) would that the structure brave, the manifold music i build, bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when solomon° willed ° armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, man, brute, reptile, fly,--alien of end and of aim, adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed,-- should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable name, and pile him a palace° straight, to pleasure the princess he loved! ° would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine, this which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise! ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine, zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise! and one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell, burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things, then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well, founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. and another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was, ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, raising my rampired° walls of gold as transparent as glass, ° eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest: for higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire, when a great illumination surprises a festal night-- outlining round and round rome's dome° from space to spire) ° up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight. in sight? not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's birth, nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as i; and the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth. as the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky: novel splendours burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine. not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star; meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine, for earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far. nay more; for there wanted not who walked, in the glare and glow, presences plain in the place; or, fresh, from the protoplast, furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow, lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last: or else the wonderful dead who have passed thro' the body and gone, but were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new: what never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon; and what is,--shall i say, matched both? for i was made perfect too. all thro' my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, all thro' my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth, all thro' music and me! for think, had i painted the whole, why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth: had i written the same, made verse--still, effect proceeds from cause, ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told; it is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, painter and poet are proud, in the artist-list enrolled:-- but here is the finger of god, a flash of the will that can, existent behind all laws, that made them, and, lo, they are! and i know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man, that out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is naught; it is everywhere in the world--loud, soft, and all is said: give it to me to use! i mix it with two in my thought, and, there! ye have heard and seen; consider and bow the head! well, it is gone at last, the palace of music i reared; gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow; for one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared, that he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. never to be again! but many more of the kind as good, nay, better perchance: is this your comfort to me? to me, who must be saved because i cling with my mind to the same, same self, same love, same god: ay, what was, shall be. therefore to whom turn i but to thee, the ineffable name? builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands! what, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same? doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands? there shall never be one lost good! what was, shall live as before; the evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound; what was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; on the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round. all we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist; not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist, when eternity affirms the conception of an hour. the high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard. the passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, are music sent up to god by the lover and the bard; enough that he heard it once; we shall hear it by and by. and what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence for the fulness of the days? have we withered or agonized? why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? why rushed the discords in but that harmony should be prized? sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe: but god has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; the rest may reason and welcome; 'tis we musicians know. well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign: i will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. give me the keys. i feel for the common chord again, sliding by semitones, till i sink to the minor,--yes, and i blunt it into a ninth, and i stand on alien ground, surveying awhile the heights i rolled from into the deep: which, hark, i have dared and done, for my resting-place is found, the c major of this life: so, now i will try to sleep. * * * * * rabbi ben ezra grow old along with me°! ° the best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made: our times are in his hand who saith "a whole i planned, youth shows but half; trust god: see all, nor be afraid!" not that, amassing flowers, youth sighed, "which rose make ours, which lily leave and then as best recall!" not that, admiring stars, it yearned "nor jove, nor mars; mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" not for such hopes and fears annulling youth's brief years, do i remonstrate: folly wide the mark! rather i prize the doubt low kinds exist without, finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. poor vaunt of life indeed, were man but formed to feed on joy, to solely seek and find and feast: such feasting ended, then as sure an end to men; irks care the crop-full bird? frets doubt the maw-crammed beast? rejoice we are allied to that which doth provide and not partake, effect and not receive! a spark disturbs our clod; nearer we hold of° god. ° who gives, than of his tribes that take, i must believe. then, welcome each rebuff that turns earth's smoothness rough, each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! be our joys three-parts pain! strive, and hold cheap the strain; learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! for thence,--a paradox which comforts while it mocks,-- shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: what i aspired to be, and was not, comforts me: a brute i might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. what is he but a brute whose flesh has soul to suit, whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? to man, propose this test-- thy body at its best, how far can that project thy soul on its lone way? yet gifts should prove their use: i own the past profuse of power each side, perfection every turn: eyes, ears took in their dole, brain treasured up the whole; should not the heart beat once "how good to live and learn?" not once beat "praise be thine! i see the whole design, i, who saw power, see now love perfect too: perfect i call thy plan: thanks that i was a man! maker, remake, complete,--i trust what thou shall do!" for pleasant is this flesh; our soul, in its rose-mesh pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: would we some prize might hold to match those manifold possessions of the brute,--gain most, as we did best! let us not always say, "spite of this flesh to-day i strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" as the bird wings and sings, let us cry "all good things are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" therefore i summon age to grant youth's heritage, life's struggle having so far reached its term: thence shall i pass, approved a man, for aye removed from the developed brute; a god tho' in the germ. and i shall thereupon take rest, ere i be gone once more on my adventure brave and new: fearless and unperplexed, when i wage battle next, what weapons to select, what armour to indue. youth ended, i shall try my gain or loss thereby; leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: and i shall weigh the same, give life its praise or blame: young, all lay in dispute; i shall know, being old. for, note when evening shuts, a certain moment cuts the deed off, calls the glory from the gray: a whisper from the west shoots--"add this to the rest, take it and try its worth: here dies another day." so, still within this life, tho' lifted o'er its strife, let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, "this rage was right i' the main, that acquiescence vain: the future i may face now i have proved the past." for more is not reserved to man, with soul just nerved to act to-morrow what he learns to-day: here, work enough to watch the master work, and catch hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. as it was better, youth should strive, thro' acts uncouth, toward making, than repose on aught found made: so, better, age, exempt from strife, should know, than tempt further. thou waitedst age: wait death, nor be afraid! enough now, if the right and good and infinite be named° here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, ° with knowledge absolute, subject to no dispute from fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. be there, for once and all, severed great minds from small, announced to each his station in the past! was i,° the world arraigned, ° were they, my soul disdained, right? let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! now, who shall arbitrate? ten men love what i hate, shun what i follow, slight what i receive; ten, who in ears and eyes match me: we all surmise, they, this thing, and i, that: whom shall my soul believe? not on the vulgar mass called "work," must sentence pass, things done, that took the eye and had the price; o'er which, from level stand, the low world laid its hand, found straight way to its mind, could value in a trice: but all, the world's coarse thumb and finger failed to plumb, so passed in making up the main account: all instincts immature, all purposes unsure, that weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount°: ° thoughts hardly to be packed into a narrow act, fancies that broke thro' language and escaped: all i could never be, all, men ignored in me, this, i was worth to god, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. ay, note that potter's wheel,° ° that metaphor! and feel why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,-- thou, to whom fools propound, when the wine makes its round, "since life fleets, all is change; the past gone, seize to-day!" fool! all that is, at all, lasts ever, past recall; earth changes, but thy soul and god stand sure: what entered into thee, _that_ was, is, and shall be: time's wheel runs back or stops: potter and clay endure. he fixed thee mid this dance of plastic circumstance, this present, thou forsooth, wouldst fain arrest: machinery just meant to give thy soul its bent, try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. what tho' the earlier grooves which ran the laughing loves around thy base, no longer pause and press°? ° what tho' about thy rim, scull-things in order grim grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress°? ° look not thou down but up! to uses of a cup the festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, the new wine's foaming flow, the master's lips a-glow! thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's wheel? but i need, now as then, thee, god, who mouldest men! and since, not even while the whirl was worst, did i,--to the wheel of life with shapes and colours rife, bound dizzily,--mistake my end, to slake thy thirst. so take and use thy work, amend what flaws may lurk, what strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! my times be in thy hand! perfect the cup as planned! let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! * * * * * a grammarian's funeral shortly after the revival of learning in europe let us begin and carry up this corpse, singing together. leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes, each in its tether sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, cared-for till cock-crow: look out if yonder be not day again rimming the rock-row! that's the appropriate country; there, man's thought, rarer, intenser, self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, chafes in the censer. leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; seek we sepulture on a tall mountain, citied to the top, crowded with culture! all the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; clouds overcome it; no! yonder sparkle is the citadel's circling its summit. thither our path lies; wind we up the heights: wait ye the warning? our low life° was the level's and the night's: ° he's for the morning. step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 'ware the beholders! this is our master, famous calm and dead, borne on our shoulders. sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, safe from the weather! he, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, singing together, he was a man born with thy face and throat, lyric apollo! long he lived nameless: how should spring take note winter would follow? till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! cramped and diminished, moaned he, "new measures, other feet anon! my dance is finished?" no, that's the world's way; (keep the mountain-side, make for the city!) he knew the signal, and stepped on with pride over men's pity; left play for work, and grappled with the world bent on escaping°: ° "what's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled? show me their shaping,° ° theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,-- give!"--so, he gowned him, straight got by heart that book to its last page: learned, we found him. yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead, accents uncertain: "time to taste life," another would have said, "up with the curtain!" this man said rather, "actual life comes next? patience a moment! grant i have mastered learning's crabbed text, still there's the comment. let me know all! prate not of most or least, painful or easy! even to the crumbs i'd fain eat up the feast, ay, nor feel queasy." oh, such a life as he resolved to live, when he had learned it, when he had gathered all books had to give! sooner, he spurned it. image the whole, then execute the parts-- fancy the fabric quite, ere you build, ere steel strikes fire from quartz, ere mortar dab brick. (here's the town-gate reached; there's the market-place gaping before us.) yea, this in him was the peculiar grace (hearten our chorus!) that before living he'd learn how to live-- no end to learning: earn the means first--god surely will contrive use for our earning. others mistrust and say, "but time escapes! live now or never!" he said, "what's time? leave now for dogs and apes! man has forever." back to his book then: deeper drooped his head: _calculus_ racked him: leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: _tussis_ attacked him. "now, master, take a little rest!"--not he! (caution redoubled! step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) not a whit troubled, back to his studies, fresher than at first, fierce as a dragon he (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) sucked at the flagon. oh, if we draw a circle premature, heedless of far gain,° ° greedy for quick returns of profit, sure bad is our bargain! was it not great? did not he throw on god (he loves the burthen)-- god's task to make the heavenly period perfect the earthen? did not he magnify the mind, show clear just what it all meant? he would not discount life, as fools do here, paid by instalment. he ventured neck or nothing--heaven's success found, or earth's failure: "wilt thou trust death or not?" he answered "yes! hence with life's pale lure!" that low man seeks a little thing to do, sees it and does it: this high man, with a great thing to pursue, dies ere he knows it. that low man goes on adding one to one, his hundred's soon hit: this high man, aiming at a million, misses an unit. that, has the world here--should he need the next, let the world mind him! this, throws himself on god, and unperplexed seeking shall find him. so, with the throttling hands of death at strife, ground he at grammar; still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife: while he could stammer he settled _hoti's_° business--let it be!-- ° properly based _oun_°-- ° gave as the doctrine of the enclitic _de_° ° dead from the waist down. well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: hail to your purlieus, all ye highfliers of the feathered race, swallows and curlews: here's the top-peak; the multitude below live, for they can, there: this man decided not to live, but know-- bury this man there? here--here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, lightnings are loosened, stars come and go! let joy break with the storm, peace let the dew send! lofty designs must close in like effects: loftily lying, leave him--still loftier than the world suspects, living and dying. * * * * * andrea del sarto (called "the faultless painter") but do not let us quarrel any more, no, my lucrezia! bear with me for once: sit down and all shall happen as you wish. you turn your face, but does it bring your heart? i'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear. treat his own subject after his own way, fix his own time, accept too his own price, and shut the money into this small hand when next it takes mine. will it? tenderly? oh, i'll content him,--but to-morrow, love! i often am much wearier than you think, this evening more than usual: and it seems as if--forgive now--should you let me sit here by the window, with your hand in mine, and look a half-hour forth on fiesole,° ° both of one mind, as married people use, quietly, quietly the evening through, i might get up to-morrow to my work cheerful and fresh as ever. let us try. to-morrow, how you shall be glad for this! your soft hand is a woman of itself, and mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve for each of the five pictures we require: it saves a model. so! keep looking so-- my serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! --how could you ever prick those perfect ears, even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet-- my face, my moon, my everybody's moon. which everybody looks on and calls his, and, i suppose, is looked on by in turn, while she looks--no one's: very dear, no less. you smile? why, there's my picture ready made, there's what we painters call our harmony! a common grayness silvers everything,-- all in a twilight, you and i alike --you, at the point of your first pride in me (that's gone, you know)--but i, at every point; my youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down to yonder sober pleasant fiesole. there's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; that length of convent-wall across the way holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; the last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, and autumn grows, autumn in everything. eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape, as if i saw alike my work and self and all that i was born to be and do, a twilight-piece. love, we are in god's hand. how strange now, looks the life he makes us lead; so free we seem, so fettered fast we are! i feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! this chamber for example--turn your head-- all that's behind us! you don't understand nor care to understand about my art, but you can hear at least when people speak: and that cartoon, the second from the door --it is the thing, love! so such things should be-- behold madonna!--i am bold to say. i can do with my pencil what i know, what i see, what at bottom of my heart i wish for, if i ever wish so deep-- do easily, too--when i say, perfectly, i do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, who listened to the legate's talk last week; and just as much they used to say in france. at any rate 'tis easy, all of it! no sketches first, no studies, that's long past: i do what many dream of, all their lives, --dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, and fail in doing. i could count twenty such on twice your fingers, and not leave this town, who strive--you don't know how the others strive to paint a little thing like that you smeared carelessly passing with your robes afloat,-- yet do much less, so much less. someone says, (i know his name, no matter)--so much less! well, less is more, lucrezia: i am judged. there burns a truer light of god in them, in their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt this low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. their works drop groundward, but themselves, i know, reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, enter and take their place there sure enough, tho' they come back and cannot tell the world. my works are nearer heaven, but i sit here. the sudden blood of these men! at a word-- praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. i, painting from myself and to myself, know what i do, am unmoved by men's blame or their praise either. somebody remarks morello's outline there is wrongly traced, his hue mistaken; what of that? or else, rightly traced and well ordered; what of that? speak as they please, what does the mountain care? ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for? all is silver-gray, placid and perfect with my art: the worse! i know both what i want and what might gain, and yet how profitless to know, to sigh "had i been two, another and myself, our head would have o'erlooked the world!" no doubt. yonder's a work now, of that famous youth the urbinate who died five years ago. ('tis copied, george vasari sent it me.) well, i can fancy how he did it all, pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, above and thro' his art--for it gives way; that arm is wrongly put--and there again-- a fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, its body, so to speak: its soul is right, he means right--that, a child may understand. still, what an arm! and i could alter it: but all the play, the insight and the stretch-- out of me, out of me! and wherefore out? had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, we might have risen to rafael°, i and you! ° nay, love, you did give all i asked, i think-- more than i merit, yes, by many times. but had you--oh, with the same perfect brow, and perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, and the low voice my soul hears, as a bird the fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare-- had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! some women do so. had the mouth there urged "god and the glory! never care for gain. the present by the future, what is that? live for fame, side by side with agnolo°! ° rafael is waiting: up to god, all three!" i might have done it for you. so it seems: perhaps not. all is as god over-rules. beside, incentives come from the soul's self; the rest avail not. why do i need you? what wife had rafael, or has agnolo? in this world, who can do a thing, will not; and who would do it, cannot, i perceive: yet the will's somewhat--somewhat, too, the power-- and thus we half-men struggle. at the end, god, i conclude, compensates, punishes. 'tis safer for me, if the award be strict, that i am something underrated here, poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. i dared not, do you know, leave home all day, for fear of chancing on the paris lords. the best is when they pass and look aside; but they speak sometimes; i must bear it all. well may they speak. that francis, that first time, and that long festal year at fontainebleau°! ° i surely then could sometimes leave the ground, put on the glory, rafael's daily wear, in that humane great monarch's golden look,-- one finger in his beard or twisted curl over his mouth's good mark that made the smile. one arm, about my shoulder, round my neck, the jingle of his gold chain in my ear, i painting proudly with his breath on me, all his court round him, seeing with his eyes. such frank french eyes, and such a fire of souls profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,-- and, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, this in the background, waiting on my work, to crown the issue with a last reward! a good tune, was it not, my kingly days? and had you not grown restless ... but i know-- 'tis done and past; 'twas right, my instinct said; too live the life grew, golden and not gray: and i'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt out of the grange whose four walls make his world, how could it end in any other way? you called me, and i came home to your heart, the triumph was--to reach and stay there; since i reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, you beautiful lucrezia that are mine! "rafael did this, andrea painted that; the roman's is the better when you pray, but still the other's virgin was his wife--" men will excuse me. i am glad to judge both pictures in your presence; clearer grows my better fortune, i resolve to think. for, do you know, lucrezia, as god lives, said one day agnolo, his very self, to rafael... i have known it all these years... (when the young man was flaming out his thoughts upon a palace-wall for rome to see, too lifted up in heart because of it) "friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub goes up and down our florence, none cares how, who, were he set to plan and execute as you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!" to rafael's!--and indeed the arm is wrong. i hardly dare ... yet, only you to see, give the chalk here--quick, thus the line should go! ay, but the soul! he's rafael! rub it out! still, all i care for, if he spoke the truth, (what he? why, who but michel agnolo? do you forget already words like those?) if really there was such a chance so lost,-- is, whether you're--not grateful--but more pleased. well, let me think so. and you smile indeed! this hour has been an hour! another smile? if you would sit thus by me every night i should work better, do you comprehend? i mean that i should earn more, give you more. see, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, the cue-owls speak the name we call them by. come from the window, love,--come in, at last, inside the melancholy little house we built to be so gay with. god is just. king francis may forgive me: oft at nights when i look up from painting, eyes tired out, the walls become illumined, brick from brick distinct, instead of mortar, fierce, bright gold, that gold of his i did cement them with! let us but love each other. must you go? that cousin here again? he waits outside? must see you--you, and not with me? those loans? more gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? while hand and eye and something of a heart are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth? i'll pay my fancy. only let me sit the gray remainder of the evening out, idle, you call it, and muse perfectly how i could paint, were i but back in france, one picture, just one more--the virgin's face, not yours this time! i want you at my side to hear them--that is, michel agnolo-- judge all i do and tell you of its worth. will you? to-morrow, satisfy your friend. i take the subjects for his corridor, finish the portrait out of hand--there, there, and throw him in another thing or two if he demurs; the whole should prove enough to pay for this same cousin's freak. beside, what's better and what's all i care about, get you the thirteen scudi° for the ruff! ° love, does that please you? ah, but what does he, the cousin! what does he to please you more? i am grown peaceful as old age to-night. i regret little, i would change still less. since there my past life lies, why alter it? the very wrong to francis!--it is true i took his coin, was tempted and complied, and built this house and sinned, and all is said my father and my mother died of want. well, had i riches of my own? you see how one gets rich! let each one bear his lot. they were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: and i have laboured somewhat in my time and not been paid profusely. some good son paint my two hundred pictures--let him try! no doubt, there's something strikes a balance. yes, you love me quite enough, it seems to-night. this must suffice me here. what would one have? in heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance-- four great walls in the new jerusalem, meted on each side by the angel's reed, for leonard,° rafael, agnolo, and me ° to cover--the three first without a wife, while i have mine! so--still they overcome because there's still lucrezia,--as i choose. again the cousin's whistle! go, my love. * * * * * caliban upon setebos; or, natural theology in the island "thou thoughtest that i was altogether such an one as thyself." ['will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, flat on his belly in the pit's much mire, with elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin, and, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, and feels about his spine small eft-things course, run in and out each arm, and make him laugh: and while above his head a pompion-plant, coating the cave-top as a brow its eye, creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard, and now a flower drops with a bee inside, and now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,-- he looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross and recross till they weave a spider-web, (meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times) and talks, to his own self, howe'er he please, touching that other, whom his dam called god. because to talk about him, vexes--ha, could he but know! and time to vex is now, when talk is safer than in winter-time. moreover prosper and miranda sleep in confidence, he drudges at their task, and it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe, letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.] setebos, setebos, and setebos! 'thinketh, he dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon. 'thinketh he made it, with the sun to match, but not the stars; the stars came otherwise; only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that: also this isle, what lives and grows thereon, and snaky sea which rounds and ends the same. 'thinketh, it came of being ill at ease: he hated that he cannot change his cold, nor cure its ache. 'hath spied an icy fish that longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived, and thaw herself within the lukewarm brine o' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid, a crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave; only, she ever sickened, found repulse at the other kind of water, not her life, (green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun) flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe, and in her old bounds buried her despair, hating and loving warmth alike: so he. 'thinketh, he made thereat the sun, this isle, trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, that floats and feeds; a certain badger brown, he hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye by moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue that pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm, and says a plain word when she finds her prize, but will not eat the ants; the ants themselves that build a wall of seeds and settled stalks about their hole--he made all these and more, made all we see, and us, in spite: how else? he could not, himself, make a second self to be his mate: as well have made himself: he would not make what he mislikes or slights, an eyesore to him, or not worth his pains; but did, in envy, listlessness, or sport, make what himself would fain, in a manner, be-- weaker in most points, stronger in a few, worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while, things he admires and mocks too,--that is it! because, so brave, so better tho' they be, it nothing skills if he begin to plague. look now, i melt a gourd-fruit into mash, add honeycomb and pods, i have perceived, which bite like finches when they bill and kiss,-- then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all, quick, quick, till maggots scamper thro' my brain; last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme. and wanton, wishing i were born a bird. put case, unable to be what i wish, i yet could make a live bird out of clay: would not i take clay, pinch my caliban able to fly?--for there, see, he hath wings, and great comb like the hoopoe's to admire, and there, a sting to do his foes offence, there, and i will that he begin to live, fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns of grigs high up that make the merry din, saucy thro' their veined wings, and mind me not. in which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay, and he lay stupid-like,--why, i should laugh; and if he, spying me, should fall to weep, beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, bid his poor leg smart less or grow again,-- well, as the chance were, this might take or else not take my fancy: i might hear his cry, and give the mankin three sound legs for one, or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg, and lessoned he was mine and merely clay. were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme, drinking the mash, with brain become alive, making and marring clay at will? so he. 'thinketh such shows nor right nor wrong in him, nor kind, nor cruel: he is strong and lord. 'am strong myself compared to yonder crabs that march now from the mountain to the sea; 'let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first, loving not, hating not, just choosing so. 'say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots shall join the file, one pincer twisted off; 'say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm. and two worms he whose nippers end in red: as it likes me each time, i do: so he. well then, 'supposeth he is good i' the main, placable if his mind and ways were guessed, but rougher than his handiwork, be sure! oh, he hath made things worthier than himself, and envieth that, so helped, such things do more than he who made them! what consoles but this? that they, unless thro' him, do naught at all, and must submit: what other use in things? 'hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint that, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay when from her wing you twitch the feathers blue; sound this, and little birds that hate the jay flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt: put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth "i catch the birds, i am the crafty thing, i make the cry my maker cannot make with his great round mouth; he must blow thro' mine!" would not i smash it with my foot? so he. but wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease? aha, that is a question! ask, for that, what knows,--the something over setebos that made him, or he, may be, found and fought, worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance. there may be something quiet o'er his head, out of his reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, since both derive from weakness in some way. i joy because the quails come; would not joy could i bring quails here when i have a mind: this quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. 'esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch, but never spends much thought nor care that way. it may look up, work up,--the worse for those it works on! 'careth but for setebos the many-handed as a cuttle-fish, who, making himself feared thro' what he does, looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar to what is quiet and hath happy life; next looks down here, and out of very spite makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real, these good things to match those as hips do grapes. 'tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport. himself peeped late, eyed prosper at his books careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped, wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words; has peeled a wand and called it by a name; weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe the eyed skin of a supple oncelot; and hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, a four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch, now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, and saith she is miranda and my wife: 'keeps for his ariel a tall pouch-bill crane he bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge; also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared, blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, and split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge in a hole o' the rock, and calls him caliban; a bitter heart that bides its time and bites. 'plays thus at being prosper in a way, taketh his mirth with make-believes: so he. his dam held that the quiet made all things which setebos vexed only: 'holds not so. who made them weak, meant weakness he might vex. had he meant other, while his hand was in, why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick, or plate my scalp with bone against the snow, or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint, like an orc's armour? ay,--so spoil his sport! he is the one now: only he doth all. 'saith, he may like, perchance, what profits him. ay, himself loves what does him good; but why? 'gets good no otherwise. this blinded beast loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose. but, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate or love, just as it liked him: he hath eyes. also it pleaseth setebos to work, use all his hands, and exercise much craft, by no means for the love of what is worked. 'tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world when all goes right, in this safe summer-time, and he wants little, hungers, aches not much, than trying what to do with wit and strength. 'falls to make something; 'piled yon pile of turfs, and squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk, and, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each, and set up endwise certain spikes of tree, and crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top, found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill. no use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake; 'shall some day knock it down again: so he. 'saith he is terrible: watch his feats in proof! one hurricane will spoil six good months' hope. he hath a spite against me, that i know. just as he favours prosper, who knows why? so it is, all the same, as well i find. 'wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm with stone and stake to stop she-tortoises crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave, feeling the foot of him upon its neck, gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue, and licked the whole labour flat; so much for spite! 'saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies) where, half an hour before, i slept i' the shade: often they scatter sparkles: there is force! 'dug up a newt he may have envied once and turned to stone, shut up inside a stone. please him and hinder this?--what prosper does? aha, if he would tell me how! not he! there is the sport: discover how or die! all need not die, for of the things o' the isle some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees; those at his mercy,--why, they please him most when ... when ... well, never try the same way twice! repeat what act has pleased, he may grow wroth. you must not know his ways, and play him off, sure of the issue. 'doth the like himself: 'spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears but steals the nut from underneath my thumb, and when i threat, bites stoutly in defence: 'spareth an urchin that contrariwise, curls up into a ball, pretending death for fright at my approach: the two ways please. but what would move my choler more than this, that either creature counted on its life to-morrow, next day and all days to come, saying forsooth in the inmost of its heart, "because he did so yesterday with me, and otherwise with such another brute, so must he do henceforth and always." ay? 'would teach the reasoning couple what "must" means! 'doth as he likes, or wherefore lord? so he. 'conceiveth all things will continue thus, and we shall have to live in fear of him so long as he lives, keeps his strength: no change, if he have done his best, make no new world to please him more, so leave off watching this,-- if he surprise not even the quiet's self some strange day,--or, suppose, grow into it as grubs grow butterflies: else, here are we, and there is he, and nowhere help at all. 'believeth with the life the pain shall stop. his dam held different, that after death he both plagued enemies and feasted friends: idly! he doth his worst in this our life, giving just respite lest we die thro' pain, saving last pain for worst,--with which, an end. meanwhile, the best way to escape his ire is, not to seem too happy. 'sees, himself, yonder two flies, with purple films and pink, bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both. 'sees two black painful beetles roll their ball on head and tail as if to save their lives: 'moves them the stick away they strive to clear. even so, 'would have him misconceive, suppose this caliban strives hard and ails no less, and always, above all else, envies him; wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights, moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh, and never speaks his mind save housed as now: outside, 'groans, curses. if he caught me here, o'erheard this speech, and asked "what chucklest at?" 'would to appease him, cut a finger off, or of my three kid yearlings burn the best, or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, or push my tame beast for the orc to taste: while myself lit a fire, and made a song and sung it, _"what i hate, be consecrate to celebrate thee and thy state, no mate for thee; what see for envy in poor me?"_ hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend, warts rub away and sores are cured with slime, that some strange day, will either the quiet catch and conquer setebos, or likelier he decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die. [what, what? a curtain o'er the world at once! crickets stop hissing; not a bird--or, yes, there scuds his raven, that hath told him all! it was fool's play, this prattling! ha! the wind shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move, and fast invading fires begin! white blaze-- a tree's head snaps--and there, there, there, there, there, his thunder follows! fool to gibe at him! so! 'lieth flat and loveth setebos! 'maketh his teeth meet thro' his upper lip, will let those quails fly, will not eat this month one little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape!] * * * * * "childe roland to the dark tower came" _(see edgar's song in "lear.")_ my first thought was, he lied in every word, that hoary cripple, with malicious eye askance to watch the working of his lie on mine, and mouth scarce able to afford suppression° of the glee, that pursed and scored ° its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. what else should he be set for, with his staff? what, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare all travellers who might find him posted there, and ask the road? i guessed what skull-like laugh would break, what crutch 'gin write° my epitaph ° for pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, if at his counsel i should turn aside into that ominous tract which, all agree, hides the dark tower. yet acquiescingly i did turn as he pointed: neither pride nor hope rekindling at the end descried. so much as gladness that some end might be. for, what with my whole world-wide wandering, what, with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope with that obstreperous joy success would bring,-- i hardly tried now to rebuke the spring my heart made, finding failure in its scope. as when a sick man very near to death seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end the tears, and takes the farewell of each friend, and hears one bid the other go, draw breath freelier outside, ("since all is o'er," he saith, "and the blow fallen no grieving can amend;") while some discuss if near the other graves be room enough for this, and when a day suits best for carrying the corpse away, with care about the banners, scarves, and staves: and still the man hears all, and only craves he may not shame such tender love and stay. thus, i had so long suffered in this quest, heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ so many times among "the band"--to wit, the knights who to the dark tower's search addressed their steps--that just to fail as they, seemed best, and all the doubt was now--should i be fit? so, quiet as despair, i turned from him, that hateful cripple, out of his highway into the path he pointed. all the day had been a dreary one at best, and dim was settling to its close, yet shot one grim red leer to see the plain catch its estray.° ° for mark! no sooner was i fairly found pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, than, pausing to throw backward a last view o'er the safe road, 'twas gone; gray plain all round: nothing but plain to the horizon's bound, i might go on; naught else remained to do. so, on i went. i think i never saw such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: for flowers--as well expect a cedar grove! but cockle, spurge, according to their law might propagate their kind, with none to awe, you'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove. no! penury, inertness, and grimace, in some strange sort, were the land's portion. "see or shut your eyes," said nature peevishly, "it nothing skills: i cannot help my case: 'tis the last judgment's fire must cure this place, calcine its clods and set my prisoners° free." ° if there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents° ° were jealous else. what made those holes and rents in the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as° to balk all hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. as for the grass, it grew as scant as hair in leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. one stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, stood stupefied, however he came there: thrust out past service from the devil's stud! alive? he might be dead for aught i know, with that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, and shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; i never saw a brute i hated so; he must be wicked to deserve such pain. i shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. as a man calls for wine before he fights, i asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, ere fitly i could hope to play my part. think first, fight afterwards--the soldier's art: one taste of the old time sets all to rights. not it°! i fancied cuthbert's reddening face ° beneath its garniture of curly gold, dear fellow, till i almost felt him fold an arm in mine to fix me to the place, that way he used. alas, one night's disgrace! out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. giles then, the soul of honour--there he stands frank as ten years ago when knighted first. what honest man should dare (he said) he durst. good--but the scene shifts--faugh! what hangman hands pin to his breast a parchment? his own bands read it. poor traitor, spit upon and curst! better this present than a past like that; back therefore to my darkening path again! no sound, no sight so far as eye could strain. will the night send a howlet° or a bat? ° i asked: when something on the dismal flat came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. a sudden little river crossed my path as unexpected as a serpent comes. no sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; this, as it frothed by, might have been a bath for the fiend's glowing hoof--to see the wrath of its black eddy bespate° with flakes and spumes. ° so petty, yet so spiteful! all along, low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit of mute despair, a suicidal throng: the river which had done them all the wrong, whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. which, while i forded,--good saints, how i feared to set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, each step, or feel the spear i thrust to seek for hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! --it may have been a water-rat i speared, but, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek. glad was i when i reached the other bank. now for a better country. vain presage! who were the strugglers, what war did they wage whose savage trample thus could pad the dank soil to a plash? toads in a poisoned tank, or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage-- the fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.° ° what penned them there, with all the plain, to choose? no foot-print leading to that horrid mews, none out of it. mad brewage set to work their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the turk° ° pits for his pastime, christians against jews. and more than that--a furlong on--why, there! what bad use was that engine° for, that wheel, ° or brake, not wheel--that harrow fit to reel men's bodies out like silk? with all the air of tophet's° tool, on earth left unaware, ° or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood changes, and off he goes!) within a rood-- bog, clay, and rubble, sand, and stark black dearth. now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, now patches where some leanness of the soil's broke into moss or substances like boils; then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him like a distorted mouth that splits its rim gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. and just as far as ever from the end, naught in the distance but the evening, naught to point my footstep further! at the thought, a great black bird, apollyon's° bosom-friend, ° sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned that brushed my cap--perchance the guide i sought. for, looking up, aware i somehow grew, 'spite of the dusk, the plain had given place all round to mountains--with such name to grace mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. how thus they had surprised me,--solve it, you! how to get from them was no clearer case. yet half i seemed to recognize some trick of mischief happened to me, gods knows when-- in a bad dream, perhaps. here ended, then, progress this way. when, in the very nick of giving up, one time more, came a click as when a trap shuts--you're inside the den. burningly it came on me all at once, this was the place! those two hills on the right, crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; while, to the left, a tall scalped mountain ... dunce, dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, after a life spent training for the sight! what in the midst lay but the tower itself? the round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, built of brown stone, without a counterpart in the whole world. the tempest's mocking elf points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf he strikes on, only when the timbers start. not see? because of night perhaps?--why, day came back again for that! before it left, the dying sunset kindled thro' a cleft: the hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, "now stab and end the creature--to the heft!" not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled increasing like a bell. names in my ears, of all the lost adventurers my peers,-- how such a one was strong, and such was bold, and such was fortunate, yet each of old lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. there they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met to view the last of me, a living frame for one more picture! in a sheet of flame i saw them and i knew them all. and yet dauntless the slug-horn to my lips i set, and blew. "_childe roland to the dark tower came._" * * * * * an epistle containing the strange medical experience of karshish, the arab physician karshish, the picker up of learning's crumbs, the not incurious in god's handiwork (this man's flesh he hath admirably made, blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste, to coop up and keep down on earth a space that puff of vapour from his mouth, man's soul) --to abib, all sagacious in our art, breeder in me of what poor skill i boast, like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks befall the flesh through too much stress and strain, whereby the wily vapour fain would slip back and rejoin its source before the term,-- and aptest in contrivance (under god) to baffle it by deftly stopping such°-- ° the vagrant scholar to his sage° at home ° sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame with peace) three samples of true snake-stone°--rarer still, ° one of the other sort, the melon-shaped, (but fitter, pounded fine, for charms° than drugs) ° and writeth now the twenty-second time. my journeyings were brought to jericho: thus i resume. who studious in our art shall count a little labour unrepaid? i have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone on many a flinty furlong of this land. also, the country-side is all on fire with rumours of a marching hitherward: some say vespasian° cometh, some, his son. ° a black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear: lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls: i cried and threw my staff and he was gone. twice have the robbers stripped and beaten me, and once a town declared me for a spy°; ° but at the end, i reach jerusalem, since this poor covert where i pass the night, this bethany, lies scarce the distance thence a man with plague-sores at the third degree runs till he drops down dead.° thou laughest here! ° 'sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe, to void the stuffing of my travel-scrip and share with thee whatever jewry yields. a viscid choler is observable in tertians, i was nearly bold to say; and falling-sickness hath a happier cure° ° than our school wots of: there's a spider here weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs, sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back; take five and drop them° ... but who knows his mind, ° the syrian run-a-gate i trust this to? his service payeth me a sublimate blown up his nose to help the ailing eye. best wait: i reach jerusalem at morn, there set in order my experiences, gather what most deserves, and give thee all-- or i might add, judæa's gum-tragacanth scales off in purer flakes, shines clearer-grained, cracks 'twixt the pestle and the porphyry. in fine exceeds our produce. scalp-disease confounds me, crossing so with leprosy: thou hadst admired one sort i gained at zoar-- but zeal outruns discretion. here i end. yet stay! my syrian blinketh gratefully, protested his devotion is my price-- suppose i write, what harms not, tho' he steal? i half resolve to tell thee, yet i blush,° ° what set me off a-writing first of all. an itch i had, a sting to write, a tang! for, be it this town's barrenness--or else the man had something in the look of him-- his case has struck me far more than 'tis worth. so, pardon if--(lest presently i lose, in the great press of novelty at hand, the care and pains this somehow stole from me) i bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind. almost in sight--for, wilt thou have the truth? the very man is gone from me but now, whose ailment is the subject of discourse. thus then, and let thy better wit help all! 'tis but a case of mania: subinduced by epilepsy, at the turning-point of trance prolonged unduly some three days when, by the exhibition of some drug or spell, exorcisation, stroke of art unknown to me and which 'twere well to know, the evil thing, out-breaking all at once, left the man whole and sound of body indeed,-- but, flinging (so to speak) life's gates too wide, making a clear house of it too suddenly, the first conceit that entered might inscribe whatever it was minded on the wall so plainly at that vantage, as it were, (first come, first served) that nothing subsequent attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls the just-returned and new-established soul hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart that henceforth she will read or these or none. and first--the man's own firm conviction rests that he was dead (in fact they buried him) --that he was dead and then restored to life by a nazarene physician of his tribe: --'sayeth, the same bade "rise," and he did rise, "such cases are diurnal," thou wilt cry. not so this figment!--not, that such a fume, instead of giving way to time and health, should eat itself into the life of life. as saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones, and all! for see, how he takes up the after-life, the man--it is one lazarus, a jew, sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age, the body's habit wholly laudable, as much, indeed, beyond the common health. as he were made and put aside to show. think, could we penetrate by any drug and bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh, and bring it clear and fair, by three days' sleep! whence has the man the balm that brightens all? this grown man eyes the world now like a child. some elders of his tribe, i should premise, led in their friend, obedient as a sheep, to bear my inquisition. while they spoke, now sharply, now with sorrow,--told the case,-- he listened not except i spoke to him, but folded his two hands and let them talk, watching the flies that buzzed: and yet no fool. and that's a sample how his years must go. look if a beggar, in fixed middle-life, should find a treasure,--can he use the same with straitened habits and with tastes starved small, and take at once to his impoverished brain the sudden element that changes things, that sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand, and puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust? is he not such an one as moves to mirth-- warily parsimonious, when no need, wasteful as drunkenness at undue times? all prudent counsel as to what befits the golden mean, is lost on such an one: the man's fantastic will is the man's law. so here--we call the treasure knowledge, say, increased beyond the fleshly faculty-- heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth, earth forced on a soul's use while seeing heaven: the man is witless of the size, the sum, the value in proportion of all things, or whether it be little or be much. discourse to him of prodigious armaments assembled to besiege his city now, and of the passing of a mule with gourds-- 'tis one! then take it on the other side, speak of some trifling fact,--he will gaze rapt with stupor at its very littleness, (far as i see) as if in that indeed he caught prodigious import, whole results. and so will turn to us the bystanders in ever the same stupor (note this point) that we too see not with his opened eyes. wonder and doubt come wrongly into play, preposterously, at cross purposes. should his child sicken unto death,--why, look for scarce abatement of his cheerfulness, or pretermission of the daily craft! while a word, gesture, glance from that same child at play or in the school or laid asleep, will startle him to an agony of fear, exasperation, just as like. demand the reason why--"'tis but a word," object-- "a gesture"--he regards thee as our lord who lived there in the pyramid alone, looked at us (dost thou mind?) when, being young we both would unadvisedly recite some charm's beginning, from that book of his,° ° able to bid the sun throb wide and burst all into stars, as suns grown old are wont. thou and the child have each a veil alike thrown o'er your heads, from under which ye both stretch your blind hands and trifle with a match over a mine of greek fire,° did ye know! ° he holds on firmly to some thread of life (it is the life to lead perforcedly) which runs across some vast distracting orb of glory on either side that meagre thread, which, conscious of, he must not enter yet-- the spiritual life around the earthly life: the law of that is known to him as this, his heart and brain move there, his feet stay here. so is the man perplext with impulses sudden to start off crosswise, not straight on, proclaiming what is right and wrong across, and not along, this black thread thro' the blaze-- "it should be" balked by "here it cannot be." and oft the man's soul springs into his face as if he saw again and heard again his sage that bade him "rise" and he did rise. something, a word, a tick o' the blood within admonishes: then back he sinks at once to ashes, who was very fire before, in sedulous recurrence to his trade whereby he earneth him the daily bread; and studiously the humbler for that pride, professedly the faultier that he knows god's secret, while he holds the thread of life. indeed the especial marking of the man is prone submission to the heavenly will-- seeing it, what it is, and why it is. 'sayeth, he will wait patient to the last for that same death, which must restore his being to equilibrium, body loosening soul divorced even now by premature full growth: he will live, nay, it pleaseth him to live so long as god please, and just how god please. he even seeketh not to please god more (which meaneth, otherwise) than as god please. hence, i perceive not he affects to preach the doctrine of his sect whate'er it be, make proselytes as madmen thirst to do: how can he give his neighbour the real ground, his own conviction? ardent as he is-- call his great truth a lie, why, still the old "be it as god please" reassureth him. i probed the sore as thy disciple should: "how, beast," said i, "this stolid carelessness sufficeth thee, when rome is on her march to stamp out like a little spark thy town, thy tribe, thy crazy tale and thee at once?" he merely looked with his large eyes on me, the man is apathetic, you deduce? contrariwise, he loves both old and young, able and weak, affects the very brutes and birds--how say i? flowers of the field-- as a wise workman recognizes tools in a master's workshop, loving what they make. thus is the man as harmless as a lamb: only impatient, let him do his best, at ignorance and carelessness and sin-- an indignation which is promptly curbed: as when in certain travel i have feigned to be an ignoramus in our art according to some preconceived design, and happed to hear the land's practitioners steeped in conceit sublimed by ignorance, prattle fantastically on disease, its cause and cure--and i must hold my peace! thou wilt object--why have i not ere this sought out the sage himself, the nazarene who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source, conferring with the frankness that befits? alas! it grieveth me, the learned leech perished in a tumult many years ago, accused--our learning's fate--of wizardry, rebellion, to the setting up a rule and creed prodigious as described to me. his death, which happened when the earthquake fell (prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss to occult learning in our lord the sage who lived there in the pyramid alone°), ° was wrought by the mad people--that's their wont! on vain recourse, as i conjecture it. to his tried virtue, for miraculous help-- how could he stop the earthquake? that's their way! the other imputations must be lies: but take one, tho' i loathe to give it thee, in mere respect for any good man's fame. (and after all, our patient lazarus is stark mad; should we count on what he says? perhaps not: tho' in writing to a leech 'tis well to keep back nothing of a case.) this man so cured regards the curer, then, as--god forgive me! who but god himself, creator and sustainer of the world,° ° that came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile. --'sayeth that such an one was born, and lived, taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own house, then died; with lazarus by, for aught i know, and yet was ... what i said nor choose repeat, and must have so avouched himself, in fact, in hearing of this very lazarus who saith--but why all this of what he saith? why write of trivial matters, things of price calling at every moment for remark? i noticed on the margin of a pool blue-flowering borage, the aleppo sort, aboundeth, very nitrous. it is strange! thy pardon for this long and tedious case, which, now that i review it, needs must seem unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth! nor i myself discern in what is writ good cause for the peculiar interest and awe indeed this man has touched me with. perhaps the journey's end, the weariness had wrought upon me first. i met him thus: i crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills like an old lion's cheek teeth. out there came a moon made like a face with certain spots multiform, manifold, and menacing: then a wind rose behind me. so we met in this old sleepy town at unaware, the man and i. i send thee what is writ. regard it as a chance, a matter risked to this ambiguous syrian: he may lose, or steal, or give it thee with equal good. jerusalem's repose shall make amends for time this letter wastes, thy time and mine; till when, once more thy pardon and farewell! the very god! think, abib; dost thou think? so, the all-great, were the all-loving too-- so, through the thunder comes a human voice saying, "o heart i made, a heart beats here! face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself! thou hast no power nor mayst 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. * * * * * saul i said abner, "at last thou art come! ere i tell, ere thou speak. kiss my cheek, wish me well!" then i wished it, and did kiss his cheek. and he, "since the king, o my friend, for thy countenance sent, neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tent thou return with the joyful assurance the king liveth yet, shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet. for out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days, not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise, to betoken that saul and the spirit have ended their strife, and that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life. ii "yet now my heart leaps, o beloved! god's child with his dew on thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heat were now raging to torture the desert!" iii then i, as was meet, knelt down to the god of my fathers, and rose on my feet, and ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. the tent was unlooped; i pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under i stooped; hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone, that extends to the second enclosure. i groped my way on till i felt where the foldskirts fly open. then once more i prayed, and opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid but spoke, "here is david, thy servant!" and no voice replied. at the first i saw naught but the blackness; but soon i descried a something more black than the blackness--the vast, the upright main prop which sustains the pavilion: and slow into sight grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all. then a sunbeam, that burst thro' the tent roof, showed saul. iv he stood erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide on the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side; he relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs and waiting his change, the king serpent all heavily hangs, far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come with the spring-time,--so agonized saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb. v then i tuned my harp,--took off the lilies we twine round its chords lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide--those sunbeams like swords! and i first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, so docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. they are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed; and now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star into eve and the blue far above us,--so, blue and so far! vi --then the tune, for which quails on the cornland will each leave his mate to fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate till for boldness they fight one another: and then, what has weight to set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house-- there are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse! god made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, to give sign, we and they are his children, one family here. vii then i played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when hand grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expand and grow one in the sense of this world's life.--and then, the last song when the dead man is praised on his journey--"bear, bear him along with his few faults shut up like dead flowerets!" are balm-seeds not here to console us? the land has none left such as he on the bier. "oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!"--and then, the glad chaunt of the marriage,--first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vaunt as the beauty, the pride of our dwelling.--and then, the great march wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch naught can break; who shall harm them, our friends?--then, the chorus intoned as the levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. but i stopped here: for here in the darkness saul groaned. viii and i paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart; and the tent shook, for mighty saul shuddered: and sparkles 'gan dart from the jewels that woke in his turban, at once with a start, all its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart. so the head: but the body still moved not, still hung there erect. and i bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked, as i sang,-- ix "oh, our manhood's prime vigor! no spirit feels waste, not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock, the strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear, and the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair. and the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold-dust divine, and the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine, and the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell that the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. how good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses for ever in joy! hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst guard when he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward? didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung the low song of the nearly departed, and hear her faint tongue joining in while it could to the witness, 'let one more attest, i have lived, seen god's hand thro' a lifetime, and all was for best!' then they sung thro' their tears in strong triumph, not much, but the rest. and thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true: and the friends of thy boyhood--that boyhood of wonder and hope, present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope,-- till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is thine: and all gifts which the world offers singly, on one head combine! on one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throe that, a-work in the rock, helps its labour and lets the gold go), high ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them,--all brought to blaze on the head of one creature--king saul!" x and lo, with that leap of my spirit,--heart, hand, harp, and voice, each lifting saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice saul's fame in the light it was made for----as when, dare i say, the lord's army, in rapture of service, strains thro' its array, and upsoareth the cherubim-chariot--"saul!" cried i, and stopped, and waited the thing that should follow. then saul, who hung propped by the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by his name. have ye seen when spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim, and some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he alone, while the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of stone a year's snow bound about for a breastplate,--leaves grasp of the sheet? fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet, and there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old, with his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold: yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest--all hail, there they are! --now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crest for their food in the ardours of summer. one long shudder thrilled. all the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled at the king's self left standing before me, released and aware. what was gone, what remained? all to traverse 'twixt hope and despair. death was past, life not come; so he waited. awhile his right hand held the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant, forthwith to remand to their place what new objects should enter: 'twas saul as before. i looked up, and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore, at their sad level gaze o'er the ocean--a sun's slow decline over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine base with base to knit strength more intensely: so, arm folded arm o'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. xi what spell or what charm, (for, awhile there was trouble within me) what next should i urge to sustain him where song had restored, him? song filled to the verge his cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty: beyond, on what fields glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye, and bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by? he saith, "it is good:" still he drinks not: he lets me praise life, gives assent, yet would die for his own part. xii then fancies grew rife which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep fed in silence--above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep; and i lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie 'neath his ken, tho' i saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky: and i laughed--"since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks, let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks, dream the life i am never to mix with, and image the show of mankind as they live in those fashions i hardly shall know! schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains, and the prudence that keeps what men strive for!" and now these old trains of vague thought came again; i grew surer; so, once more the string of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus-- xiii "yea, my king," i began--"thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring from the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute: in our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit. thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree,--how its stem trembled first till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; then safely outburst the fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in turn broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect: yet more was to learn, e'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. our dates shall we slight, when their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the plight of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them? not so! stem and branch. shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall staunch every wound of man's spirit in winter. i pour thee such wine. leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine! by the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy more indeed, than at first when, inconscious, the life of a boy. crush that life, and behold its wine running! each deed thou hast done dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the sun looking down on the earth, tho' clouds spoil him, tho' tempests efface, can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace the results of his past summer-prime,--so, each ray of thy will. every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill thy whole people, the countless, with ardour, till they too give forth a like cheer to their sons: who in turn, fill the south and the north with the radiance thy deed was the germ of. carouse in the past! but the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last. as the lion, when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height, so with man--so his power and his beauty forever take flight. no! again a long draught of my soul-wine! look forth o'er the years! thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with the seer's! is saul dead? in the depth of the vale make his tomb--bid arise a gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the skies, let it mark where the great first king slumbers: whose fame would ye know? up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go in great characters cut by the scribe,--such was saul, so he did; with the sages directing the work, by the populace chid,-- for not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there! which fault to amend, in the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend (see, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and record with the gold of the graver, saul's story,--the statesman's great word. side by side with the poet's sweet comment. the river's a-wave with smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet-winds rave; so the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part in thy being! then, first of the mighty, thank god that thou art!" xiv and behold while i sang ... but o thou who didst grant me that day, and before it not seldom had granted thy help to essay. carry on and complete an adventure,--my shield and my sword in that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word,-- still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavour and scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever on the new stretch of heaven above me--till, mighty to save, just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance--god's throne from man's grave! let me tell out my tale to its ending--my voice to my heart which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night i took part, as this morning i gather the fragments, alone with my sheep, and still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep! for i wake in the gray dewy covert, while hebron, upheaves the dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and kidron retrieves slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. xv i say then,--my song while i sang thus, assuring the monarch, and, ever more strong, made a proffer of good to console him--he slowly resumed. his old motions and habitudes kingly. the right hand replumed his black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes of his turban, and see--the huge sweat that his countenance bathes, he wipes off with the robe; and he girds now his loins as of yore, and feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before, he is saul, ye remember in glory,--ere error had bent the broad brow from the daily communion; and still, tho' much spent be the life and bearing that front you, the same, god did choose, to receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose. so sank he along by the tent-prop, till, stayed by the pile of his armour and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there awhile, and sat out my singing,--one arm round the tent-prop, to raise his bent head, and the other hung slack--till i touched on the praise i foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there; and thus ended, the harp falling forward. then first i was 'ware that he sat, as i say, with my head just above his vast knees which were thrust out each side around me, like oak roots which please to encircle a lamb when it slumbers. i looked up to know if the best i could do had brought solace: he spoke not, but slow lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow: thro' my hair the large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind power-- all my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine-- and oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign? i yearned--"could i help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, i would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this; i would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence. as this moment,--had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense!" xvi then the truth came upon me. no harp more--no song more! outbroke-- xvii "i have gone the whole round of creation: i saw and i spoke; i, a work of god's hand for that purpose, received in my brain and pronounced on the rest of his handwork--returned him again his creation's approval or censure: i spoke as i saw, reported, as man may of god's work--all's love, yet all's law. now i lay down the judgeship he lent me. each faculty tasked to perceive him has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked. have i knowledge? confounded it shrivels at wisdom laid bare. have i forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the infinite care! do i task any faculty highest, to image success? i but open my eyes,--and perfection, no more and no less, in the kind i imagined, full-fronts me, and god is seen god in the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod. and thus looking within and around me, i ever renew (with that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too) the submission of man's nothing-perfect to god's all complete, as by each new obeisance in spirit, i climb to his feet. yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known, i shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own, there's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, i am fain to keep still in abeyance (i laugh as i think), lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, i worst e'en the giver in one gift.--behold, i could love if i durst! but i sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake god's own speed in the one way of love; i abstain for love's sake. --what, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small, nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch; should the hundredth appal? in the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all? do i find love so full in my nature, god's ultimate gift, that i doubt his own love can compete with it? here, the parts shift? here, the creature surpass the creator,--the end, what began? would i fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, and dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can? would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power, to bestow on this saul what i sang of, the marvellous dower of the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul, such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole? and doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest), these good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best? ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height this perfection,--succeed with life's dayspring, death's minute of night? interpose at the difficult minute, snatch saul the mistake, saul the failure, the ruin he seems now,--and bid him awake from the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set clear and safe in new light and new life,--a new harmony yet to be run and continued, and ended--who knows?--or endure! the man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to make sure; by the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss, and the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this. xviii "i believe it! 'tis thou, god, that givest, 'tis i who receive; in the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe. all's one gift: thou canst grant it, moreover, as prompt to my prayer, as i breathe out this breath, as i open these arms to the air. from thy will stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread sabaoth: _i_ will?--the mere atoms despise me! why am i not loath to look that, even that in the face too? why is it i dare think but lightly of such impuissance? what stops my despair? this;--'tis not what man does which exalts him, but what man would do! see the king--i would help him, but cannot, the wishes fall through. could i wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich, to fill up his life, starve my own out, i would--knowing which, i know that my service is perfect. oh, speak thro' me now! would i suffer for him that i love? so wouldst thou--so wilt thou! so shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown-- and thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down one spot for the creature to stand in! it is by no breath, turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death! as thy love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved thy power, that exists with and for it, of being beloved! he who did most, shall bear most; the strongest shall stand the most weak, 'tis the weakness in strength, that i cry for! 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, forever: a hand like this hand shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! see the christ stand!" xix i know not too well how i found my way home in the night. there were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right, angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware: i repressed, i got thro' them as hardly, as stragglingly there, as a runner beset by the populace famished for news-- life or death. the whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews; and the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge: but i fainted not, for the hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressed all the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest, till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth-- not so much, but i saw it die out in the day's tender birth; in the gathered intensity brought to the gray of the hills; in the shuddering forests' held breath; in the sudden wind-thrills; in the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling still though averted with wonder and dread; in the birds stiff and chill that rose heavily, as i approached them, made stupid with awe: e'en the serpent that slid away silent--he felt the new law. the same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers; the same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine-bowers; and the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low. with their obstinate, all but hushed voices--"e'en so, it is so!" * * * * * one word more to e.b.b. i there they are, my fifty men and women naming me the fifty poems finished! take them, love, the book and me together; where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. ii rafael° made a century of sonnets, ° made and wrote them in a certain volume dinted with the silver-pointed pencil else he only used to draw madonnas; these, the world might view--but one, the volume. who that one,° you ask? your heart instructs you. ° did she live and love it all her lifetime? did she drop, his lady of the sonnets, die, and let it drop beside her pillow where it lay in place of rafael's glory, rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving-- cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's? iii you and i would rather read that volume (taken to his beating bosom by it), lean and list the bosom-beats of rafael, would we not? than wonder at madonnas-- her, san sisto names, and her, foligno, her, that visits florence in a vision, her, that's left with lilies in the louvre-- seen by us and all the world in circle. iv you and i will never read that volume. guido reni,° like his own eye's apple, ° guarded long the treasure-book and loved it. guido reni dying, all bologna cried, and the world cried too, "ours, the treasure!" suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. v dante° once prepared to paint an angel: ° whom to please? you whisper "beatrice."° ° while he mused and traced it and retraced it (peradventure with a pen corroded still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, when, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked,° ° back he held the brow and pricked its stigma, bit into the live man's flesh for parchment, loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle, let the wretch go festering through florence)-- dante, who loved well because he hated, hated wickedness that hinders loving, dante, standing, studying his angel,-- in there broke the folk of his inferno.° ° says he--"certain people of importance" (such he gave his daily dreadful line to) "entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet." says the poet--"then i stopped my painting." vi you and i would rather see that angel, painted by the tenderness of dante, would we not?--than read a fresh inferno. vii you and i will never see that picture. while he mused on love and beatrice, while he softened o'er his outlined angel, in they broke, those "people of importance": we and bice° bear the loss forever. ° viii what of rafael's sonnets, dante's picture? this: no artist lives and loves, that longs not once, and only once, and for one only, (ah, the prize!) to find his love a language fit and fair and simple and sufficient-- using nature that's an art to others, not, this one time, art that's turned his nature. ay, of all the artists living, loving, none but would forego his proper dowry,-- does he paint? he fain would write a poem, does he write? he fain would paint a picture,-- put to proof art alien to the artist's, once, and only once, and for one only, so to be the man and leave the artist, gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow. ix wherefore? heaven's gift takes earth's abatement! he who smites the rock° and spreads the water, ° bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, even he, the minute makes immortal, proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute, desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. while he smites, how can he but remember, so he smote before, in such a peril, when they stood and mocked--"shall smiting help us?" when they drank and sneered--"a stroke is easy!" when they wiped their mouths and went their journey, throwing him for thanks--"but drought was pleasant." thus old memories mar the actual triumph; thus the doing savors of disrelish; thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat; o'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate, carelessness or consciousness--the gesture. for he bears an ancient wrong about him, sees and knows again those phalanxed faces, hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude-- "how shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us?" guesses what is like to prove the sequel-- "egypt's flesh-pots°--nay, the drought was better." ° x oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant! theirs, the sinai-forhead's cloven brilliance,° ° right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat. never dares the man put off the prophet. xi did he love one face from out the thousands, (were she jethro's daughter,° white and wifely, ° were she but the Æthiopian bondslave), he would envy yon dumb, patient camel, keeping a reserve of scanty water meant to save his own life in the desert; ready in the desert to deliver (kneeling down to let his breast be opened) hoard and life together for his mistress. xii i shall never, in the years remaining, paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues. make you music that should all-express me; so it seems; i stand on my attainment. this of verse alone, one life allows me; verse and nothing else have i to give you; other heights in other lives, god willing; all the gifts from all the heights, your own, love. xiii yet a semblance of resource avails us-- shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. take these lines, look lovingly and nearly, lines i write the first time and the last time. he who works in fresco steals a hair-brush, curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly, cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, makes a strange art of an art familiar, fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets, he who blows through bronze may breathe through silver, fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. he who writes, may write for once as i do. xiv love, you saw me gather men and women, live or dead or fashioned by my fancy, enter each and all, and use their service, speak from every mouth,--the speech, a poem. hardly shall i tell my joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, belief and disbelieving: i am mine and yours--the rest be all men's, karshish,° cleon,° norbert,° and the fifty. ° let me speak this once in my true person, not as lippo,° roland, or andrea, ° though the fruit of speech be just this sentence: pray you, look on these my men and women, take and keep my fifty poems finished; where my heart lies, let my brain lie also! poor the speech; be how i speak, for all things. xv not but that you know me! lo, the moon's self! here in london, yonder late in florence, still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured. curving on a sky imbrued with color, drifted over fiesole by twilight, came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth. full she flared it, lamping samminiato,° ° rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder, perfect till the nightingales applauded. now, a piece of her old self, impoverished, hard to greet, she traverses the house-roofs, hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver, goes dispiritedly, glad to finish. xvi what, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy? nay: for if that moon could love a mortal, use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy), all her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos),° ° she would turn a new side to her mortal, side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman,-- blank to zoroaster° on his terrace, ° blind to galileo° on his turret. ° dumb to homer, dumb to keats°--him, even! ° think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal-- when she turns round, comes again in heaven, opens out anew for worse or better! proves she like some portent of an iceberg swimming full upon the ship it founders, hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals? proves she as the paved work of a sapphire, seen by moses when he climbed the mountain? moses,° aaron,° nadab,° and abihu° ° climbed and saw the very god, the highest, stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. like the bodied heaven in his clearness shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved work, when they ate and drank and saw god also! xvii what were seen? none knows, none ever will know. only this is sure--the sight were other, not the moon's same side, born late in florence, dying now impoverished here in london. god be thanked, the meanest of his creatures boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, one to show a woman when he loves her.° ° xviii this i say of me, but think of you, love! this to you--yourself my moon of poets! ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder, thus they see you, praise you, think they know you! there, in turn i stand with them and praise you-- out of my own self, i dare to phrase it. but the best is when i glide from out them, cross a step or two of dubious twilight, come out on the other side, the novel silent silver lights and darks undreamed of, where i hush and bless myself with silence. xix oh, their rafael of the dear madonnas, oh, their dante of the dread inferno, wrote one song--and in my brain i sing it, drew one angel--borne, see, on my bosom! * * * * * notes * * * * * the pied piper of hamelin. (page .) the poem is based on an old myth found in many forms, all turning upon the attempt to cheat a magician out of his promised reward. see brewer's _reader's handbook_, baring-gould's _curious myths of the middle ages_, grimm's _deutsche sagen_, and the _encyclopædia britannica_. there are persian and chinese analogues. the eldest son of william macready, the actor, was confined to the house by illness, and browning wrote this _jeu d'esprit_ to amuse the boy and to give him a subject for illustrative drawings. line . =hamelin=. a town in hanover, prussia. . =cham=, or khan. the title of the rulers of tartary. . =nizam=. the title of the sovereign of hyderabad, the principal state of india. . =claret, moselle=, etc. names of wines. . =caliph=. the title given to the successor of mohammed, as head of the moslem state, and defender of the faith. _century dictionary_. tray. (page .) the poem tells in detail an actual incident, and was written as a protest against vivisection. . =sir olaf=. a conventional name in romances of mediæval chivalry. . a satire upon byronism. _manfred_ and _childe harold_ are heroes of this type. note the abruptness and vigor of the style. where does it seem effective? where unduly harsh? why does the poet welcome the third bard? what things does the poem satirize? incident of the french camp. (page .) the incident is real, except that the actual hero was a man, not a boy. . =ratisbon= (german regensburg). a city in austria, stormed by napoleon in . . =lannes=. duke of montebello, a general in napoleon's army. . this sentence is incomplete. the idea is begun anew in line . what two ideals are contrasted in napoleon and the boy? by what means is sympathy turned from one to the other? show how rapidity and vividness are given to the story. how they brought the good news from ghent to aix. (page .) browning thus explains the origin of the poem: "there is no sort of historical foundation about _good news from ghent_. i wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel off the african coast, after i had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse 'york,' then in my stable, at home." it would require a skilful imagination to create a set of circumstances which could give any other plausible reason for the ride to "save aix from her fate." . =lokeren=. twelve miles from ghent. . =boom=. sixteen miles from lokeren. . =düffeld=. twelve miles from boom. . , , etc. =mecheln= (fr. malines), =aershot=, =hasselt=, etc. the reader may trace the direction and length of the ride in any large atlas. minute examinations of the route are, however, of no special value. note the rapidity of narration and the galloping movement of the verse; the time of starting, and the anxious attention to the _time_ as the journey proceeds. how are we given a sense of the effort and distress of the horses? how do we see roland gradually emerging as the hero? where is the climax of the story? note, especially, the power or beauty of lines , , , , , , , , , - , - . hervÉ riel. (page .) (published in the _cornhill magazine_, . browning gave the £ received for the poem to the fund for the relief of the people of paris, who were starving after the siege of .) the cause of james ii., who had been removed from the english throne in , and succeeded by william and mary, was taken up by the french. the story is strictly historical, except that hervé riel asked a holiday for the rest of his life. . =st. malo on the rance=. on the northern coast of france, in brittany. see any large atlas. . =pressed=. forced to enter service in the navy. . =croisickese=. a native of croisic, in brittany. browning has used the legends of croisic for poetic material in his gold hair of pornic and in the two poets of croisic. . =malouins=. inhabitants of st. malo. . =the louvre=. the great palace and art gallery of paris. note the suggestion of the sea, and of eager hurry, in the movement of the verse. compare the directness of the opening with that of the preceding poem: what is the advantage of such a beginning? how much is told of the hero? by what means is his heroism emphasized? how is browning's departure from the legend a gain? observe the abrupt energy of lines - ; the repetition, in - ; the picture of hervé riel in stanzas viii and x. pheidippides. (page .) the story is from herodotus, told there in the third person. see herodotus, vi., - . the final incident and the reward asked by the runner are browning's addition. [greek: =chairete, nikômen=]. rejoice, we conquer. . =zeus=. the chief of the greek gods (roman jupiter). =her of the ægis and spear=. these were the emblems of athena (roman minerva), the goddess of wisdom and of warfare. . =ye of the bow and the buskin=. apollo and diana. . =pan=. the god of nature, of the fields and their fruits. . =archons=. rulers. =tettix=, the grasshopper, whose image symbolized old age, and was worn by the senators of athens. see the myth of tithonus and tennyson's poem of that name. . =persia= attempted a conquest of athens in b.c. and was defeated by the athenians in the famous battle of marathon, under miltiades. . to bring earth and water to an invading enemy was a symbol of submission. . =eretria=. a city on the island of eub[oe]a, twenty-nine miles north of athens. . =hellas=. the greek name for greece. . the greeks of the various provinces long regarded themselves as of one blood and quality, superior to the outer barbarians. . =phoibos=, or ph[oe]bus. apollo, god of the sun and the arts. =artemis= (roman diana), goddess of the moon and patroness of hunting. . =olumpos=. olympus. a mountain of greece which was the abode of zeus and the other gods. . =parnes=. a mountain on the ridge between attica and b[oe]otia, now called ozia. . =erebos=. the lower world; the place of night and the dead. . =miltiades= (?- b.c.). the greek general who won the victory over the persians at marathon in b.c. . =akropolis=. the citadel of athens, where stood the court of justice and the temple of the goddess athene. . =fennel-field=. the greek name for fennel was [greek: ho marathon] (marathon). hence the prophetic significance of pan's gift to the runner. compare the story in herodotus (vi., - ) with browning's more spirited and poetic version. observe how the strong patriotism, the greek love of nature, and the greek reverence for the gods are brought to the fore. what imagery in the poem is especially effective? what is the claim of pheidippides--as browning presents him--to memory as a hero? what ideals are most prominent in the poem? my star. (page .) . =angled spar=. the iceland spar has the power of polarizing light and producing great richness and variety of color. . =saturn=. the planet next beyond jupiter; here chosen, perhaps, for its changing aspects. see an encyclopædia or dictionary. this dainty love lyric is said to have been written with mrs. browning in mind. it needs, however, no such narrow application for its interpretation. it is the simple declaration of the lover that the loved one reveals to him qualities of soul not revealed to others. observe the "order of lyric progress" in speaking first of nature, then of the feelings. evelyn hope. (page .) the lover denies the evanescence of human love. he implies that in some future time the love will reappear and be rewarded. browning's optimism lays hold sometimes of the present, sometimes of the future, for the fulfilment of its hope. especially strong is his "sense of the continuity of life." "there shall never be one lost good," he makes abt vogler say. the charm of this poem is more, perhaps, in its tenderness of tone and purity of atmosphere than in its doctrine of optimism. love among the ruins. (page .) this poem was written in rome in the winter of - . the scene is the roman campagna. the verse has a softness and a melody unusual in browning. compare its structure with that of holmes's _the last leaf_. note the elements of pastoral peace and gentleness in the opening, and in the coloring of the scene. what two scenes are brought into contrast? note how the scenes alternate throughout the poem, and how each scene is gradually developed according to the ordinary laws of description. what ideals are thus compared? what does the poem mean? misconceptions. (page .) . =dalmatic=. a robe worn by mediæval kings on solemn occasions, and still worn by deacons at the mass in the roman catholic church. the lyric order appears sharply developed here in the parallelism of the two stanzas. point out this parallelism of idea. does it fail at any point? note the chivalrous absence of reproach by the lover. observe the climax up to which each stanza leads, and the climax within the last line of each stanza. natural magic. (page .) . =nautch=. an indian dancing-girl, to whom browning ascribes the skill of a magician. the poem celebrates the transforming and life-giving power of affection. note the abrupt and excited manner of utterance, and how the speaker begins in the midst of things. he has already told his story once, when the poem opens. note also the parallelism of structure, as in _misconceptions_, the climax in each stanza, and the echo in the last line of each. tell the story in the common order of prose narrative. apparitions. (page .) study the development of the idea in the same manner as in _misconceptions_ and _natural magic_. note the felicity of imagery and diction. a wall. (page .) the clew to the meaning is to be sought in the last two stanzas. this is one of the best examples of browning's "assertion of the soul in song." confessions. (page .) first construct the scene of the poem. what has the priest said? what is the sick man's answer? what evidence is there that his imagination is struggling to recall the old memory? what view of life does the priest offer, and he reject? does browning indicate his preference for either view, or tell the story impartially? a woman's last word. (page .) what key to the situation in the first line? who are the speaker and the one addressed? what mood and feeling are in control? comment upon the condensation of the thought and the movement of the verse. a pretty woman. (page .) - . compare emerson's lines in _the rhodora:_-- "if eyes were made for seeing, then beauty is its own excuse for being." to what things is the "pretty woman" compared? of what use is she? how is she to be judged? youth and art. (page .) . =gibson, john= ( - ). a famous sculptor. . =grisi, giulia=. a celebrated singer ( - ). . in allusion to the asceticism of the hindoo religious devotees. . =bals-parés=. fancy-dress balls. the poem is half-humorous, half-serious. the speaker, in her imaginary conversation, gives her own history and that of the man she thinks she might have loved. the story is on the "maud muller" motive, but with less of sentimentality. the setting suggests the life of art students in paris, or in some italian city. the poem is a plea for the freedom of the individuality of a soul against the restrictions imposed by conventional standards of value. its touches of humor, of human nature, and its summary of two lives in brief, are admirably done. its rhymes sometimes need the indulgence accorded to humorous writing. a tale. (page .) the source of the story is an epigram given in mackail's _select epigrams from greek anthology_. it is one of the happiest pieces of browning's lighter work. . =lotte=, or charlotte. a character in goethe's _sorrows of werther_, said to be drawn from the heroine of one of goethe's earlier love-affairs. who are the speaker and the one addressed? whom does the cicada of the tale symbolize? whom the singer helped by the cicada? what application is made of the story? what serious meanings and feelings underlie the tone of raillery? what things mark the light and humorous tone of the speaker? point out the harmony between style and theme. cavalier tunes. (page .) note the swinging, martial movement, and the energetic spirit in these lyrics. for an account of the history of the period, see green's _short history of the english people_, chapter viii, and macaulay's _history of england_, chapter i. for an account of the qualities of the cavaliers, see macaulay's _essay on milton_. i. marching along . =kentish sir byng=. the first of the family known to fame was george byng, viscount torrington ( - ), who could not be the man meant here by browning. . =crop-headed=. in allusion to the close-cropped hair of the puritans. long wigs were the fashion among the cavaliers; hence the puritans were nicknamed "roundheads." . =king charles= the first. =pym=, john ( - ). leader of the parliament in its actions against king charles and the royalist party. . =hampden=, john ( - ). one of the leaders of parliament, known principally for his resistance to the illegal taxations of charles i. . =hazelrig=, sir arthur. one of the members of parliament whom charles tried to impeach. =fiennes=, nathaniel. one of the leading members of parliament. =young harry=. son of sir henry vane, and a member of the puritan party. . =rupert=. prince of the palatinate ( - ), and nephew of charles i. he served in the king's army during the civil war. . =nottingham=. "charles i raised his standard here, in , as the beginning of the civil war."--_century dictionary_. ii. give a rouse . =noll= was a contemptuous nickname for oliver cromwell, the leader of the puritans. home-thoughts, from the sea. (page .) this poem is a companion piece to _home thoughts, from abroad_. it is, however, distinctly inferior to it in clearness, vividness of feeling, and lyric sweetness. . =trafalgar=, the scene of the famous victory of the english admiral, nelson, over the french fleet in . . =gibraltar=. the famous rocky promontory at the entrance of the mediterranean. it has been held as an english fort since . summum bonum. (page .) this little poem, published in , is one of the good examples of a love lyric written by an old man whose spirit is still youthful. there are some similar things by tennyson, in _gareth and lynette_, and elsewhere in his later publications. note here the somewhat exaggerated art of the poem in the alliterations and in the multiple comparisons. songs from pippa passes. (page .) the drama of _pippa passes_ is a succession of scenes, each representing some crisis of human life, into which breaks, with beneficent influence, a song of the girl felippa, or "pippa," on her holiday from the silk-mills. she is unconscious of the influence she exerts. william sharp says these songs "are as pathetically fresh and free as a thrush's song in a beleaguered city, and with the same unconsidered magic." the lost leader. (page .) the desertion of the liberal cause by wordsworth, southey, and others, is the germinal idea of this poem. but browning always strenuously insisted that the resemblance went no further; that _the lost leader_ is no true portrait of wordsworth, though he became poet-laureate. _the lost leader_ is a purely ideal conception, developed by the process of idealization from an individual who serves as a "lay figure." . =shakespeare= was more of an aristocrat, surely, than a democrat. milton had championed the cause of liberty in prose and poetry, and had worked for it as cromwell's latin secretary. . =burns, shelley=. what poems can you cite of either poet to place him in this list? who is the speaker? what is the cause? why does he not wish the "lost leader" to return? how does he judge him? what does he expect for his cause? what does he mean by lines - ? lines - ? point out the climax in the second stanza. apparent failure. (page .) . =your prince=. son of napoleon iii., born in march, . . =the congress= assembled to discuss italy's unity and freedom. =gortschakoff= represented russia; =count cavour=, italy; =buol=, austria. austria had conquered italy. see browning's _the italian in england_. . =petrarch's vaucluse=. the fountain from which the sorgue rises. the town of vaucluse (valclusa) was the home of the poet petrarch ( - ). . =debt=. the obligation to visit a famous place. . =tuileries=. the imperial palace in paris. - . what is meant? death? freedom? - . in allusion to the game of _rouge-et-noir_. criticise the taste shown here. in what sense does the poet intend to "save" the building? describe the scene that he recalls. what three types are the suicides? how does the poet know? why does he deny the failure of their lives? does he base his optimistic hope on reason or feeling? note the climax in line's - . state in your own words the meaning of the last six lines. fears and scruples. (page .) the problem of the religions doubter is here set forth by an analogy. . =letters=. the reference is of course to the scriptures. ff. in reference to sceptical criticism. what are the "fears and scruples" held by the speaker? what proof does he desire to allay his doubts? does he settle the doubt or put it aside? where is his spirit of reverence best shown? instans tyrannus. (page .) ="instans tyrannus"=, the threatening tyrant. the phrase is from horace's _odes_, book iii., iii., as is probably the idea of the poem. gladstone translates the passage:-- "the just man in his purpose strong, no madding crowd can turn to wrong. the forceful tyrant's brow and word . . . . . . . his firm-set spirit cannot move." there is novelty of conception in giving the situation from the tyrant's point of view. compare also the seventh ode of horace in book ii. . =gravamen=. latin for burden, difficulty, annoyance. . =just= (as) =my vengeance= (was) =complete=. what conception do you get of the tyrant? what is his motive? what things aggravate his hatred? how does he seek to "extinguish the man"? what baffles him at first? what defeats him finally? is he deterred by physical or moral fear? by what means is the poem given vigor and clearness? note the dramatic effect in the last stanza. the patriot. (page .) at what point in his career does the speaker give his story? what have been his motives? how was he at first treated? what indicates that the change is not in him, but in the fickle mob? how does he view his downfall? in what thought lies his sense of triumph? how does his greatness of soul appear? the boy and the angel. (page .) . ="the voice of my delight"=. that is, the boy's simple praises. what quality did the praise of the pope and of the angel lack? what is the meaning of the legend? memorabilia. (page .) in browning's early youth, while he was under the influence of byron and pope, he found, at a bookstall, a stray copy of shelley's _dæmon of the world_. from this time on, shelley's poetry was his ideal. the term "moulted feather" has peculiar significance from the fact that this was a poem which shelley afterwards rejected. how is childlike wonder expressed in the first two stanzas? how is the difference between the speaker and his friend indicated? why does the name of shelley mean so much more to one than to the other? in the figure that follows, what do the moor and the eagle's feather stand for? why i am a liberal. (page .) note the essential elements of sonnet structure in metre, rhyme, and number of lines. see the introduction to sharp's _sonnets of this century_. compare the idea of the poem with that of _the lost leader_. prospice. (page .) written shortly after the death of mrs. browning. note the vividness of the imagery, the swiftness of the movement, the rise to the climax, the change in spirit after the climax, and the note of courage and hope that informs this poem. compare it with tennyson's _crossing the bar_. what difference in spirit between the two? epilogue to asolando. (page .) sharp's _life of browning_ has the following passage: "shortly before the great bell of san marco struck ten, he turned and asked if any news had come concerning _asolando_, published that day. his son read him a telegram from the publishers, telling how great the demand was, and how favorable were the advance articles in the leading papers. the dying poet turned and muttered, 'how gratifying!' when the last toll of st. mark's had left a deeper stillness than before, those by the bedside saw a yet profounder silence on the face of him whom they loved." what claim does browning make for himself? do you find this spirit in any of his poetry which you have read? "de gustibus--." (page .) image the scene in the first stanza. why are the poppies known by their flutter, rather than their color? note the rhyme effect and climax in lines - . what qualities predominate in the first scene? how does the second scene differ from it? what are the characteristic objects in the second? has it more or less of the romantic, or of grandeur? compare the human element introduced in each scene. note the effectiveness of the epithets _a-flutter_, _wind-grieved_, _baked_, _red-rusted_, _iron-spiked_. show how the poem explains its title. the italian in england. (page .) the setting of the story is italy's struggle against austria for her liberty, known as the revolution of . . =charles=. carlo alberto, prince of carignano, of the house of savoy. . =metternich= ( - ). the austrian diplomatist, and the enemy of italian liberty. . =lombardy=. see the atlas. . =tenebræ= = darkness. a religious service in the roman catholic church, commemorating the crucifixion. my last duchess. (page .) ferrara still preserves the mediæval traditions and appearance in a marked degree. the dukes of ferrara were noted art patrons. both ariosto and tasso were members of their household; but neither poet was fully appreciated by his master. . =fra pandolf=. an imaginary artist. - . professor corson, in his _introduction to browning_, quotes an answer from the poet himself: "'yes, i meant that the commands were that she should be put to death.' and then, after a pause, he added, with a characteristic dash of expression, as if the thought had just started in his mind, 'or he might have had her shut up in a convent.'" . =claus of innsbruck=. an imaginary artist. this poem is a fine example of browning's skill in the use of dramatic monologue. (see introduction.) the duke is skilfully made to reveal his own character and motives, and those of the duchess, and at the same time to indicate the actions of himself and his listener. construct in imagination the scene and the action of the poem. what has brought the duke and the envoy together? what things indicate the duke's pride? was his jealousy due to pride or to affection? does he prize the picture as a work of art or as a memory of the duchess? what faults did he find in her? what character do these criticisms show her to have had? what did he wish her to he? note the anti-climax in lines - : what is the effect? what shows the duke's difficulty in breaking his reserve on this matter? what motive has he for so doing? where does the poet show skill in condensation, in character drawing, in vividness, in enlisting the reader's sympathy? _the flight of the duchess_ should be read as a development and variation of this theme. the bishop orders his tomb at saint praxed's. (page .) ruskin gives this poem high praise: "robert browning is unerring in every sentence he writes of the middle ages.... i know no other piece of modern english prose or poetry in which there is so much told, as in these lines, of the renaissance spirit--its worldliness, inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, ignorance of itself, love of art, of luxury, and of good latin. it is nearly all that i have said of the central renaissance, in thirty pages of _the stones of venice_, put into as many lines; browning's also being the antecedent work." it is not, however, for its historical accuracy that a poem is mainly to be judged. the full and imaginative portrayal of a type, belonging not to one age only, but to human nature, is a greater achievement. and this achievement browning has undoubtedly performed. . =old gandolf=. evidently one of the bishop's colleagues in holy orders, and like him in holiness. . =onion-stone=. see the dictionary for descriptions of this and other stones named in the poem. . =olive-frail=. a crate, made of rushes, for packing olives. . =lapis lazuli=. a very beautiful and valuable blue stone. . =frascati=. a town near rome, celebrated for its villas. - . such mixture of christian and pagan elements was a common feature in renaissance art and literature. . =tripod=. the triple-footed seat from which the priestesses of apollo at delphi delivered the oracles. =thyrsus=. a staff entwined with ivy and vines, and borne in the bacchic processions. . =tully=. marcus tullius cicero, the roman orator, statesman, and philosopher. . =ulpian=. a celebrated roman jurist of the third century. . =elucescebat=. late latin, from =elucesco=. the classical or ciceronian form would be =elucebat=, from =eluceo=. here appears the bishop's love of good latin. . =term=. a pillar, widening toward the top, upon which is placed a figure or a bust. who are grouped about the bishop's bed? what does he desire? why? what tastes does he show? point out evidences of his crimes, his suspicion, his sensual ideals, his artistic tastes, his canting hypocrisy, his confusion of the material and the immaterial, and the persistency of his passions and feelings. note the subtlety with which these things are suggested, especially lines - , - , - , - , - , - , - . the laboratory. (page .) this is a little masterpiece in its vividness and condensation. the passions of hate and jealousy have seldom been so well portrayed. the time and place are probably france and the sixteenth or seventeenth century. berdoe has called attention in his _browning cyclopædia_, to the number of fine antitheses in the second stanza. who are present in the scene? who are to be the victims? account for the speaker's _patience_ in stanza iii. point out the things that show the intensity of her hate. does she display any other feeling than hate and jealousy? home thoughts, from abroad. (page .) where is the speaker? what scene is in his imagination? trace the growth in his mind of this scene: in color effects, in the kind of life introduced, in the intensity of the feeling, in the vividness with which he enters into it. what is the charm in lines - ? up at a villa--down in the city. (page .) . =bacchus=. the roman god of wine, frequently invoked in the garnishment of latin and italian speech. . =pulcinello= is the italian for clown or puppet, and the prototype of the english punch. , =dante=, =boccaccio=, and =petrarch=. italy's first three great authors. see a biographical dictionary or encyclopædia for their dates and their works. =st. jerome= ( - .) one of the fathers of the roman, church. he prepared the latin translation of the bible known as the _vulgate_. . =the skirts of st. paul has reached=. has done almost as well as st. paul. . =our lady=. the image of the virgin mary. observe our hero's taste and his religions solemnity. . =seven swords=, etc. representing the seven "legendary sorrows" of the virgin. see berdoe's _browning cyclopædia_, or brewer's _reader's handbook_, or _dictionary of phrase and fable_ for the list. up at a villa is one of the best humorous poems in the language. the hero's desires and sorrows are so _naïve_, his tastes so gravely held, that he provokes our sympathy as well as our laughter. one of the charms of the poem is the way in which he is made to testify, in spite of himself, to the beauties of the country (as in lines - , - , - , - , ) and to the monotony or clanging emptiness of the city (as in lines - , - ). compare lines and with the picture in _de gustibus_. a toccata of galuppi's. (page .) =toccata=. see an unabridged dictionary. . =galuppi=. baldassare galuppi, venice, - , a celebrated musician and prolific composer. . =st. mark's=. the famous cathedral of venice. =doges ... rings=. the doge was chief magistrate of venice. the annual ceremony of "wedding the adriatic" by casting into it a gold ring was instituted in , in commemoration of the victory of the venetian fleet over frederick barbarossa, emperor of germany. . =shylock's bridge=. by the rialto. a house by the bridge, said to be shylock's, is still pointed out to visitors. . =clavichord=. an instrument of the type of the piano. ff. =thirds=, =sixths=, etc. for the musical terms see an unabridged dictionary or a musical dictionary. . compare the lines in fitzgerald's translation of the _rubaiyat_:-- "for some we loved, the loveliest and the best that from his vintage rolling time hath prest, have drunk their cup a round or two before, and one by one crept silently to rest." this is the characteristic note of poetic melancholy, found again and again from virgil to tennyson. - . is the ironical tone of these lines in harmony with the spirit of the rest of the poem? what does galuppi's music mean to browning? what does it recall of the life in venice? is the lightness of tone in the music itself or in the poet's idea of venice? what emotions are aroused? what causes the poet's sadness? is the verse musical? does it suit the ideas it conveys? abt vogler. (page .) george joseph vogler, known also as abbé (or abt) vogler ( - ), was a german musician. he composed operas and other musical pieces, became famous as an organist, and invented an organ with pedals and several keyboards. browning seems to have in mind the complex musical harmonies of which the instrument was capable. see lines , , , , and of the poem. see also the _encyclopædia britannica_. . =solomon=. legends about solomon and his power over the spirits of earth and air are common in jewish and arabic literature. ff. =building=. the idea of building by music is an old one. see the classical story of amphion and the walls of thebes, coleridge's _kubla khan_, and tennyson's _gareth and lynette_, lines - . . =rampired=. furnished with _ramparts_. . the reference is to st. peter's in rome. the musician's imagination takes fire from his playing, and his music seems like a glorious palace which he is building. the notes are conceived as spirits doing his bidding (stanzas i-iii). as he proceeds the images change, and heaven and earth seem to unite with him in his creative activity: light flashes forth, and heaven and earth draw nearer together. now he sees the past, the beginnings of things, and the future; even the dead are back again in his presence. his imagination has anulled time and space. as he thinks of his art, it seems more glorious to him than painting and poetry: these work by laws that can be explained and followed, while music is a direct expression of the will, an act of higher creative power. when the music ends he cannot be consoled by the thought that as good music will come again. so he turns to the one unchanging thing, "the ineffable name." thus he gains confidence to say, "there shall never be one lost good." all failure and all evil are but a prelude to the good that shall in the end prevail. so he returns in hope and patience to the c major, the common chord of life. art vogler is famous, not only for its confident optimism, but as an example of browning's power of annexing a new domain--that of music--to poetry. where does the musician cease to speak of solomon's building and begin to describe his own? note, in stanza ii, how he speaks first of the "keys," and afterwards has in mind the notes; how he speaks of the bass notes as the foundation, and the upper notes as the structure. where is the climax of his creative vision? what does he mean in line ? is he right in saying music is less subject to laws than poetry and painting? why is he sad when his music ceases? why does he turn to god for consolation? follow carefully the argument in stanza ix. is it convincing? what analogy does he find between music, and good and evil? rabbi ben ezra. (page .) abraham ben meir ben ezra, into whose mouth browning puts the reflections in this poem, was born in toledo, spain, in , and died about . he was distinguished as philosopher, astronomer, physician, and poet. the ideas of the poem are drawn largely from the writings of rabbi ben ezra. see berdoe's _browning cyclopædia_. . =grow old along with me=. come, and let us talk of old age. - . =not that=. connect "not that" of lines and , and the "not for, etc.," of , with "do i remonstrate" in line . . =hold of=. are like, share the nature of. - . compare _a grammarian's funeral_. . =be named=. that is, known, or distinguished. . =was i= (whom) =the world arraigned=. browning frequently omits the relative. - . compare lines - . note here and elsewhere in this poem the frequent repetition, and variation of the same idea. . =potter's wheel=. the figure of the _potter's wheel_ is frequent in oriental literature. see isaiah lxiv. , and jeremiah xviii, - ; see also fitzgerald's _rubaiyat_, stanzas xxxvii, xxxviii, lxxxii-xc. - . in the period of youth. - . in old age. what cares agitate youth? why is it better so? wherein does man partake of the nature of god? what plea is made for the "value and significance of flesh"? show how browning denies the doctrine of asceticism. what is meant by "the whole design," line ? why does rabbi ben ezra pause at the threshold of old age? what has youth achieved? what advantage has old age? what are its pleasures? its employments? explain the figure in lines - . by what are the man and his work to be judged? compare the use of the figure of the potter's wheel with that in the old testament. what has browning added? point out the element of optimism in the poem. how does its view of old age differ from the pagan view? see browning's _cleon_. a grammarian's funeral. (page .) the grammarian is a type of the early scholars who gave to europe the treasures of greek thought by translating the manuscripts recovered after the fall of constantinople. the time is therefore the renaissance, the latter part of the fifteenth century, and the place probably italy. the grammarian was a scholar and thinker, not a mere student of grammar in the modern sense. . =our low life=. lacking the learning and high endeavor of their master. - . =the world bent on escaping=. that is, the world of the past. . =shaping=, their mind and character. - . compare with lines - , - , and - . - . the greek particles [greek: oti, oun, and de.] describe the scene and action of the poem. note the march-like and irregular movement of the verse: does it fit the theme? why do they carry the grammarian up from the plain? what was his work? what was his aim? what is the value of such work ( ) in presenting an ideal of life, ( ) in the history of culture? what circumstances in his life enhance his praise? did he make any mistake? does browning think so? how does browning defend him? what imagery in the poem seems especially effective? are you reminded of anything in "rabbi ben ezra"? criticise the rhymes and metre. andrea del sarto. (page .) an italian painter, of the florentine school; born , died . his merits and defects as an artist are given in the poem. the crime to which he is here made to refer was the use, for building himself a house, of the money intrusted to him by the french king for the purchase of works of art. for an account of his life and work see the article in the _encyclopædia britannica_, and vasari's _lives of the painters_. . =fiesole= (pronounced fe-[='a]-so-l[ve]). a small italian town near florence. . =rafael=. the great painter, raphael ( - ). . =agnolo=. michael angelo ( - ), one of italy's greatest men: famous as sculptor, painter, architect, and poet. . =fontainebleau=. a town southeast of paris, formerly the residence of french kings, and still famous for its renaissance architecture and for the landscapes around it. . =scudi=. the _scudo_ is an italian silver coin worth about one dollar. . =leonard=. leonardo da vinci ( - ), another of italy's great men: artist, poet, musician, and scientist. construct the scene and action of the poem. how does the coloring harmonize with the artist's mood? why is he weary? how does he think of his art: what merit has it? what does it lack? how does he explain this lack? what clew to it does his life afford? is his art soulless because he has done wrong? or, do the lack of soul in his painting, and the wrongdoing, and the infatuation with lucrezia's beauty, all arise from the same thing,--the man's own nature? does he appeal to your sympathy, or provoke your condemnation? does he blame himself, or another, or circumstances? what idea have you of lucrezia? what does she think of andrea? of his art? what things does he desire of her? what problems of life are here presented? which is principal: the relation of man and woman, the need of _soul_ for great work, or the interrelation between character and achievement? or, is there something else for which the poem stands? can you cite any lines that embody the main idea of the poem? does anything in it remind you of _the grammarian_, or of _rabbi ben ezra?_ caliban upon setebos. (page .) setebos was the god of caliban's mother, the witch sycorax, on prospero's island. read shakespeare's _the tempest_. observe especially all that is said by or about caliban. observe that browning makes caliban usually speak of himself in the third person, and prefixes an apostrophe to the initial verb, as in the first line. tylor's _primitive culture_ and _early history of mankind_ give interesting accounts of the religions of savages. how is caliban's savage nature indicated in the opening scene? what things does he think setebos has made? from what motives? what limit to the power of setebos? why does caliban imagine these limits? how does setebos govern? out of what materials does caliban build his conceptions of his deity? why does he fear him? how does he propitiate him? why is he terrified at the end? compare this passage with the latter part of the book of job. what, in general, is the meaning of the poem? can you cite anything in the history of religions to parallel caliban's theology? "childe roland to the dark tower came." (page .) when browning was asked by rev. dr. j.w. chadwick whether the central idea of this poem was constancy to an ideal,--"he that endureth to the end shall be saved,"--he answered, "yes, just about that." - . =to afford suppression of=. to suppress. . ='gin write=. write. . =its estray=. that is, childe roland himself. . =my prisoners=. those who had met their death on the plain? or, its imprisoned vegetation? . =bents=. a kind of grass. . =as=. as if. . =not it!= memory did not give hope and solace. . =howlet=. a small owl. . =bespate=. spattered. . =cirque=. a circle or enclosure. . =galley-slaves= whom =the turk=, etc. . =engine=. machine. . =tophet=. hell. . =apollyon=. the devil. note the hero's mood of doubt and despair. at what point in his quest do we see him? what does he do after meeting the cripple? how does the landscape seem as he goes on? what _moral_ quality does it seem to have? see lines - . what new elements are introduced to add to the horror of the scene? what memories come to him of the failures of his friends? was their disgrace in physical or moral failure? how does he come to find the tower? why does browning represent it as a "dark tower"? does his courage fail at the end of his quest? or does he win the victory in finding the tower and blowing the challenge? an epistle. (page .) the arabs were among the earliest in the cultivation of mathematical and medical science. this fact, together with their monotheism, makes karshish an appropriate character for the experience of the poem. - . an ancient and oriental idea of the soul and its relation to the body. . =sage=. abib, to whom the letter is sent. . =snake-stone=. a stone used to cure snake-bites. . =charms=. note here and elsewhere the mixture of science and superstition. - . the poet has given local color to the journey. . =vespasian= was appointed general-in-chief against the insurgent jews in a.d., and began the great siege of jerusalem in a.d. the date of the poem and the length of time since lazarus's return to life may thus be estimated. - . note the vividness gained by making karshish keep the physician's point of view. . =falling-sickness ... cure=. epilepsy. karshish is already admitting into his letter the story of lazarus. . not only spiders, but many other animals or parts of animals were formerly used as medicines. - . karshish, still half ashamed of his interest in the marvellous story he has to tell, first gives this as a pretext, and then, in the next lines confesses. ff. belief in magic survived in some degree among the educated until a century or two ago. . =greek-fire=. a violently inflammable substance, supposed to have been a compound of naphtha, sulphur, and nitre, which was hurled against the enemy in battle. as it was first used in , in the siege of constantinople, browning is guilty of an unimportant anachronism. - . a good touch, to make the earthquake mean to karshish an omen of the gravest event within his ken. - . karshish, still unconvinced by the story of lazarus, naturally regards it as irreverent. - . this comes to karshish as an afterthought, a corollary to the idea in the body of the poem. how is the general style of the verse-letter maintained? what is karshish's mission in judea? how does he show his devotion to his art? point out instances of local color. are they in harmony with the main current of the poem, or do they detract from the interest in the story? why does karshish work up to his story so diffidently? why has the incident taken such hold upon him? what do you conceive to be his character and worth as a man? what of lazarus? what change has been wrought in him? is he in any way unfitted for this life? to what does karshish compare him, with his sudden wealth of insight behind the veil of the next world? which of the two men is better fitted for the condition in which he is placed? what religious significance does the story of lazarus come to have to karshish? what parallel ideas do you find in rabbi ben ezra and in this poem? compare george eliot's story, _the lifted veil_. saul. (page .) this is generally regarded as one of browning's greatest poems. even his detractors concede to it beauty of form, fervor of feeling, and richness of imagery. the incident upon which it is based is found in samuel, chapter xvi. saul is in the depths of mental eclipse, and david has been summoned to cure him by music. the young shepherd sings to him first the songs that appeal to the gentle animals; then the songs that men use in their human relationships,--songs of labor, of the wedding-feast, of the burial-service, of worship; then he sings the joy of physical life, ending in an appeal to the ambition of king saul. saul is roused, but not yet brought to _will_ to live. so david sings anew of the life of the spirit, the spirit of saul living for his people. then a touch of tenderness from the king flashes into david a prophetic insight: if he, the imperfect, would do so much for love of saul, what would god, the all-perfect, do for men? and so he reaches the conception of the christ, the incarnation. the poem is full of echoes of the old testament, fused with the spirit of modern christianity and modern thinking. it is touched here and there with bits of beauty from oriental landscape. the long, even swell of the lines carries one along with no sense of the roughness so common in browning's verse. rising by steady degrees to the climax, we feel, like david, some sense of the "terrible glory," some sense of the unseen presences that hovered around him as he made his way home in the night. one word more. (page ). _one word more_ was appended to browning's volume _men and women_ ( ), by way of dedication of the book to his wife. it is characteristic of its author in its reality of feeling, in its seeking an unusual point of view, in its parenthetic and allusive style, and its occasional high felicity of expression. those who feel overpowered by browning's vigor and profundity of thought, might stop here to note the exquisite inconsistency between the examples cited and the thing thus illustrated. the painter turning poet, the poet turning painter, the moon turning her unseen face to a mortal lover; these are compared to browning the poet,--writing another poem. the only difference in his art is that the poet here speaks for himself in the first person, and not, as usual, dramatically in the third person. the idea of the poem may be found, stripped of digression and fanciful comparisons, in the eighth, twelfth, fourteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth stanzas. something of the same idea appears in _my star_. . =rafael,= etc. more commonly spelled raphael. born in italy in , died in ; generally regarded as the greatest of painters. the sistine madonna, at dresden, is considered his greatest work. see lines - . only four of his sonnets exist. a translation of these is given in cooke's _guide book to browning_. there is no authentic record of such a "century of sonnets" having ever existed. . tradition is dim and uncertain as to the identity of this love of raphael's. . =guido reni= ( - ). a celebrated italian painter. berdoe says that the volume owned by guido reni was a collection of a hundred drawings by raphael. - . =dante= ( - ). the greatest of italian poets. his _divina commedia_, consisting of the _inferno_, _purgatorio_, and _paradiso_, is his most famous work. his romantic passion for beatrice (pronounced b[=a]-[.a]-tr[=e]-che) is referred to in his _divina commedia_, and is recounted in his _vita nuova_. - . in allusion to the fact that dante freely consigned his enemies, political and personal, living or dead, to appropriate places in his _inferno_ and _purgatorio_. - . this interruption of his work is described in the thirty-fifth section of the _vita nuova_. the hostile nature of the visit seems to be of browning's invention.--cooke. . =bice=. beatrice. ff. in allusion to moses smiting the rock and bringing forth water. see exodus, chapter xvii. . =egypt's flesh-pots=. see exodus, chapter xvi. . =sinai's cloven brilliance=. see exodus, chapter six. - . . =jethro's daughter=, zipporah. see exodus, chapters ii and xviii. . =cleon=. see the poem of that name. =norbert=. see _in a balcony_. . =lippo=. see _fra lippo lippi_. . =samminiato=. san miniato, a church in florence. . =mythos=. in reference to the myths of endymion, the mortal with whom the goddess diana (the moon) fell in love. see a classical dictionary, and keats's poem _endymion_. . =zoroaster=. the founder of the persian religion. reference is here made to his observations of the heavenly bodies while meditating on religious things. . =galileo= ( - ). the great italian physicist and astronomer. . =keats=. see note on line . . =moses, aaron, nadab, and abihu=. see exodus, chapter xxiv. . compare the idea in _my star_. * * * * * [illustration: robert browning.] the pied piper of hamelin the pied piper of hamelin by robert browning illustrated by kate greenaway london frederick warne and co., ltd. and new york printed in u.s.a. the pied piper of hamelin i. hamelin town's in brunswick, by famous hanover city; the river weser, deep and wide, washes its wall on the southern side; a pleasanter spot you never spied; but, when begins my ditty, almost five hundred years ago, to see the townsfolk suffer so from vermin, was a pity. ii. rats! they fought the dogs and killed the cats, and bit the babies in the cradles, and ate the cheeses out of the vats. and licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, split open the kegs of salted sprats, made nests inside men's sunday hats, and even spoiled the women's chats, by drowning their speaking with shrieking and squeaking in fifty different sharps and flats. iii. at last the people in a body to the town hall came flocking: "tis clear," cried they, "our mayor's a noddy; and as for our corporation--shocking to think we buy gowns lined with ermine for dolts that can't or won't determine what's best to rid us of our vermin! you hope, because you're old and obese, to find in the furry civic robe ease? rouse up, sirs! give your brains a racking to find the remedy we're lacking, or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" at this the mayor and corporation quaked with a mighty consternation. iv. an hour they sate in council, at length the mayor broke silence: "for a guilder i'd my ermine gown sell; i wish i were a mile hence! it's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- i'm sure my poor head aches again, i've scratched it so, and all in vain oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" just as he said this, what should hap at the chamber door but a gentle tap? "bless us," cried the mayor, "what's that?" (with the corporation as he sat, looking little though wondrous fat; nor brighter was his eye, nor moister than a too-long-opened oyster, save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous for a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "only a scraping of shoes on the mat? anything like the sound of a rat makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" v. "come in!"--the mayor cried, looking bigger: and in did come the strangest figure! his queer long coat from heel to head was half of yellow and half of red, and he himself was tall and thin, with sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, and light loose hair, yet swarthy skin no tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, but lips where smile went out and in; there was no guessing his kith and kin: and nobody could enough admire the tall man and his quaint attire. quoth one: "it's as my great-grandsire, starting up at the trump of doom's tone, had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" vi. he advanced to the council-table: and, "please your honours," said he, "i'm able, by means of a secret charm, to draw all creatures living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run, after me so as you never saw! and i chiefly use my charm on creatures that do people harm, the mole and toad and newt and viper; and people call me the pied piper." (and here they noticed round his neck a scarf of red and yellow stripe, to match with his coat of the self-same cheque; and at the scarf's end hung a pipe; and his fingers they noticed were ever straying as if impatient to be playing upon his pipe, as low it dangled over his vesture so old-fangled.) "yet," said he, "poor piper as i am, in tartary i freed the cham, last june, from his huge swarms of gnats, i eased in asia the nizam of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats: and as for what your brain bewilders, if i can rid your town of rats will you give me a thousand guilders?" "one? fifty thousand!"--was the exclamation of the astonished mayor and corporation. vii. into the street the piper stept, smiling first a little smile, as if he knew what magic slept in his quiet pipe the while; then, like a musical adept, to blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, and green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; and ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, you heard as if an army muttered; and the muttering grew to a grumbling; and the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; and out of the houses the rats came tumbling. great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, grave old plodders, gay young friskers, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, cocking tails and pricking whiskers, families by tens and dozens, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- followed the piper for their lives. from street to street he piped advancing, and step for step they followed dancing, until they came to the river weser wherein all plunged and perished! --save one who, stout as julius cæsar, swam across and lived to carry (as he, the manuscript he cherished) to rat-land home his commentary: which was, "at the first shrill notes of the pipe, i heard a sound as of scraping tripe, and putting apples, wondrous ripe, into a cider-press's gripe: and a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, and a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, and a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, and a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: and it seemed as if a voice (sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery is breathed) called out, 'oh rats, rejoice! the world is grown to one vast drysaltery! so munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' and just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, all ready staved, like a great sun shone glorious scarce an inch before me, just as methought it said, 'come, bore me!' --i found the weser rolling o'er me." viii. you should have heard the hamelin people ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple "go," cried the mayor, "and get long poles, poke out the nests and block up the holes! consult with carpenters and builders, and leave in our town not even a trace of the rats!"--when suddenly up the face of the piper perked in the market-place, with a, "first, if you please, my thousand guilders!" ix. a thousand guilders! the mayor looked blue; so did the corporation too. for council dinners made rare havoc with claret, moselle, vin-de-grave, hock; and half the money would replenish their cellar's biggest butt with rhenish. to pay this sum to a wandering fellow with a gipsy coat of red and yellow! "beside," quoth the mayor with a knowing wink, "our business was done at the river's brink; we saw with our eyes the vermin sink, and what's dead can't come to life, i think. so, friend, we're not the folks to shrink from the duty of giving you something to drink, and a matter of money to put in your poke; but as for the guilders, what we spoke of them, as you very well know, was in joke. beside, our losses have made us thrifty. a thousand guilders! come, take fifty!" x. the piper's face fell, and he cried, "no trifling! i can't wait, beside! i've promised to visit by dinner-time bagdad, and accept the prime of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in, for having left, in the caliph's kitchen, of a nest of scorpions no survivor: with him i proved no bargain-driver, with you, don't think i'll bate a stiver! and folks who put me in a passion may find me pipe after another fashion." xi. "how?" cried the mayor, "d' ye think i brook being worse treated than a cook? insulted by a lazy ribald with idle pipe and vesture piebald? you threaten us, fellow? do your worst, blow your pipe there till you burst!" xii. once more he stept into the street, and to his lips again laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; and ere he blew three notes (such sweet soft notes as yet musician's cunning never gave the enraptured air) there was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, and, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, out came the children running. all the little boys and girls, with rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, and sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. tripping and skipping, ran merrily after the wonderful music with shouting and laughter. xiii. the mayor was dumb, and the council stood as if they were changed into blocks of wood, unable to move a step, or cry to the children merrily skipping by. --could only follow with the eye that joyous crowd at the piper's back. but how the mayor was on the rack, and the wretched council's bosoms beat, as the piper turned from the high street to where the weser rolled its waters right in the way of their sons and daughters! however he turned from south to west, and to koppelberg hill his steps addressed, and after him the children pressed; great was the joy in every breast. "he never can cross that mighty top! he's forced to let the piping drop, and we shall see our children stop!" when, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, a wondrous portal opened wide, as if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; and the piper advanced and the children followed, and when all were in to the very last, the door in the mountain side shut fast. did i say, all? no; one was lame, and could not dance the whole of the way; and in after years, if you would blame his sadness, he was used to say,-- "it's dull in our town since my playmates left! i can't forget that i'm bereft of all the pleasant sights they see, which the piper also promised me. for he led us, he said, to a joyous land, joining the town and just at hand, where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, and flowers put forth a fairer hue, and everything was strange and new; the sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, and their dogs outran our fallow deer, and honey-bees had lost their stings, and horses were born with eagles' wings; and just as i became assured my lame foot would be speedily cured, the music stopped and i stood still, and found myself outside the hill, left alone against my will, to go now limping as before, and never hear of that country more!" xiv. alas, alas for hamelin! there came into many a burgher's pate a text which says that heaven's gate opes to the rich at as easy rate as the needle's eye takes a camel in! the mayor sent east, west, north, and south, to offer the piper, by word of mouth, wherever it was men's lot to find him, silver and gold to his heart's content, if he'd only return the way he went, and bring the children behind him. but when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, and piper and dancers were gone for ever, they made a decree that lawyers never should think their records dated duly if, after the day of the month and year, these words did not as well appear, "and so long after what happened here on the twenty-second of july, thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" and the better in memory to fix the place of the children's last retreat, they called it, the pied piper's street-- where any one playing on pipe or tabor, was sure for the future to lose his labour. nor suffered they hostelry or tavern to shock with mirth a street so solemn; but opposite the place of the cavern they wrote the story on a column, and on the great church-window painted the same, to make the world acquainted how their children were stolen away, and there it stands to this very day. and i must not omit to say that in transylvania there's a tribe of alien people that ascribe the outlandish ways and dress on which their neighbours lay such stress, to their fathers and mothers having risen out of some subterraneous prison into which they were trepanned long time ago in a mighty band out of hamelin town in brunswick land, but how or why, they don't understand. xv. so, willy, let me and you be wipers of scores out with all men--especially pipers! and, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, if we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! first published original wood block designs engraved by edward evans limited dramatic romances from the poetic works of robert browning by robert browning introduction and notes: charlotte porter and helen a. clarke from the edition of browning's poems published by thomas y. crowell and company, new york, in . editing conventions: stanza and section numbers have been moved to the left margin, and periods that follow them have been removed. periods have been omitted after roman numerals in the titles of popes and nobles. quotation marks have been left only at the beginning and end of a multi-line quotation, and at the beginning of each stanza within the quotation, instead of at the beginning of every line, as in the printed text. contents introduction incident of the french camp the patriot my last duchess count gismond the boy and the angel instans tyrannus mesmerism the glove time's revenges the italian in england the englishman in italy in a gondola waring the twins a light woman the last ride together the pied piper of hamelin: a child's story the flight of the duchess a grammarian's funeral the heretic's tragedy holy-cross day protus the statue and the bust porphyria's lover "childe roland to the dark tower came" introduction [the dramatic romances,...] enriched by some of the poems originally printed in men and women, and a few from dramatic lyrics as first printed, include some of browning's finest and most characteristic work. in several of them the poet displays his familiarity with the life and spirit of the renaissance--a period portrayed by him with a fidelity more real than history--for he enters into the feelings that give rise to action, while the historian is busied only with the results growing out of the moving force of feeling. the egotism of the ferrara husband outraged at the gentle wife because she is as gracious toward those who rendered her small courtesies, and seemed as thankful to them as she was to him for his gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name, opens up for inspection the heart of a husband at a time when men exercised complete control over their wives, and could satisfy their jealous, selfish instincts by any cruel methods they chose to adopt, with no one to say them "nay." the highly developed artistic sense shown by this husband is not incompatible with his consummate selfishness and cruelty, as many tales of that time might be brought forward to illustrate. the husband in "the statue and the bust" belongs to the same type, and the situation there is the inevitable outcome of a civilization in which women were not consulted as to whom they would marry, and naturally often fell a prey to love if it should come to them afterwards. weakness of will in the case of the lovers in this poem wrecked their lives; for they were not strong enough to follow either duty or love. another glimpse is caught of this period when husbands and brothers and fathers meted out what they considered justice to the women in "in a gondola." "the grammarian's funeral" gives also an aspect of renaissance life--the fervor for learning characteristic of the earlier days of the renaissance when devoted pedants, as arthur symons says in referring to this poem, broke ground in the restoration to the modern world of the civilization and learning of ancient greece and rome. again, "the heretic's tragedy" and "holy-cross day" picture most vividly the methods resorted to by the dying church in its attempts to keep control of the souls of a humanity seething toward religious tolerance. with only a small space at command, it is difficult to decide on the poems to be touched upon, especially where there is not one but would repay prolonged attention, due no less to the romantic interest of the stories, the marvellous penetration into human motives, the grasp of historical atmospheres, than to the originality and perfection of their artistry. a word must be said of "the flight of the duchess" and "childe roland to the dark tower came," both poems which have been productive of many commentaries, and both holding their own amid the bray [sic] of critics as unique and beautiful specimens of poetic art. certainly no two poems could be chosen to show wider diversity in the poet's genius than these. the story told by the huntsman in "the flight of the duchess" is interesting enough simply as a story, but the telling of it is inimitable. one can see before him the devoted, kindly man, somewhat clumsy of speech, as indicated by the rough rhymes, and characteristically drawing his illustrations from the calling he follows. keen in his critical observation of the duke and other members of the household, he, nevertheless, has a tender appreciation of the difficulties of the young duchess in this unloving artificial environment. when the gypsy queen sings her song through his memory of it, the rhymes and rhythm take on a befitting harmoniousness and smoothness contrasting finely with the remainder of the poem. by means of this song, moreover, the horizon is enlarged beyond the immediate ken of the huntsman. the race-instinct, which has so strong a hold upon the gypsies, is exalted into a wondrous sort of love which carries everything before it. this loving reality is also set over against the unloving artificiality of the first part of the poem. the temptation is too strong for the love-starved little duchess, and even the huntsman and jacinth come under her hypnotic spell. very different in effect is "childe roland to the dark tower came." the one, rich in this lay of human emotion, couched in the simple language of reality; the other, a symbolic picture of the struggle and aspiration of the soul. interpreters have tried to pin this latter poem down to the limits of an allegory, and find a specific meaning for every phrase and picture, but it has too much the quality of the modern symbolistic writing to admit of any treatment so prosaic. in this respect it resembles music. each mind will draw from it an interpretation suited to its own attitude and experiences. reduced to the simplest possible lines of interpretation, it symbolizes the inevitable fate which drives a truth-seeking soul to see the falsity of ideals once thought absolute, yet in the face of the ruin of those ideals courage toward the continuance of aspiration is never for a moment lost. as a bit of art, it is strikingly imaginative, and suggests the picture-quality of the tapestried horse, which browning himself says was the chief inspiration of the poem. it is a fine example of the way in which the "strange and winged" fancy of the poet may take its flight from so simple an object as this tapestried horse, evidently a sorry beast too, in its needled presentment, or the poetic impulse would not have expressed itself in the vindictive, "i never saw a horse [sic] i hated so." incident of the french camp i you know, we french stormed ratisbon: a mile or so away, on a little mound, napoleon stood on our storming-day; with neck out-thrust, you fancy how, legs wide, arms locked behind, as if to balance the prone brow oppressive with its mind. ii just as perhaps he mused, "my plans that soar, to earth may fall, let once my army-leader lannes waver at yonder wall." out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew a rider, bound on bound full-galloping; nor bridle drew until he reached the mound. iii then off there flung in smiling joy, and held himself erect by just his horse's mane, a boy: you hardly could suspect (so tight he kept his lips compressed scarce any blood came through) you looked twice ere you saw his breast was all but shot in two. iv "well," cried he, "emperor, by god's grace "we've got you ratisbon! "the marshal's in the market-place, and you'll be there anon to see your flag-bird flap his vans where i, to heart's desire, perched him--" the chief's eye flashed; his plans soared up again like fire. v the chief's eye flashed, but presently softened itself, as sheathes a film the mother-eagle's-eye when her bruised eaglet breathes, "you're wounded!" "nay," the soldier's pride touched to the quick, he said: "i'm killed, sire!" and his chief beside, smiling the boy fell dead. notes: "incident of the french camp." a story of modest heroism. the incident related is said by mrs. orr to be a true one of the siege of ratisbon by napoleon in --except that the real hero was a man. i. ratisbon: (german regensburg), an ancient city of bavaria on the right bank of the danube, has endured seventeen sieges since the tenth century, the last one being that of napoleon, . ii. lannes: duke of montebello, one of napoleon's generals. the patriot an old story i it was roses, roses, all the way, with myrtle mixed in my path like mad: the house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, the church-spires flamed, such flags they had, a year ago on this very day. ii the air broke into a mist with bells, the old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. had i said, "good folk, mere noise repels-- but give me your sun from yonder skies!" they had answered, "and afterward, what else?" iii alack, it was i who leaped at the sun to give it my loving friends to keep! nought man could do, have i left undone: and you see my harvest, what i reap this very day, now a year is run. iv there's nobody on the house-tops now-- just a palsied few at the windows set; for the best of the sight is, all allow, at the shambles' gate--or, better yet, by the very scaffold's foot, i trow. v i go in the rain, and, more than needs, a rope cuts both my wrists behind; and i think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, for they fling, whoever has a mind, stones at me for my year's misdeeds. vi thus i entered, and thus i go! in triumphs, people have dropped down dead. "paid by the world, what dost thou owe me?"--god might question; now instead, 'tis god shall repay: i am safer so. notes: "the patriot" is a hero's story of the reward and punishment dealt him for his services within one year. to act regardless of praise or blame, save god's, seems safer. my last duchess ferrara that's my last duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive. i call that piece a wonder, now: fra pandolf's hands worked busily a day, and there she stands. will't please you sit and look at her? i said "fra pandolf" by design, for never read strangers like you that pictured countenance, the depth and passion of its earnest glance, but to myself they turned (since none puts by the curtain i have drawn for you, but i) and seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, how such a glance came there; so, not the first are you to turn and ask thus. sir, 'twas not her husband's presence only, called that spot of joy into the duchess' cheek: perhaps fra pandolf chanced to say "her mantle laps over my lady's wrist too much," or "paint must never hope to reproduce the faint half-flush that dies along her throat"; such stuff was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough for calling up that spot of joy. she had a heart--how shall i say--too soon made glad, too easily impressed; she liked whate'er she looked on, and her looks went everywhere. sir, 'twas all one! my favour at her breast, the dropping of the daylight in the west, the bough of cherries some officious fool broke in the orchard for her, the white mule she rode with round the terrace--all and each would draw from her alike the approving speech, or blush, at least. she thanked men--good! but thanked somehow--i know not how--as if she ranked my gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name with anybody's gift. who'd stoop to blame this sort of trifling? even had you skill in speech (which i have not) to make your will quite clear to such an one, and say, "just this or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, or there exceed the mark"--and if she let herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, e'en that would be some stooping; and i choose never to stoop. oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, whene'er i passed her; but who passed without much the same smile? this grew; i gave commands; then all smiles stopped together. there she stands as if alive. will't please you rise? we'll meet the company below, then. i repeat, the count your master's known munificence is ample warrant that no just pretence of mine for dowry will be disallowed; though his fair daughter's self, as i avowed at starting, is my object. nay, we'll go together down, sir. notice neptune, though, taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, which claus of innsbruck cast in bronze for me! notes: "my last duchess" puts in the mouth of a duke of ferrara, a typical husband and art patron of the renaissance, a description of his last wife, whose happy nature and universal kindliness were a perpetual affront to his exacting self-predominance, and whose suppression, by his command, has made the vacancy he is now, in his interview with the envoy for a new match, taking precaution to fill more acceptably. . fra pandolf, and . claus of innsbruck, are imaginary. count gismond aix en provence i christ god who savest man, save most of men count gismond who saved me! count gauthier, when he chose his post, chose time and place and company to suit it; when he struck at length my honour, 'twas with all his strength. ii and doubtlessly ere he could draw all points to one, he must have schemed! that miserable morning saw few half so happy as i seemed, while being dressed in queen's array to give our tourney prize away. iii i thought they loved me, did me grace to please themselves; 'twas all their deed; god makes, or fair or foul, our face; if showing mine so caused to bleed my cousins' hearts, they should have dropped a word, and straight the play had stopped. iv they, too, so beauteous! each a queen by virtue of her brow and breast; not needing to be crowned, i mean, as i do. e'en when i was dressed, had either of them spoke, instead of glancing sideways with still head! v but no: they let me laugh, and sing my birthday song quite through, adjust the last rose in my garland, fling a last look on the mirror, trust my arms to each an arm of theirs, and so descend the castle-stairs-- vi and come out on the morning-troop of merry friends who kissed my cheek, and called me queen, and made me stoop under the canopy--a streak that pierced it, of the outside sun, powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun-- vii and they could let me take my state and foolish throne amid applause of all come there to celebrate my queen's-day--oh i think the cause of much was, they forgot no crowd makes up for parents in their shroud! viii however that be, all eyes were bent upon me, when my cousins cast theirs down; 'twas time i should present the victor's crown, but... there, 'twill last no long time... the old mist again blinds me as then it did. how vain! ix see! gismond's at the gate, in talk with his two boys: i can proceed. well, at that moment, who should stalk forth boldly--to my face, indeed-- but gauthier, and he thundered "stay!" and all stayed. "bring no crowns, i say!" x "bring torches! wind the penance-sheet about her! let her shun the chaste, or lay herself before their feet! shall she whose body i embraced a night long, queen it in the day? for honour's sake no crowns, i say!" xi i? what i answered? as i live, i never fancied such a thing as answer possible to give. what says the body when they spring some monstrous torture-engine's whole strength on it? no more says the soul. xii till out strode gismond; then i knew that i was saved. i never met his face before, but, at first view, i felt quite sure that god had set himself to satan; who would spend a minute's mistrust on the end? xiii he strode to gauthier, in his throat gave him the lie, then struck his mouth with one back-handed blow that wrote in blood men's verdict there. north, south, east, west, i looked. the lie was dead, and damned, and truth stood up instead. xiv this glads me most, that i enjoyed the heart of the joy, with my content in watching gismond unalloyed by any doubt of the event: god took that on him--i was bid watch gismond for my part: i did. xv did i not watch him while he let his armourer just brace his greaves, rivet his hauberk, on the fret the while! his foot... my memory leaves no least stamp out, nor how anon he pulled his ringing gauntlets on. xvi and e'en before the trumpet's sound was finished, prone lay the false knight, prone as his lie, upon the ground: gismond flew at him, used no sleight o' the sword, but open-breasted drove, cleaving till out the truth he clove. xvii which done, he dragged him to my feet and said "here die, but end thy breath in full confession, lest thou fleet from my first, to god's second death! say, hast thou lied?" and, "i have lied to god and her," he said, and died. xviii then gismond, kneeling to me, asked what safe my heart holds, though no word could i repeat now, if i tasked my powers for ever, to a third dear even as you are. pass the rest until i sank upon his breast. xix over my head his arm he flung against the world; and scarce i felt his sword (that dripped by me and swung) a little shifted in its belt: for he began to say the while how south our home lay many a mile. xx so 'mid the shouting multitude we two walked forth to never more return. my cousins have pursued their life, untroubled as before i vexed them. gauthier's dwelling-place god lighten! may his soul find grace! xxi our elder boy has got the clear great brow; tho' when his brother's black full eye shows scorn, it... gismond here? and have you brought my tercel back? i just was telling adela how many birds it struck since may. notes: "count gismond: aix in provence" illustrates, in the person of the woman who relates to a friend an episode of her own life, the power of innate purity to raise up for her a defender when caught in the toils woven by the unsuspected envy and hypocrisy of her cousins and count gauthier, who attempt to bring dishonor upon her, on her birthday, with the seeming intention of honoring her. her faith that the trial by combat between gauthier and gismond must end in gismond's victory and her vindication reflects most truly, as arthur symons has pointed out, the medieval atmosphere of chivalrous france. . tercel: a male falcon. the boy and the angel morning, evening, noon and night, "praise god!" sang theocrite. then to his poor trade he turned, whereby the daily meal was earned. hard he laboured, long and well; o'er his work the boy's curls fell. but ever, at each period, he stopped and sang, "praise god!" then back again his curls he threw, and cheerful turned to work anew. said blaise, the listening monk, "well done; i doubt not thou art heard, my son: as well as if thy voice to-day were praising god, the pope's great way. this easter day, the pope at rome praises god from peter's dome." said theocrite, "would god that i might praise him, that great way, and die!" night passed, day shone, and theocrite was gone. with god a day endures alway, a thousand years are but a day. god said in heaven, "nor day nor night now brings the voice of my delight." then gabriel, like a rainbow's birth spread his wings and sank to earth; . entered, in flesh, the empty cell, lived there, and played the craftsman well; and morning, evening, noon and night, praised god in place of theocrite. and from a boy, to youth he grew: the man put off the stripling's hue: the man matured and fell away into the season of decay: and ever o'er the trade he bent, and ever lived on earth content. (he did god's will; to him, all one if on the earth or in the sun.) god said, "a praise is in mine ear; there is no doubt in it, no fear: so sing old worlds, and so new worlds that from my footstool go. clearer loves sound other ways: i miss my little human praise." then forth sprang gabriel's wings, off fell the flesh disguise, remained the cell. 'twas easter day: he flew to rome, and paused above saint peter's dome. in the tiring-room close by the great outer gallery, with his holy vestments dight, stood the new pope, theocrite: and all his past career came back upon him clear, since when, a boy, he plied his trade, till on his life the sickness weighed; and in his cell, when death drew near, an angel in a dream brought cheer: and rising from the sickness drear he grew a priest, and now stood here. to the east with praise he turned, and on his sight the angel burned. "i bore thee from thy craftsman's cell and set thee here; i did not well. "vainly i left my angel-sphere, vain was thy dream of many a year. "thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped-- creation's chorus stopped! "go back and praise again the early way, while i remain. "with that weak voice of our disdain, take up creation's pausing strain. "back to the cell and poor employ: resume the craftsman and the boy!" theocrite grew old at home; a new pope dwelt in peter's dome. one vanished as the other died: they sought god side by side. notes: "the boy and the angel." an imaginary legend illustrating the worth of humble, human love to god, who missed in the praise of the pope, theocrite, and of the angel gabriel, the precious human quality in the song of the poor boy, theocrite. instans tyrannus i of the million or two, more or less i rule and possess, one man, for some cause undefined, was least to my mind. ii i struck him, he grovelled of course-- for, what was his force? i pinned him to earth with my weight and persistence of hate: and he lay, would not moan, would not curse, as his lot might be worse. iii "were the object less mean, would he stand at the swing of my hand! for obscurity helps him and blots the hole where he squats." so, i set my five wits on the stretch to inveigle the wretch. all in vain! gold and jewels i threw, still he couched there perdue; i tempted his blood and his flesh, hid in roses my mesh, choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth: still he kept to his filth. iv had he kith now or kin, were access to his heart, did i press: just a son or a mother to seize! no such booty as these. were it simply a friend to pursue 'mid my million or two, who could pay me in person or pelf what he owes me himself! no: i could not but smile through my chafe: for the fellow lay safe as his mates do, the midge and the nit, --through minuteness, to wit. v then a humour more great took its place at the thought of his face, the droop, the low cares of the mouth, the trouble uncouth 'twixt the brows, all that air one is fain to put out of its pain. and, "no!" i admonished myself, "is one mocked by an elf, is one baffled by toad or by rat? the gravamen's in that! how the lion, who crouches to suit his back to my foot, would admire that i stand in debate! but the small turns the great if it vexes you, that is the thing! toad or rat vex the king? though i waste half my realm to unearth toad or rat, 'tis well worth!" vi so, i soberly laid my last plan to extinguish the man. round his creep-hole, with never a break ran my fires for his sake; over-head, did my thunder combine with my underground mine: till i looked from my labour content to enjoy the event. vii when sudden... how think ye, the end? did i say "without friend"? say rather, from marge to blue marge the whole sky grew his targe with the sun's self for visible boss, while an arm ran across which the earth heaved beneath like a breast where the wretch was safe prest! do you see? just my vengeance complete, the man sprang to his feet, stood erect, caught at god's skirts, and prayed! --so, _i_ was afraid! notes: "instans tyrannus" is a despot's confession of one of his own experiences which showed him the inviolability of the weakest man who is in the right and who can call the spiritual force of good to his aid against the utmost violence or cunning.--"instans tyrannus," or the threatening tyrant, suggested by horace, third ode in book iii: "justum et tenacem proposti vlrum, non civium ardor prava jubentium, non vultus instantis tyranni," etc. [the just man tenacious of purpose is not to be turned aside by the heat of the populace nor the brow of the threatening tyrant.] mesmerism i all i believed is true! i am able yet all i want, to get by a method as strange as new: dare i trust the same to you? ii if at night, when doors are shut, and the wood-worm picks, and the death-watch ticks, and the bar has a flag of smut, and a cat's in the water-butt-- iii and the socket floats and flares, and the house-beams groan, and a foot unknown is surmised on the garret-stairs, and the locks slip unawares-- iv and the spider, to serve his ends, by a sudden thread, arms and legs outspread, on the table's midst descends, comes to find, god knows what friends!-- v if since eve drew in, i say, i have sat and brought (so to speak) my thought to bear on the woman away, till i felt my hair turn grey-- vi till i seemed to have and hold, in the vacancy 'twixt the wall and me, from the hair-plait's chestnut gold to the foot in its muslin fold-- vii have and hold, then and there, her, from head to foot breathing and mute, passive and yet aware, in the grasp of my steady stare-- viii hold and have, there and then, all her body and soul that completes my whole, all that women add to men, in the clutch of my steady ken-- ix having and holding, till i imprint her fast on the void at last as the sun does whom he will by the calotypist's skill-- x then,--if my heart's strength serve, and through all and each of the veils i reach to her soul and never swerve, knitting an iron nerve-- xi command her soul to advance and inform the shape which has made escape and before my countenance answers me glance for glance-- xii i, still with a gesture fit of my hands that best do my soul's behest, pointing the power from it, while myself do steadfast sit-- xiii steadfast and still the same on my object bent, while the hands give vent to my ardour and my aim and break into very flame-- xiv then i reach, i must believe, not her soul in vain, for to me again it reaches, and past retrieve is wound in the toils i weave; xv and must follow as i require, as befits a thrall, bringing flesh and all, essence and earth-attire to the source of the tractile fire: xvi till the house called hers, not mine, with a growing weight seems to suffocate if she break not its leaden line and escape from its close confine. xvii out of doors into the night! on to the maze of the wild wood-ways, not turning to left nor right from the pathway, blind with sight-- xviii making thro' rain and wind o'er the broken shrubs, 'twixt the stems and stubs, with a still, composed, strong mind, nor a care for the world behind-- xix swifter and still more swift, as the crowding peace doth to joy increase in the wide blind eyes uplift thro' the darkness and the drift! xx while i--to the shape, i too feel my soul dilate nor a whit abate, and relax not a gesture due, as i see my belief come true. xxi for, there! have i drawn or no life to that lip? do my fingers dip in a flame which again they throw on the cheek that breaks a-glow? xxii ha! was the hair so first? what, unfilleted, made alive, and spread through the void with a rich outburst, chestnut gold-interspersed? xxiii like the doors of a casket-shrine, see, on either side, her two arms divide till the heart betwixt makes sign, take me, for i am thine! xxiv "now--now"--the door is heard! hark, the stairs! and near-- nearer--and here-- "now!" and at call the third she enters without a word. xxv on doth she march and on to the fancied shape; it is, past escape, herself, now: the dream is done and the shadow and she are one. xxvi first i will pray. do thou that ownest the soul, yet wilt grant control to another, nor disallow for a time, restrain me now! xxvii i admonish me while i may, not to squander guilt, since require thou wilt at my hand its price one day! what the price is, who can say? notes: "mesmerism." with a continuous tension of will, whose unbroken concentration impregnates the very structure of the poem, a mesmerist describes the processes of the act by which he summons shape and soul of the woman he desires; and then reverent perception of the sacredness of the soul awes him from trespassing upon another's individuality. the glove (peter ronsard, loquitur) "heigho!" yawned one day king francis, "distance all value enhances. when a man's busy, why, leisure strikes him as wonderful pleasure: faith, and at leisure once is he? straightway he wants to be busy. here we've got peace; and aghast i'm caught thinking war the true pastime. is there a reason in metre? give us your speech, master peter!" i who, if mortal dare say so, ne'er am at loss with my naso "sire," i replied, "joys prove cloudlets: "men are the merest ixions"-- here the king whistled aloud, "let's --heigho--go look at our lions." such are the sorrowful chances if you talk fine to king francis. and so, to the courtyard proceeding, our company, francis was leading, increased by new followers tenfold before he arrived at the penfold; lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen at sunset the western horizon. and sir de lorge pressed 'mid the foremost with the dame he professed to adore most. oh, what a face! one by fits eyed her, and the horrible pitside; for the penfold surrounded a hollow which led where the eye scarce dared follow and shelved to the chamber secluded where bluebeard, the great lion, brooded. the king hailed his keeper, an arab as glossy and black as a scarab, and bade him make sport and at once stir up and out of his den the old monster. they opened a hole in the wire-work across it, and dropped there a firework, and fled: one's heart's beating redoubled; a pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, the blackness and silence so utter, by the firework's slow sparkling and sputter; then earth in a sudden contortion gave out to our gaze her abortion. such a brute! were i friend clement marot (whose experience of nature's but narrow and whose faculties move in no small mist when he versifies david the psalmist) i should study that brute to describe you illum juda leonem de tribu. one's whole blood grew curdling and creepy to see the black mane, vast and heapy, the tail in the air stiff and straining the wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning, as over the barrier which bounded his platform, and us who surrounded the barrier, they reached and they rested on space that might stand him in best stead: for who knew, he thought, what the amazement, the eruption of clatter and blaze meant, and if, in this minute of wonder, no outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder, lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered, the lion at last was delivered? ay, that was the open sky o'erhead! and you saw by the flash on his forehead, by the hope in those eyes wide and steady, he was leagues in the desert already driving the flocks up the mountain or catlike couched hard by the fountain to waylay the date-gathering negress: so guarded he entrance or egress. "how he stands!" quoth the king: "we may well swear, (no novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere and so can afford the confession) we exercise wholesome discretion in keeping aloof from his threshold; once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold, their first would too pleasantly purloin the visitor's brisket or surloin: but who's he would prove so fool-hardy? not the best man of marignan, pardie!" the sentence no sooner was uttered, than over the rails a glove fluttered, fell close to the lion, and rested: the dame 'twas, who flung it and jested with life so, de lorge had been wooing for months past; he sat there pursuing his suit, weighing out with nonchalance fine speeches like gold from a balance. sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier! de lorge made one leap at the barrier, walked straight to the glove--while the lion ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on the palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire, and the musky oiled skin of the kaffir-- picked it up, and as calmly retreated, leaped back where the lady was seated, and full in the face of its owner flung the glove. "your heart's queen, you dethrone her? so should i!"--cried the king--"'twas mere vanity not love set that task to humanity!" lords and ladies alike turned with loathing from such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing. not so, i; for i caught an expression in her brow's undisturbed self-possession amid the court's scoffing and merriment, as if from no pleasing experiment she rose, yet of pain not much heedful so long as the process was needful,-- as if she had tried in a crucible, to what "speeches like gold" were reducible, and, finding the finest prove copper, felt the smoke in her face was but proper; to know what she had not to trust to, was worth all the ashes and dust too. she went out 'mid hooting and laughter; clement marot stayed; i followed after, and asked, as a grace, what it all meant? if she wished not the rash deed's recalment? for i"--so i spoke--"am a poet: human nature,--behoves that i know it!" she told me, "too long had i heard of the deed proved alone by the word: for my love--what de lorge would not dare! with my scorn--what de lorge could compare! and the endless descriptions of death he would brave when my lip formed a breath, i must reckon as braved, or, of course, doubt his word--and moreover, perforce, for such gifts as no lady could spurn, must offer my love in return. when i looked on your lion, it brought all the dangers at once to my thought, encountered by all sorts of men, before he was lodged in his den-- from the poor slave whose club or bare hands dug the trap, set the snare on the sands, with no king and no court to applaud, by no shame, should he shrink, overawed, yet to capture the creature made shift, that his rude boys might laugh at the gift --to the page who last leaped o'er the fence of the pit, on no greater pretence than to get back the bonnet he dropped, lest his pay for a week should be stopped. so, wiser i judged it to make one trial what 'death for my sake' really meant, while the power was yet mine, than to wait until time should define such a phrase not so simply as i, who took it to mean just 'to die.' the blow a glove gives is but weak: does the mark yet discolour my cheek? but when the heart suffers a blow, will the pain pass so soon, do you know?" i looked, as away she was sweeping. and saw a youth eagerly keeping as close as he dared to the doorway. no doubt that a noble should more weigh his life than befits a plebeian; and yet, had our brute been nemean-- (i judge by a certain calm fervour the youth stepped with, forward to serve her) --he'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn if you whispered "friend, what you'd get, first earn!" and when, shortly after, she carried her shame from the court, and they married, to that marriage some happiness, maugre the voice of the court, i dared augur. for de lorge, he made women with men vie, those in wonder and praise, these in envy; and in short stood so plain a head taller. that he wooed and won... how do you call her? the beauty, that rose in the sequel to the king's love, who loved her a week well. and 'twas noticed he never would honour de lorge (who looked daggers upon her) with the easy commission of stretching his legs in the service, and fetching his wife, from her chamber, those straying sad gloves she was always mislaying, while the king took the closet to chat in,-- but of course this adventure came pat in. and never the king told the story, how bringing a glove brought such glory, but the wife smiled--"his nerves are grown firmer: mine he brings now and utters no murmur." venienti occurrite morbo! with which moral i drop my theorbo. notes: "the glove" gives a transcript from court life, in paris, under francis i. in making ronsard the mouthpiece for a deeper observation of the meaning of the incident he is supposed to witness and describe than marot and the rest saw, characteristic differences between these two poets of the time are brought out, the genuineness of courtly love and chivalry is tested, and to the original story of the glove is added a new view of the lady's character; a sketch of her humbler and truer lover, and their happiness; and a pendent scene showing the courtier de lorges, having won a beauty for his wife, in the ignominious position of assisting the king to enjoy her favors and of submitting to pleasantries upon his discomfiture. the original story as told by poullain de st. croix in his essais historiques sur paris ran thus: "one day whilst francis i amused himself with looking at a combat between his lions, a lady, having let her glove drop, said to de lorges, 'if you would have me believe that you love me as much as you swear you do, go and bring back my glove.' de lorges went down, picked up the glove from amidst the ferocious beasts, returned, and threw it in the lady's face; and in spite of all her advances and cajoleries would never look at her again.'' schiller running across this anecdote of st. croix, in , as he writes goethe, wrote a poem on it which adds nothing to the story. leigh hunt's 'the glove and the lions' adds some traits. it characterizes the lady as shallow and vain, with smiles and eyes which always seem'd the same.'' she calculates since "king, ladies, lovers, all look on," that "the occasion is divine" to drop her glove and "prove his love, then look at him and smile"; and after de lorges has returned and thrown the glove, "but not with love, right in the lady's face,'' hunt makes the king rise and swear "rightly done! no love, quoth he, but vanity, sets love a task like that!'' this is the material browning worked on; he makes use of this speech of the king's, but remodels the lady's character wholly, and gives her an appreciative lover, and also a keen-eyed young poet to tell her story afresh and to reveal through his criticism the narrowness of the court and the court poets. . naso: ovid. love of the classics and curiosity as to human nature were both characteristic of peter ronsard ( - ), at one time page to francis i, the most erudite and original of french medieval poets. . clement marot: ( - ), court poet to francis i. his nature and verse were simpler than ronsard's, and he belonged more peculiarly to his own day. . versifies david: marot was suspected of protestant leanings which occasioned his imprisonment twice, and put him in need of the protection francis and his sister gave him. among his works were sixty-five epistles addressed to grandees, attesting his courtiership, and the paraphrase of forty-nine of the psalms to which ronsard alludes. . illum juda, etc.: that lion of the tribe of judah. . venienti, etc.: meet the coming disease; that is, if evil be anticipated, don't wait till it seizes you, but dare to assure yourself and then forestall it as the lady did. . theorbo: an old italian stringed instrument such as pages used. time's revenges i've a friend, over the sea; i like him, but he loves me. it all grew out of the books i write; they find such favour in his sight that he slaughters you with savage looks because you don't admire my books. he does himself though,--and if some vein were to snap tonight in this heavy brain, to-morrow month, if i lived to try, round should i just turn quietly, or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand till i found him, come from his foreign land to be my nurse in this poor place, and make my broth and wash my face and light my fire and, all the while, bear with his old good-humoured smile that i told him "better have kept away than come and kill me, night and day, with, worse than fever throbs and shoots, the creaking of his clumsy boots." i am as sure that this he would do, as that saint paul's is striking two. and i think i rather... woe is me! --yes, rather would see him than not see, if lifting a hand could seat him there before me in the empty chair to-night, when my head aches indeed, and i can neither think nor read nor make these purple fingers hold the pen; this garret's freezing cold! and i've a lady--there he wakes, the laughing fiend and prince of snakes within me, at her name, to pray fate send some creature in the way of my love for her, to be down-torn, upthrust and outward-borne, so i might prove myself that sea of passion which i needs must be! call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint and my style infirm and its figures faint, all the critics say, and more blame yet, and not one angry word you get. but, please you, wonder i would put my cheek beneath that lady's foot rather than trample under mine that laurels of the florentine, and you shall see how the devil spends a fire god gave for other ends! i tell you, i stride up and down this garret, crowned with love's best crown, and feasted with love's perfect feast, to think i kill for her, at least, body and soul and peace and fame, alike youth's end and manhood's aim, --so is my spirit, as flesh with sin, filled full, eaten out and in with the face of her, the eyes of her, the lips, the little chin, the stir of shadow round her mouth; and she --i'll tell you,--calmly would decree that i should roast at a slow fire, if that would compass her desire and make her one whom they invite to the famous ball to-morrow night. there may be heaven; there must be hell; meantime, there is our earth here--well! notes: "time's revenges." an author soliloquizes in his garret over the fact that he possesses a friend who loves him and would do anything in his power to serve him, but for whom he cares almost nothing. at the same time he himself loves a woman to such distraction that he counts himself crowned with love's best crown while sacrificing his soul, his body, his peace, and his fame in brooding on his love, while she could calmly decree that he should roast at a slow fire if it would compass her frivolously ambitious designs. thus his indifference to his friend is avenged by the indifference the lady shows toward him. . the florentine: dante. used here, seemingly, as a symbol of the highest attainments in poesy, his (the speaker's) reverence for which is so great that he would rather put his cheek under his lady's foot than that poetry should suffer any indignity at his hands; yet in spite of all the possibilities open to him through his enthusiasm for poetry, he prefers wasting his entire energies upon one unworthy of him. the italian in england that second time they hunted me from hill to plain, from shore to sea, and austria, hounding far and wide her blood-hounds thro' the country-side, breathed hot and instant on my trace,-- i made six days a hiding-place of that dry green old aqueduct where i and charles, when boys, have plucked the fire-flies from the roof above, bright creeping thro' the moss they love: --how long it seems since charles was lost! six days the soldiers crossed and crossed the country in my very sight; and when that peril ceased at night, the sky broke out in red dismay with signal fires; well, there i lay close covered o'er in my recess, up to the neck in ferns and cress, thinking on metternich our friend, and charles's miserable end, and much beside, two days; the third, hunger overcame me when i heard the peasants from the village go to work among the maize; you know, with us in lombardy, they bring provisions packed on mules, a string with little bells that cheer their task, and casks, and boughs on every cask to keep the sun's heat from the wine; these i let pass in jingling line, and, close on them, dear noisy crew, the peasants from the village, too; for at the very rear would troop their wives and sisters in a group to help, i knew. when these had passed, i threw my glove to strike the last, taking the chance: she did not start, much less cry out, but stooped apart, one instant rapidly glanced round, and saw me beckon from the ground. a wild bush grows and hides my crypt; she picked my glove up while she stripped a branch off, then rejoined the rest with that; my glove lay in her breast. then i drew breath; they disappeared: it was for italy i feared. an hour, and she returned alone exactly where my glove was thrown. meanwhile came many thoughts: on me rested the hopes of italy. i had devised a certain tale which, when 'twas told her, could not fail persuade a peasant of its truth; i meant to call a freak of youth this hiding, and give hopes of pay, and no temptation to betray. but when i saw that woman's face, its calm simplicity of grace, our italy's own attitude in which she walked thus far, and stood, planting each naked foot so firm, to crush the snake and spare the worm-- at first sight of her eyes, i said, "i am that man upon whose head they fix the price, because i hate the austrians over us: the state will give you gold--oh, gold so much! if you betray me to their clutch, and be your death, for aught i know, if once they find you saved their foe. now, you must bring me food and drink, and also paper, pen and ink, and carry safe what i shall write to padua, which you'll reach at night before the duomo shuts; go in, and wait till tenebrae begin; walk to the third confessional, between the pillar and the wall, and kneeling whisper, whence comes peace? say it a second time, then cease; and if the voice inside returns, from christ and freedom; what concerns the cause of peace?--for answer, slip my letter where you placed your lip; then come back happy we have done our mother service--i, the son, as you the daughter of our land!" three mornings more, she took her stand in the same place, with the same eyes: i was no surer of sun-rise than of her coming. we conferred of her own prospects, and i heard she had a lover--stout and tall, she said--then let her eyelids fall, "he could do much"--as if some doubt entered her heart,--then, passing out "she could not speak for others, who had other thoughts; herself she knew," and so she brought me drink and food. after four days, the scouts pursued another path; at last arrived the help my paduan friends contrived to furnish me: she brought the news. for the first time i could not choose but kiss her hand, and lay my own upon her head--"this faith was shown to italy, our mother; she uses my hand and blesses thee." she followed down to the sea-shore; i left and never saw her more. how very long since i have thought concerning--much less wished for--aught beside the good of italy, for which i live and mean to die! i never was in love; and since charles proved false, what shall now convince my inmost heart i have a friend? however, if i pleased to spend real wishes on myself--say, three-- i know at least what one should be. i would grasp metternich until i felt his red wet throat distil in blood thro' these two hands. and next, --nor much for that am i perplexed-- charles, perjured traitor, for his part, should die slow of a broken heart under his new employers. last --ah, there, what should i wish? for fast do i grow old and out of strength. if i resolved to seek at length my father's house again, how scared they all would look, and unprepared! my brothers live in austria's pay --disowned me long ago, men say; and all my early mates who used to praise me so-perhaps induced more than one early step of mine-- are turning wise: while some opine "freedom grows license," some suspect "haste breeds delay," and recollect they always said, such premature beginnings never could endure! so, with a sullen "all's for best," the land seems settling to its rest. i think then, i should wish to stand this evening in that dear, lost land, over the sea the thousand miles, and know if yet that woman smiles with the calm smile; some little farm she lives in there, no doubt: what harm if i sat on the door-side bench, and, while her spindle made a trench fantastically in the dust, inquired of all her fortunes--just her children's ages and their names, and what may be the husband's aims for each of them. i'd talk this out, and sit there, for an hour about, then kiss her hand once more, and lay mine on her head, and go my way. so much for idle wishing--how it steals the time! to business now. notes: "the italian in england." an italian patriot who has taken part in an unsuccessful revolt against austrian dominance, reflects upon the incidents of his escape and flight from italy to the end that if he ever should have a thought beyond the welfare of italy, he would wish first for the discomfiture of his enemies and then to go and see once more the noble woman who at the risk of her own life helped him to escape. though there is no exact historical incident upon which this poem is founded, it has a historical background. the charles referred to (lines , , , , ) is charles albert, prince of carignano, of the younger branch of the house of savoy. his having played with the patriot in his youth, as the poem says, is quite possible, for charles was brought up as a simple citizen in a public school, and one of his chief friends was alberta nota, a writer of liberal principles, whom he made his secretary. as indicated in the poem, charles at first declared himself in sympathy, though in a somewhat lukewarm manner, with the rising led by santa rosa against austrian domination in , and upon the abdication of victor emanuel he became regent of turin. but when the king charles felix issued a denunciation against the new government, charles albert succumbed to the king's threats and left his friends in the lurch. later the austrians marched into the country, santa rosa was forced to retreat from turin, and, with his friends, he who might well have been the very patriot of the poem was obliged to fly from italy. . metternich: the distinguished austrian diplomatist and determined enemy of italian independence. . tenebrae: 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.'' (dr. berdoe) the englishman in italy piano di sorrento fortù, fortù, my beloved one, sit here by my side, on my knees put up both little feet! i was sure, if i tried, i could make you laugh spite of scirocco. now, open your eyes, let me keep you amused till he vanish in black from the skies, with telling my memories over as you tell your beads; all the plain saw me gather, i garland --the flowers or the weeds. time for rain! for your long hot dry autumn had net-worked with brown the white skin of each grape on the bunches, marked like a quail's crown, those creatures you make such account of, whose heads--speckled white over brown like a great spider's back, as i told you last night-- your mother bites off for her supper. red-ripe as could be, pomegranates were chapping and splitting in halves on the tree: and betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone, or in the thick dust on the path, or straight out of the rockside, wherever could thrust some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower its yellow face up, for the prize were great butterflies fighting, some five for one cup. so, i guessed, ere i got up this morning, what change was in store, by the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets which woke me before i could open my shutter, made fast with a bough and a stone, and look thro' the twisted dead vine-twigs, sole lattice that's known. quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, while, busy beneath, your priest and his brother tugged at them, the rain in their teeth. and out upon all the flat house-roofs where split figs lay drying, the girls took the frails under cover: nor use seemed in trying to get out the boats and go fishing, for, under the cliff, fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock. no seeing our skiff arrive about noon from amalfi, --our fisher arrive, and pitch down his basket before us, all trembling alive with pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit; you touch the strange lumps, and mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner of horns and of humps, which only the fisher looks grave at, while round him like imps cling screaming the children as naked and brown as his shrimps; himself too as bare to the middle --you see round his neck the string and its brass coin suspended, that saves him from wreck. but to-day not a boat reached salerno, so back, to a man, came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards grape-harvest began. in the vat, halfway up in our houseside, like blood the juice spins, while your brother all bare-legged is dancing till breathless he grins dead-beaten in effort on effort to keep the grapes under, since still when he seems all but master, in pours the fresh plunder from girls who keep coming and going with basket on shoulder, and eyes shut against the rain's driving; your girls that are older,-- for under the hedges of aloe, and where, on its bed of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple lies pulpy and red, all the young ones are kneeling and filling their laps with the snails tempted out by this first rainy weather,-- your best of regales, as to-night will be proved to my sorrow, when, supping in state, we shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, three over one plate) with lasagne so tempting to swallow, in slippery ropes, and gourds fried in great purple slices, that colour of popes. meantime, see the grape bunch they've brought you: the rain-water slips o'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe which the wasp to your lips still follows with fretful persistence: nay, taste, while awake, this half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball that peels, flake by flake, like an onion, each smoother and whiter; next, sip this weak wine from the thin green glass flask, with its stopper, a leaf of the vine; and end with the prickly-pear's red flesh that leaves thro' its juice the stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth. scirocco is loose! hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives which, thick in one's track, tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them, tho' not yet half black! how the old twisted olive trunks shudder, the medlars let fall their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees snap off, figs and all, for here comes the whole of the tempest! no refuge, but creep back again to my side and my shoulder, and listen or sleep. o how will your country show next week, when all the vine-boughs have been stripped of their foliage to pasture the mules and the cows? last eve, i rode over the mountains, your brother, my guide, soon left me, to feast on the myrtles that offered, each side, their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,-- or strip from the sorbs a treasure, or, rosy and wondrous, those hairy gold orbs! but my mule picked his sure sober path out, just stopping to neigh when he recognized down in the valley his mates on their way with the faggots and barrels of water; and soon we emerged from the plain, where the woods could scarce follow; and still as we urged our way, the woods wondered, and left us, as up still we trudged though the wild path grew wilder each instant, and place was e'en grudged 'mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones like the loose broken teeth of some monster which climbed there to die from the ocean beneath-- place was grudged to the silver-grey fume-weed that clung to the path, and dark rosemary ever a-dying that, 'spite the wind's wrath, so loves the salt rock's face to seaward, and lentisks as staunch to the stone where they root and bear berries, and... what shows a branch coral-coloured, transparent, with circlets of pale seagreen leaves; over all trod my mule with the caution of gleaners o'er sheaves, still, foot after foot like a lad till, round after round, he climbed to the top of calvano, and god's own profound was above me, and round me the mountains, and under, the sea, and within me my heart to bear witness what was and shall be. oh, heaven and the terrible crystal! no rampart excludes your eye from the life to be lived in the blue solitudes. oh, those mountains, their infinite movement! still moving with you; for, ever some new head and breast of them thrusts into view to observe the intruder; you see it if quickly you turn and, before they escape you surprise them. they grudge you should learn how the soft plains they look on, lean over and love (they pretend) --cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches, the wild fruit-trees bend, e'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut: all is silent and grave: 'tis a sensual and timorous beauty, how fair! but a slave. so, i turned to the sea; and there slumbered as greenly as ever those isles of the siren, your galli; no ages can sever the three, nor enable their sister to join them,--halfway on the voyage, she looked at ulysses-- no farther to-day, tho' the small one, just launched in the wave, watches breast-high and steady from under the rock, her bold sister swum halfway already. fortù, shall we sail there together and see from the sides quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts where the siren abides? shall we sail round and round them, close over the rocks, tho' unseen, that ruffle the grey glassy water to glorious green? then scramble from splinter to splinter, reach land and explore, on the largest, the strange square black turret with never a door, just a loop to admit the quick lizards; then, stand there and hear the birds' quiet singing, that tells us what life is, so clear? --the secret they sang to ulysses when, ages ago, he heard and he knew this life's secret i hear and i know. ah, see! the sun breaks o'er calvano; he strikes the great gloom and flutters it o'er the mount's summit in airy gold fume. all is over. look out, see the gipsy, our tinker and smith, has arrived, set up bellows and forge, and down-squatted forthwith to his hammering, under the wall there; one eye keeps aloof the urchins that itch to be putting his jews'-harps to proof, while the other, thro' locks of curled wire, is watching how sleek shines the hog, come to share in the windfall --chew, abbot's own cheek! all is over. wake up and come out now, and down let us go, and see the fine things got in order at church for the show of the sacrament, set forth this evening. to-morrow's the feast of the rosary's virgin, by no means of virgins the least, as you'll hear in the off-hand discourse which (all nature, no art) the dominican brother, these three weeks, was getting by heart. not a pillar nor post but is dizened with red and blue papers; all the roof waves with ribbons, each altar a-blaze with long tapers; but the great masterpiece is the scaffold rigged glorious to hold all the fiddlers and fifers and drummers and trumpeters bold, not afraid of bellini nor auber, who, when the priest's hoarse, will strike us up something that's brisk for the feast's second course. and then will the flaxen-wigged image be carried in pomp thro' the plain, while in gallant procession the priests mean to stomp. all round the glad church lie old bottles with gunpowder stopped, which will be, when the image re-enters, religiously popped; and at night from the crest of calvano great bonfires will hang, on the plain will the trumpets join chorus, and more poppers bang. at all events, come-to the garden as far as the wall; see me tap with a hoe on the plaster till out there shall fall a scorpion with wide angry nippers! --"such trifles!" you say? fortù, in my england at home, men meet gravely to-day and debate, if abolishing corn-laws be righteous and wise --if 'twere proper, scirocco should vanish in black from the skies! notes: "the italian in england." an italian patriot who has taken part in an unsuccessful revolt against austrian dominance, reflects upon the incidents of his escape and flight from italy to the end that if he ever should have a thought beyond the welfare of italy, he would wish first for the discomfiture of his enemies and then to go and see once more the noble woman who at the risk of her own life helped him to escape. though there is no exact historical incident upon which this poem is founded, it has a historical background. the charles referred to (lines , , , , ) is charles albert, prince of carignano, of the younger branch of the house of savoy. his having played with the patriot in his youth, as the poem says, is quite possible, for charles was brought up as a simple citizen in a public school, and one of his chief friends was alberta nota, a writer of liberal principles, whom he made his secretary. as indicated in the poem, charles at first declared himself in sympathy, though in a somewhat lukewarm manner, with the rising led by santa rosa against austrian domination in , and upon the abdication of victor emanuel he became regent of turin. but when the king charles felix issued a denunciation against the new government, charles albert succumbed to the king's threats and left his friends in the lurch. later the austrians marched into the country, santa rosa was forced to retreat from turin, and, with his friends, he who might well have been the very patriot of the poem was obliged to fly from italy. . metternich: the distinguished austrian diplomatist and determined enemy of italian independence. . tenebrae: 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.'' (dr. berdoe) in a gondola he sings. i send my heart up to thee, all my heart in this my singing. for the stars help me, and the sea bears part; the very night is clinging closer to venice' streets to leave one space above me, whence thy face may light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place. she speaks. say after me, and try to say my very words, as if each word came from you of your own accord, in your own voice, in your own way: "this woman's heart and soul and brain are mine as much as this gold chain she bids me wear, which (say again) i choose to make by cherishing a precious thing, or choose to fling over the boat-side, ring by ring." and yet once more say... no word more! since words are only words. give o'er! unless you call me, all the same, familiarly by my pet name, which if the three should hear you call, and me reply to, would proclaim at once our secret to them all. ask of me, too, command me, blame-- do, break down the partition-wall 'twixt us, the daylight world beholds curtained in dusk and splendid folds! what's left but--all of me to take? i am the three's: prevent them, slake your thirst! 'tis said, the arab sage, in practising with gems, can loose their subtle spirit in his cruce and leave but ashes: so, sweet mage, leave them my ashes when thy use sucks out my soul, thy heritage! he sings. i past we glide, and past, and past! what's that poor agnese doing where they make the shutters fast? grey zanobi's just a-wooing to his couch the purchased bride: past we glide! ii past we glide, and past, and past! why's the pucci palace flaring like a beacon to the blast? guests by hundreds, not one caring if the dear host's neck were wried: past we glide! she sings. i the moth's kiss, first! kiss me as if you made believe you were not sure, this eve, how my face, your flower, had pursed its petals up; so, here and there you brush it, till i grow aware who wants me, and wide ope i burst.. ii the bee's kiss, now! kiss me as if you entered gay my heart at some noonday, a bud that dares not disallow the claim, so all is rendered up, and passively its shattered cup over your head to sleep i bow. he sings. i what are we two? i am a jew, and carry thee, farther than friends can pursue, to a feast of our tribe; where they need thee to bribe the devil that blasts them unless he imbibe. thy... scatter the vision for ever! and now as of old, i am i, thou art thou! ii say again, what we are? the sprite of a star, i lure thee above where the destinies bar my plumes their full play till a ruddier ray than my pale one announce there is withering away some... scatter the vision forever! and now, as of old, i am i, thou art thou! he muses. oh, which were best, to roam or rest? the land's lap or the water's breast? to sleep on yellow millet-sheaves, or swim in lucid shallows just eluding water-lily leaves, an inch from death's black fingers, thrust to lock you, whom release he must; which life were best on summer eves? he speaks, musing. lie back; could thought of mine improve you? from this shoulder let there spring a wing; from this, another wing; wings, not legs and feet, shall move you! snow-white must they spring, to blend with your flesh, but i intend they shall deepen to the end, broader, into burning gold, till both wings crescent-wise enfold your perfect self, from 'neath your feet to o'er your head, where, lo, they meet as if a million sword-blades hurled defiance from you to the world! rescue me thou, the only real! and scare away this mad ideal that came, nor motions to depart! thanks! now, stay ever as thou art! still he muses. i what if the three should catch at last thy serenader? while there's cast paul's cloak about my head, and fast gian pinions me, himself has past his stylet thro' my back; i reel; and... is it thou i feel? ii they trail me, these three godless knaves, past every church that saints and saves, nor stop till, where the cold sea raves by lido's wet accursed graves, they scoop mine, roll me to its brink, and... on thy breast i sink! she replies, musing. dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep, as i do: thus: were death so unlike sleep, caught this way? death's to fear from flame or steel, or poison doubtless; but from water--feel! go find the bottom! would you stay me? there! now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass to plait in where the foolish jewel was, i flung away: since you have praised my hair, 'tis proper to be choice in what i wear. he speaks. row home? must we row home? too surely know i where its front's demurely over the giudecca piled; window just with window mating, door on door exactly waiting, all's the set face of a child: but behind it, where's a trace of the staidness and reserve, and formal lines without a curve, in the same child's playing-face? no two windows look one way o'er the small sea-water thread below them. ah, the autumn day i, passing, saw you overhead! first, out a cloud of curtain blew, then a sweet cry, and last came you-- to catch your lory that must needs escape just then, of all times then, to peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds, and make me happiest of men. i scarce could breathe to see you reach so far back o'er the balcony to catch him ere he climbed too high above you in the smyrna peach that quick the round smooth cord of gold, this coiled hair on your head, unrolled, fell down you like a gorgeous snake the roman girls were wont, of old, when rome there was, for coolness' sake to let lie curling o'er their bosoms. dear lory, may his beak retain ever its delicate rose stain as if the wounded lotus-blossoms had marked their thief to know again! stay longer yet, for others' sake than mine! what should your chamber do? --with all its rarities that ache in silence while day lasts, but wake at night-time and their life renew, suspended just to pleasure you who brought against their will together these objects, and, while day lasts, weave around them such a magic tether that dumb they look: your harp, believe, with all the sensitive tight strings which dare not speak, now to itself breathes slumberously, as if some elf went in and out the chords, his wings make murmur wheresoe'er they graze, as an angel may, between the maze of midnight palace-pillars, on and on, to sow god's plagues, have gone through guilty glorious babylon. and while such murmurs flow, the nymph bends o'er the harp-top from her shell as the dry limpet for the nymph come with a tune he knows so well. and how your statues' hearts must swell! and how your pictures must descend to see each other, friend with friend! oh, could you take them by surprise, you'd find schidone's eager duke doing the quaintest courtesies to that prim saint by haste-thee-luke! and, deeper into her rock den, bold castelfranco's magdalen you'd find retreated from the ken of that robed counsel-keeping ser-- as if the tizian thinks of her, and is not, rather, gravely bent on seeing for himself what toys are these, his progeny invent, what litter now the board employs whereon he signed a document that got him murdered! each enjoys its night so well, you cannot break the sport up, so, indeed must make more stay with me, for others' sake. she speaks. i to-morrow, if a harp-string, say, is used to tie the jasmine back that overfloods my room with sweets, contrive your zorzi somehow meets my zanze! if the ribbon's black, the three are watching: keep away! ii your gondola--let zorzi wreathe a mesh of water weeds about its prow, as if he unaware had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair! that i may throw a paper out as you and he go underneath. there's zanze's vigilant taper; safe are we. only one minute more to-night with me? resume your past self of a month ago! be you the bashful gallant, i will be the lady with the colder breast than snow. now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand more than i touch yours when i step to land, and say, "all thanks, siora!"-- heart to heart and lips to lips! yet once more, ere we part, clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art! [he is surprised, and stabbed. it was ordained to be so, sweet!--and best comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast. still kiss me! care not for the cowards! care only to put aside thy beauteous hair my blood will hurt! the three, i do not scorn to death, because they never lived: but i have lived indeed, and so--(yet one more kiss)--can die! notes: "in a gondola" is a lyric dialogue between two venetian lovers who have stolen away in a gondola spite of "the three"--"himself'," perhaps a husband, and "paul" and "gian," her brothers--whose vengeance discovers them at the end, but not before their love and danger have moved them to weave a series of lyrical fancies, and led them to a climax of emotion which makes life so deep a joy that death is of no account. "the first stanza was written,'' writes browning, "to illustrate maclise's picture, for which he was anxious to get some line or two. i had not seen it, but from forster's description, gave it to him in his room impromptu.... when i did see it i thought the serenade too jolly, somewhat, for the notion i got from forster, and i took up the subject in my own way.'' . lido's... graves: jewish tombs were there. . giudecca: a canal of venice. . lory: a kind of parrot. . schidone's eager duke: an imaginary painting by bartolommeo schidone of modena ( - ). . haste-thee-luke: the english form of the nickname, luca-fà-presto, given luca giordano ( - ), a neapolitan painter, on account of his constantly being goaded on in his work by his penurious and avaricious father. . castelfranco: the venetian painter, giorgione, called castelfranco, because born there, , died . . tizian: ( - ). the pictures are all imaginary, but suggestive of the style of each of these artists. waring [mr. alfred domett, c.m.g., author of "ranolf and amohia," full of descriptions of new zealand scenery.] i what's become of waring since he gave us all the slip, chose land-travel or seafaring, boots and chest or staff and scrip, rather than pace up and down any longer london town? ii who'd have guessed it from his lip or his brow's accustomed bearing, on the night he thus took ship or started landward?--little caring for us, it seems, who supped together (friends of his too, i remember) and walked home thro' the merry weather, the snowiest in all december. i left his arm that night myself for what's-his-name's, the new prose-poet who wrote the book there, on the shelf-- how, forsooth, was i to know it if waring meant to glide away like a ghost at break of day? never looked he half so gay! iii he was prouder than the devil: how he must have cursed our revel! ay and many other meetings, indoor visits, outdoor greetings, as up and down he paced this london, with no work done, but great works undone, where scarce twenty knew his name. why not, then, have earlier spoken, written, bustled? who's to blame if your silence kept unbroken? "true, but there were sundry jottings, stray-leaves, fragments, blurs and blottings, certain first steps were achieved already which (is that your meaning?) had well borne out whoe'er believed in more to come!" but who goes gleaning hedgeside chance-glades, while full-sheaved stand cornfields by him? pride, o'erweening pride alone, puts forth such claims o'er the day's distinguished names. iv meantime, how much i loved him, i find out now i've lost him. i who cared not if i moved him, who could so carelessly accost him, henceforth never shall get free of his ghostly company, his eyes that just a little wink as deep i go into the merit of this and that distinguished spirit-- his cheeks' raised colour, soon to sink, as long i dwell on some stupendous and tremendous (heaven defend us!) monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous demoniaco-seraphic penman's latest piece of graphic. nay, my very wrist grows warm with his dragging weight of arm. e'en so, swimmingly appears, through one's after-supper musings, some lost lady of old years with her beauteous vain endeavour and goodness unrepaid as ever; the face, accustomed to refusings, we, puppies that we were... oh never surely, nice of conscience, scrupled being aught like false, forsooth, to? telling aught but honest truth to? what a sin, had we centupled its possessor's grace and sweetness! no! she heard in its completeness truth, for truth's a weighty matter, and truth, at issue, we can't flatter! well, 'tis done with; she's exempt from damning us thro' such a sally; and so she glides, as down a valley, taking up with her contempt, past our reach; and in, the flowers shut her unregarded hours. v oh, could i have him back once more, this waring, but one half-day more! back, with the quiet face of yore, so hungry for acknowledgment like mine! i'd fool him to his bent. feed, should not he, to heart's content? i'd say, "to only have conceived, planned your great works, apart from progress, surpasses little works achieved!" i'd lie so, i should be believed. i'd make such havoc of the claims of the day's distinguished names to feast him with, as feasts an ogress her feverish sharp-toothed gold-crowned child! or as one feasts a creature rarely captured here, unreconciled to capture; and completely gives its pettish humours license, barely requiring that it lives. vi ichabod, ichabod, the glory is departed! travels waring east away? who, of knowledge, by hearsay, reports a man upstarted somewhere as a god, hordes grown european-hearted, millions of the wild made tame on a sudden at his fame? in vishnu-land what avatar? or who in moscow, toward the czar, with the demurest of footfalls over the kremlin's pavement bright with serpentine and syenite, steps, with five other generals that simultaneously take snuff, for each to have pretext enough and kerchiefwise unfold his sash which, softness' self, is yet the stuff to hold fast where a steel chain snaps, and leave the grand white neck no gash? waring in moscow, to those rough cold northern natures born perhaps, like the lamb-white maiden dear from the circle of mute kings unable to repress the tear, each as his sceptre down he flings, to dian's fane at taurica, where now a captive priestess, she alway mingles her tender grave hellenic speech with theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach as pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands rapt by the whirlblast to fierce scythian strands where breed the swallows, her melodious cry amid their barbarous twitter! in russia? never! spain were fitter! ay, most likely 'tis in spain that we and waring meet again now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane into the blackness, out of grave madrid all fire and shine, abrupt as when there's slid its stiff gold blazing pall from some black coffin-lid. or, best of all, i love to think the leaving us was just a feint; back here to london did he slink, and now works on without a wink of sleep, and we are on the brink of something great in fresco-paint: some garret's ceiling, walls and floor, up and down and o'er and o'er he splashes, as none splashed before since great caldara polidore. or music means this land of ours some favour yet, to pity won by purcell from his rosy bowers-- "give me my so-long promised son, let waring end what i begun!" then down he creeps and out he steals only when the night conceals his face; in kent 'tis cherry-time, or hops are picking: or at prime of march he wanders as, too happy, years ago when he was young, some mild eve when woods grew sappy and the early moths had sprung to life from many a trembling sheath woven the warm boughs beneath; while small birds said to themselves what should soon be actual song, and young gnats, by tens and twelves, made as if they were the throng that crowd around and carry aloft the sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure, out of a myriad noises soft, into a tone that can endure amid the noise of a july noon when all god's creatures crave their boon, all at once and all in tune, and get it, happy as waring then, having first within his ken what a man might do with men: and far too glad, in the even-glow, to mix with the world he meant to take into his hand, he told you, so-- and out of it his world to make, to contract and to expand as he shut or oped his hand. oh waring, what's to really be? a clear stage and a crowd to see! some garrick, say, out shall not he the heart of hamlet's mystery pluck? or, where most unclean beasts are rife, some junius--am i right?--shall tuck his sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife! some chatterton shall have the luck of calling rowley into life! some one shall somehow run a muck with this old world for want of strife sound asleep. contrive, contrive to rouse us, waring! who's alive? our men scarce seem in earnest now. distinguished names!--but 'tis, somehow, as if they played at being names still more distinguished, like the games of children. turn our sport to earnest with a visage of the sternest! bring the real times back, confessed still better than our very best! ii i "when i last saw waring..." (how all turned to him who spoke! you saw waring? truth or joke? in land-travel or sea-faring?) ii "we were sailing by triest where a day or two we harboured: a sunset was in the west, when, looking over the vessel's side, one of our company espied a sudden speck to larboard. and as a sea-duck flies and swims at once, so came the light craft up, with its sole lateen sail that trims and turns (the water round its rims dancing, as round a sinking cup) and by us like a fish it curled, and drew itself up close beside, its great sail on the instant furled, and o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried, (a neck as bronzed as a lascar's) 'buy wine of us, you english brig? or fruit, tobacco and cigars? a pilot for you to triest? without one, look you ne'er so big, they'll never let you up the bay! we natives should know best.' i turned, and 'just those fellows' way,' our captain said, 'the 'long-shore thieves are laughing at us in their sleeves.' iii "in truth, the boy leaned laughing back; and one, half-hidden by his side under the furled sail, soon i spied, with great grass hat and kerchief black, who looked up with his kingly throat, said somewhat, while the other shook his hair back from his eyes to look their longest at us; then the boat, i know not how, turned sharply round, laying her whole side on the sea as a leaping fish does; from the lee into the weather, cut somehow her sparkling path beneath our bow and so went off, as with a bound, into the rosy and golden half o' the sky, to overtake the sun and reach the shore, like the sea-calf its singing cave; yet i caught one glance ere away the boat quite passed, and neither time nor toil could mar those features: so i saw the last of waring!"--you? oh, never star was lost here but it rose afar! look east, where whole new thousands are! in vishnu-land what avatar? notes: "waring." in recounting the sudden disappearance from among his friends of a man proud and sensitive, who with fine powers of intellect yet incurred somewhat of disdain because of his failure to accomplish anything permanent, expression is given to the deep regret experienced by his friends now that he has left them, his absence having brought them to a truer realization of his worth. if only waring would come back, the speaker, at least, would give him the sympathy and encouragement he craved instead of playing with his sensibilities as he had done. conjectures are indulged in as to waring's whereabouts. the speaker prefers to think of him as back in london preparing to astonish the world with some great masterpiece in art, music, or literature. another speaker surprises all by telling how he had seen the "last of waring" in a momentary meeting at trieste, but the first speaker is certain that the star of waring is destined to rise again above their horizon. . waring: alfred domett (born at camberwell grove, surrey, may , ), a friend of browning's, distinguished as a poet and as a colonial statesman and ruler. his first volume of poems was published in . some verses of his in blackwood's, , attracted much attention to him as a rising young poet. in he was called to the bar, and in went out to new zealand among the earliest settlers. there he lived for thirty years, filling several important official positions. his unceremonious departure for new zealand with no leave-takings was the occasion of browning's poem, which is said by mrs. orr to give a lifelike sketch of domett's character. his "star" did, however, rise again for his english friends, for he returned to london in . the year following saw the publication of his "ranolf and amohia," a new zealand poem, in the course of which he characterizes browning as "subtlest asserter of the soul in song." he met browning again in london, and was one of the vice-presidents of the london browning society. died nov. , . . i left his arm that night myself: george w. cooke points out that in his living authors of england thomas powell describes this incident, the "young author" mentioned being himself: "we have a vivid recollection of the last time we saw him. it was at an evening party, a few days before he sailed from england; his intimate friend, mr. browning, was also present. it happened that the latter was introduced that evening for the first time to a young author who had just then appeared in the literary world. this, consequently, prevented the two friends from conversation, and they parted from each other without the slightest idea on mr. browning's part that he was seeing his old friend domett for the last time. some days after, when he found that domett had sailed, he expressed in strong terms to the writer of this sketch the self-reproach he felt at having preferred the conversation of a stranger to that of his old associate." . monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous: a slight transposition of part of a line in virgil describing polyphemus, "monstrum horrendum informe ingens," a monster horrid, misshapen, huge. . demoniaco-seraphic: these two lines form a compound of adjectives humorously used by browning to express the inferiority of the writers he praised to waring. . ichabod: "ichabod, the glory is departed." i samuel iv. . . syenite: egyptian granite . lamb-white maiden: iphigenia, who was borne away to taurus by diana, when her father, agamemnon, was about to sacrifice her to obtain favorable winds for his expedition to troy. . caldara polidore: surnamed da caravaggio. he was born in milan in , went to rome and was employed by raphael to paint the friezes in the vatican. he was murdered by a servant in messina, . . purcell: an eminent english musician, composer of church music, operas, songs, and instrumental music. ( - ).--rosy bowers: one of purcell's most celebrated songs. "'from rosie bowers' is said to have been set in his last sickness, at which time he seems to have realized the poetical fable of the swan and to have sung more sweetly as he approached nearer his dissolution, for it seems to us as if no one of his productions was so elevated, so pleasing, so expressive, and throughout so perfect as this" (rees's cyclopaedia, ). . garrick: david, an english actor, celebrated especially for his shakespearian parts ( - ). . junius: the assumed name of a political writer who in began to issue in london a series of famous letters which opposed the ministry in power, and denounced several eminent persons with severe invective and pungent sarcasm. . some chatterton shall have the luck of calling rowley into life: the chief claim to celebrity of thomas chatterton ( - ) is the real or pretended discovery of poems said to have been written in the fifteenth century by thomas rowley, a priest of bristol, and found in radcliffe church, of which chatterton's ancestors had been sextons for many years. they are now generally considered chatterton's own. the twins "give" and "it-shall-be-given-unto-you" i grand rough old martin luther bloomed fables-flowers on furze, the better the uncouther: do roses stick like burrs? ii a beggar asked an alms one day at an abbey-door, said luther; but, seized with qualms, the abbot replied, "we're poor!" iii "poor, who had plenty once, when gifts fell thick as rain: but they give us nought, for the nonce, and now should we give again?" iv then the beggar, "see your sins! of old, unless i err, ye had brothers for inmates, twins, date and dabitur. v "while date was in good case dabitur flourished too: for dabitur's lenten face no wonder if date rue. vi "would ye retrieve the one? try and make plump the other! when date's penance is done, dabitur helps his brother. vii "only, beware relapse!" the abbot hung his head. this beggar might be perhaps an angel, luther said. notes: "the twins" versifies a story told by martin luther in his "table talk," in which the saying, "give and it shall be given unto you," is quaintly personified by the latin words equivalent in meaning: date, "give," and dabitur, "it-shall-be-given-unto-you." i. martin luther: ( - ), the leader of the reformation. a light woman i so far as our story approaches the end, which do you pity the most of us three? my friend, or the mistress of my friend with her wanton eyes, or me? ii my friend was already too good to lose, and seemed in the way of improvement yet, when she crossed his path with her hunting noose and over him drew her net. iii when i saw him tangled in her toils, a shame, said i, if she adds just him to her nine-and-ninety other spoils, the hundredth for a whim! iv and before my friend be wholly hers, how easy to prove to him, i said, an eagle's the game her pride prefers, though she snaps at a wren instead! v so, i gave her eyes my own eyes to take, my hand sought hers as in earnest need, and round she turned for my noble sake, and gave me herself indeed. vi the eagle am i, with my fame in the world, the wren is he, with his maiden face. you look away and your lip is curled? patience, a moment's space! vii for see, my friend goes shaking and white; he eyes me as the basilisk: i have turned, it appears, his day to night, eclipsing his sun's disk. viii and i did it, he thinks, as a very thief: "though i love her--that, he comprehends-- one should master one's passions (love, in chief) and be loyal to one's friends!" ix and she,--she lies in my hand as tame as a pear late basking over a wall; just a touch to try and off it came; 'tis mine,--can i let it fall? x with no mind to eat it, that's the worst! were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst when i gave its stalk a twist. xi and i,--what i seem to my friend, you see: what i soon shall seem to his love, you guess: what i seem to myself, do you ask of me? no hero, i confess. xii 'tis an awkward thing to play with souls, and matter enough to save one's own: yet think of my friend, and the burning coals he played with for bits of stone! xiii one likes to show the truth for the truth; that the woman was light is very true: but suppose she says,--never mind that youth! what wrong have i done to you? xiv well, any how, here the story stays, so far at least as i understand; and, robert browning, you writer of plays, here's a subject made to your hand! notes: "a light woman" is the story of a dramatic situation brought about by the speaker's intermeddling to save his less sophisticated friend from a light woman's toils. he deflects her interest and wins her heart, and this is the ironical outcome: his friendly, dispassionate act makes him seem to his friend a disloyal passion's slave; his scorn of the light woman teaches him her genuineness, and proves himself lighter than she; his futile assumption of the god manoeuvring souls makes the whole story dramatically imply, in a way dear to browning's heart, the sacredness and worth of each individuality. [i cannot agree with porter and clarke's estimate of the speaker's act as "friendly, dispassionate." they fail to take into account his supercilious attitude toward the man he calls his friend, and he proves to be more self-serving-- and more self-deceiving--than they are willing to admit. that is why it is a subject made to browning's hand.-- [transcriber of the pg text] the last ride together i i said--then, dearest, since 'tis so, since now at length my fate i know, since nothing all my love avails, since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, since this was written and needs must be-- my whole heart rises up to bless your name in pride and thankfulness! take back the hope you gave--i claim only a memory of the same, --and this beside, if you will not blame, your leave for one more last ride with me. ii my mistress bent that brow of hers; those deep dark eyes where pride demurs when pity would be softening through, fixed me a breathing-while or two with life or death in the balance: right! the blood replenished me again; my last thought was at least not vain: i and my mistress, side by side shall be together, breathe and ride, so, one day more am i deified. who knows but the world may end tonight? iii hush! if you saw some western cloud all billowy-bosomed, over-bowed by many benedictions--sun's and moon's and evening-star's at once-- and so, you, looking and loving best, conscious grew, your passion drew cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, down on you, near and yet more near, till flesh must fade for heaven was here!-- thus leant she and lingered--joy and fear! thus lay she a moment on my breast. iv then we began to ride. my soul smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll freshening and fluttering in the wind. past hopes already lay behind. what need to strive with a life awry? had i said that, had i done this, so might i gain, so might i miss. might she have loved me? just as well she might have hated, who can tell! where had i been now if the worst befell? and here we are riding, she and i. v fail i alone, in words and deeds? why, all men strive and who succeeds? we rode; it seemed my spirit flew, saw other regions, cities new as the world rushed by on either side. i thought,--all labour, yet no less bear up beneath their unsuccess look at the end of work, contrast the petty done, the undone vast, this present of theirs with the hopeful past! i hoped she would love me; here we ride. vi what hand and brain went ever paired? what heart alike conceived and dared? what act proved all its thought had been? what will but felt the fleshly screen? we ride and i see her bosom heave. there's many a crown for who can reach. ten lines, a statesman's life in each! the flag stuck on a heap of bones, a soldier's doing! what atones? they scratch his name on the abbey-stones. my riding is better, by their leave. vii what does it all mean, poet? well, your brains beat into rhythm, you tell what we felt only; you expressed you hold things beautiful the best, and pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, have you yourself what's best for men? are you--poor, sick, old ere your time-- nearer one whit your own sublime than we who never have turned a rhyme? sing, riding's a joy! for me, i ride. viii and you, great sculptor--so, you gave a score of years to art, her slave, and that's your venus, whence we turn to yonder girl that fords the burn! you acquiesce, and shall i repine? what, man of music, you grown grey with notes and nothing else to say, is this your sole praise from a friend, "greatly his opera's strains intend, put in music we know how fashions end!" i gave my youth; but we ride, in fine. ix who knows what's fit for us? had fate proposed bliss here should sublimate my being--had i signed the bond-- still one must lead some life beyond, have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. this foot once planted on the goal, this glory-garland round my soul, could i descry such? try and test! i sink back shuddering from the quest. earth being so good, would heaven seem best? now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. x and yet--she has not spoke so long! what if heaven be that, fair and strong at life's best, with our eyes upturned whither life's flower is first discerned, we, fixed so, ever should so abide? what if we still ride on, we two with life for ever old yet new, changed not in kind but in degree, the instant made eternity-- and heaven just prove that i and she ride, ride together, forever ride? notes: "the last ride together." the rapture of a rejected lover in the one more last ride which he asks for and obtains, discovers for him the all-sufficing glory of love in itself. soldiership, statesmanship, art are disproportionate in their results; love can be its own reward, yes, heaven itself. the pied piper of hamelin: a child's story. (written for, and inscribed to, w. m. the younger.) i hamelin town's in brunswick, by famous hanover city; the river weser, deep and wide, washes its wall on the southern side; a pleasanter spot you never spied; but, when begins my ditty, almost five hundred years ago, to see the townsfolk suffer so from vermin, was a pity. ii rats! they fought the dogs and killed the cats, and bit the babies in the cradles, and ate the cheeses out of the vats, and licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, split open the kegs of salted sprats, made nests inside men's sunday hats, and even spoiled the women's chats by drowning their speaking with shrieking and squeaking in fifty different sharps and flats. iii at last the people in a body to the town hall came flocking "'tis clear," cried they, "our mayor's a noddy, and as for our corporation--shocking to think we buy gowns lined with ermine for dolts that can't or won't determine what's best to rid us of our vermin! you hope, because you're old and obese, to find in the furry civic robe ease? rouse up, sirs! give your brains a racking to find the remedy we're lacking, or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" at this the mayor and corporation quaked with a mighty consternation. iv an hour they sat in council, at length the mayor broke silence: "for a guilder i'd my ermine gown sell, i wish i were a mile hence! it's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- i'm sure my poor head aches again, i've scratched it so, and all in vain. oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" just as he said this, what should hap at the chamber door but a gentle tap? "bless us," cried the mayor, "what's that?" (with the corporation as he sat, looking little though wondrous fat; nor brighter was his eye, nor moister than a too-long-opened oyster, save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous for a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "only a scraping of shoes on the mat? anything like the sound of a rat makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" v "come in!" the mayor cried, looking bigger: and in did come the strangest figure! his queer long coat from heel to head was half of yellow and half of red, and he himself was tall and thin, with sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, and light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, no tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, but lips where smiles went out and in; there was no guessing his kith and kin: and nobody could enough admire the tall man and his quaint attire. quoth one: "it's as my great-grandsire, starting up at the trump of doom's tone, had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" vi he advanced to the council-table and, "please your honours," said he, "i'm able, by means of a secret charm, to draw all creatures living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run, after me so as you never saw! and i chiefly use my charm on creatures that do people harm, the mole and toad and newt and viper; and people call me the pied piper." (and here they noticed round his neck a scarf of red and yellow stripe, to match with his coat of the self-same cheque and at the scarf's end hung a pipe; and his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying as if impatient to be playing upon this pipe, as low it dangled over his vesture so old-fangled.) "yet," said he, "poor piper as i am, in tartary i freed the cham, last june, from his huge swarms of gnats; i eased in asia the nizam of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats: and as for what your brain bewilders, if i can rid your town of rats will you give me a thousand guilders?" "one? fifty thousand!"-was the exclamation of the astonished mayor and corporation. vii into the street the piper stept, smiling first a little smile, as if he knew what magic slept in his quiet pipe the while; then, like a musical adept to blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, and green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; and ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, you heard as if an army muttered; and the muttering grew to a grumbling; and the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; and out of the houses the rats came tumbling. great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, grave old plodders, gay young friskers, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, cocking tails and pricking whiskers, families by tens and dozens, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- followed the piper for their lives. from street to street he piped advancing, and step for step they followed dancing, until they came to the river weser wherein all plunged and perished! --save one who, stout as julius caesar, swam across and lived to carry (as he, the manuscript he cherished) to rat-land home his commentary: which was, "at the first shrill notes of the pipe, i heard a sound as of scraping tripe, and putting apples, wondrous ripe, into a cider-press's gripe: and a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, and a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, and a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, and a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: and it seemed as if a voice (sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery is breathed) called out, 'oh rats, rejoice! the world is grown to one vast drysaltery! so munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' and just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, all ready staved, like a great sun shone glorious scarce an inch before me just as methought it said 'come, bore me!' --i found the weser roiling o'er me." viii you should have heard the hamelin people ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "go," cried the mayor, "and get long poles, poke out the nests and block up the holes! consult with carpenters and builders, and leave in our town not even a trace of the rats!"-when suddenly, up the face of the piper perked in the market-place, with a, "first, if you please, my thousand guilders!" ix a thousand guilders! the mayor looked blue; so did the corporation too. for council dinners made rare havoc with claret, moselle, vin-de-grave, hock; and half the money would replenish their cellar's biggest butt with rhenish. this sum to a wandering fellow with a gipsy coat of red and yellow! "beside," quoth the mayor with a knowing wink, our business was done at the river's brink; we saw with our eyes the vermin sink, and what's dead can't come to life, i think. so, friend, we're not the folks to shrink from the duty of giving you something for drink, and a matter of money to put in your poke; but as for the guilders, what we spoke of them, as you very well know, was in joke. beside, our losses have made us thrifty. a thousand guilders! come, take fifty!" x the piper's face fell, and he cried: "no trifling! i can't wait, beside! i've promised to visit by dinner time bagdat, and accept the prime of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in, for having left, in the caliph's kitchen, of a nest of scorpions no survivor: with him i proved no bargain-driver, with you, don't think i'll bate a stiver! and folks who put me in a passion may find me pipe after another fashion." xi "how? cried the mayor, "d'ye think i brook being worse treated than a cook? insulted by a lazy ribald with idle pipe and vesture piebald? you threaten us, fellow? do your worst, blow your pipe there till you burst!" xii once more he stept into the street and to his lips again laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; and ere he blew three notes (such sweet soft notes as yet musician's cunning never gave the enraptured air) there was a rustling that seemed like a bustling of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, and, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, out came the children running. all the little boys and girls, with rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, and sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, tripping and skipping, ran merrily after the wonderful music with shouting and laughter. xiii the mayor was dumb, and the council stood as if they were changed into blocks of wood, unable to move a step, or cry to the children merrily skipping by, --could only follow with the eye that joyous crowd at the piper's back. but how the mayor was on the rack, and the wretched council's bosoms beat, as the piper turned from the high street to where the weser rolled its waters right in the way of their sons and daughters! however he turned from south to west, and to koppelberg hill his steps addressed, and after him the children pressed; great was the joy in every breast. "he never can cross that mighty top! he's forced to let the piping drop, and we shall see our children stop!" when, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, a wondrous portal opened wide, as if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; and the piper advanced and the children followed, and when all were in to the very last, the door in the mountain-side shut fast. did i say, all? no! one was lame, and could not dance the whole of the way; and in after years, if you would blame his sadness, he was used to say,-- "it's dull in our town since my playmates left! i can't forget that i'm bereft of all the pleasant sights they see, which the piper also promised me. for he led us, he said, to a joyous land, joining the town and just at hand, where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew and flowers put forth a fairer hue, and everything was strange and new; the sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, and their dogs outran our fallow deer, and honeybees had lost their stings, and horses were born with eagles' wings: and just as i became assured my lame foot would be speedily cured, the music stopped and i stood still, and found myself outside the hill, left alone against my will, to go now limping as before, and never hear of that country more!" xiv alas, alas for hamelin! there came into many a burgher's pate a text which says that heaven's gate opes to the rich at as easy rate as the needle's eye takes a camel in! the mayor sent east, west, north and south to offer the piper, by word of mouth, wherever it was men's lot to find him silver and gold to his heart's content, if he'd only return the way he went, and bring the children behind him. but when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, and piper and dancers were gone for ever, they made a decree that lawyers never should think their records dated duly if, after the day of the month and year, these words did not as well appear, "and so long after what happened here on the twenty-second of july thirteen-hundred and seventy-six:" and the better in memory to fix the place of the children's last retreat, they called it, the pied piper's street-- where any one playing on pipe or tabor was sure for the future to lose his labour. nor suffered they hostelry or tavern to shock with mirth a street so solemn; but opposite the place of the cavern they wrote the story on a column, and on the great church-window painted the same, to make the world acquainted how their children were stolen away, and there it stands to this very day. and i must not omit to say that in transylvania there's a tribe of alien people who ascribe the outlandish ways and dress on which their neighbours lay such stress, to their fathers and mothers having risen out of some subterraneous prison into which they were trepanned long time ago in a mighty band out of hamelin town in brunswick land, but how or why, they don't understand. xv so, willy, let me and you be wipers of scores out with all men--especially pipers! and, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, if we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! notes: "the pied piper of hamelin." this clever versification of a well-known tale was written for the little son of the actor william macready. according to dr. furnivall, the version used directly by browning is from "the wonders of the little world: or a general history of man," by nathaniel wanley, published in . there are, however, more incidents in common between the poem and the version given by verstigan in his "restitution of decayed intelligence" ( ). there are many other sources for the story, and it is not improbable that browning knew more than one version. tales similar to it occur also in persia and china. for its kinship to myths of the wind as a musician, and as a psychopomp or leader of souls, see baring-gould, "curious myths of the middle ages"; john fiske, "myths and myth-makers"; cox, "myths of the aryan races." --hamlin, or hamelin, is a town in the province of hanover, prussia. the flight of the duchess i you're my friend: i was the man the duke spoke to; i helped the duchess to cast off his yoke, too; so here's the tale from beginning to end, my friend! ii ours is a great wild country: if you climb to our castle's top, i don't see where your eye can stop; for when you've passed the cornfield country, where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, and sheep-range leads to cattle-tract, and cattle-tract to open-chase, and open-chase to the very base of the mountain where, at a funeral pace, round about, solemn and slow, one by one, row after row, up and up the pine-trees go, so, like black priests up, and so down the other side again to another greater, wilder country, that's one vast red drear burnt-up plain, branched through and through with many a vein whence iron's dug, and copper's dealt; look right, look left, look straight before-- beneath they mine, above they smelt, copper-ore and iron-ore, and forge and furnace mould and melt, and so on, more and ever more, till at the last, for a bounding belt, comes the salt sand hoar of the great sea shore --and the whole is our duke's country. iii i was born the day this present duke was-- (and o, says the song, ere i was old!) in the castle where the other duke was-- (when i was happy and young, not old!) i in the kennel, he in the bower: we are of like age to an hour. my father was huntsman in that day; who has not heard my father say that, when a boar was brought to bay, three times, four times out of five, with his huntspear he'd contrive to get the killing-place transfixed, and pin him true, both eyes betwixt? and that's why the old duke would rather he lost a salt-pit than my father, and loved to have him ever in call; that's why my father stood in the hall when the old duke brought his infant out to show the people, and while they passed the wondrous bantling round about, was first to start at the outside blast as the kaiser's courier blew his horn just a month after the babe was born. "and," quoth the kaiser's courier," since the duke has got an heir, our prince needs the duke's self at his side:" the duke looked down and seemed to wince, but he thought of wars o'er the world wide, castles a-fire, men on their march, the toppling tower, the crashing arch; and up he looked, and awhile he eyed the row of crests and shields and banners of all achievements after all manners, and "ay," said the duke with a surly pride. the more was his comfort when he died at next year's end, in a velvet suit, with a gilt glove on his hand, his foot in a silken shoe for a leather boot, petticoated like a herald, in a chamber next to an ante-room, where he breathed the breath of page and groom, what he called stink, and they, perfume: --they should have set him on red berold mad with pride, like fire to manage! they should have got his cheek fresh tannage such a day as to-day in the merry sunshine! had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin! (hark, the wind's on the heath at its game! oh for a noble falcon-lanner to flap each broad wing like a banner, and turn in the wind, and dance like flame!) had they broached a white-beer cask from berlin --or if you incline to prescribe mere wine put to his lips, when they saw him pine, a cup of our own moldavia fine, cotnar for instance, green as may sorrel and ropy with sweet--we shall not quarrel. iv so, at home, the sick tall yellow duchess was left with the infant in her clutches, she being the daughter of god knows who: and now was the time to revisit her tribe. abroad and afar they went, the two, and let our people rail and gibe at the empty hall and extinguished fire, as loud as we liked, but ever in vain, till after long years we had our desire, and back came the duke and his mother again. v and he came back the pertest little ape that ever affronted human shape; full of his travel, struck at himself. you'd say, he despised our bluff old ways? --not he! for in paris they told the elf our rough north land was the land of lays, the one good thing left in evil days; since the mid-age was the heroic time, and only in wild nooks like ours could you taste of it yet as in its prime, and see true castles, with proper towers, young-hearted women, old-minded men, and manners now as manners were then. so, all that the old dukes had been, without knowing it, this duke would fain know he was, without being it; 'twas not for the joy's self, but the joy of his showing it, nor for the pride's self, but the pride of our seeing it, he revived all usages thoroughly worn-out, the souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them torn-out: and chief in the chase his neck he perilled on a lathy horse, all legs and length, with blood for bone, all speed, no strength; --they should have set him on red berold with the red eye slow consuming in fire, and the thin stiff ear like an abbey-spire! vi well, such as he was, he must marry, we heard: and out of a convent, at the word, came the lady, in time of spring. --oh, old thoughts they cling, they cling! that day, i know, with a dozen oaths i clad myself in thick hunting-clothes fit for the chase of urochs or buffle in winter-time when you need to muffle. but the duke had a mind we should cut a figure, and so we saw the lady arrive: my friend, i have seen a white crane bigger! she was the smallest lady alive, made in a piece of nature's madness, too small, almost, for the life and gladness that over-filled her, as some hive out of the bears' reach on the high trees is crowded with its safe merry bees: in truth, she was not hard to please! up she looked, down she looked, round at the mead, straight at the castle, that's best indeed to look at from outside the walls: as for us, styled the "serfs and thralls," she as much thanked me as if she had said it, (with her eyes, do you understand?) because i patted her horse while i led it; and max, who rode on her other hand, said, no bird flew past but she inquired what its true name was, nor ever seemed tired-- if that was an eagle she saw hover, and the green and grey bird on the field was the plover. when suddenly appeared the duke: and as down she sprung, the small foot pointed on to my hand,--as with a rebuke, and as if his backbone were not jointed, the duke stepped rather aside than forward and welcomed her with his grandest smile; and, mind you, his mother all the while chilled in the rear, like a wind to nor'ward; and up, like a weary yawn, with its pullies went, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis; and, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies, the lady's face stopped its play, as if her first hair had grown grey; for such things must begin some one day. vii in a day or two she was well again; as who should say, "you labour in vain! this is all a jest against god, who meant i should ever be, as i am, content and glad in his sight; therefore, glad i will be." so, smiling as at first went she. viii she was active, stirring, all fire-- could not rest, could not tire-- to a stone she might have given life! (i myself loved once, in my day) --for a shepherd's, miner's, huntsman's wife, (i had a wife, i know what i say) never in all the world such an one! and here was plenty to be done, and she that could do it, great or small, she was to do nothing at all. there was already this man in his post, this in his station, and that in his office, and the duke's plan admitted a wife, at most, to meet his eye, with the other trophies, now outside the hall, now in it, to sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen, at the proper place in the proper minute, and die away the life between. and it was amusing enough, each infraction of rule--(but for after-sadness that came) to hear the consummate self-satisfaction with which the young duke and the old dame would let her advise, and criticise, and, being a fool, instruct the wise, and, child-like, parcel out praise or blame: they bore it all in complacent guise, as though an artificer, after contriving a wheel-work image as if it were living, should find with delight it could motion to strike him! so found the duke, and his mother like him: the lady hardly got a rebuff-- that had not been contemptuous enough, with his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause, and kept off the old mother-cat's claws. ix so, the little lady grew silent and thin, paling and ever paling, as the way is with a hid chagrin; and the duke perceived that she was ailing, and said in his heart, "'tis done to spite me, but i shall find in my power to right me!" don't swear, friend! the old one, many a year, is in hell, and the duke's self... you shall hear. x well, early in autumn, at first winter-warning, when the stag had to break with his foot, of a morning, a drinking-hole out of the fresh tender ice that covered the pond till the sun, in a trice, loosening it, let out a ripple of gold, and another and another, and faster and faster till, dimpling to blindness, the wide water rolled: then it so chanced that the duke our master asked himself what were the pleasures in season, and found, since the calendar bade him be hearty, he should do the middle age no treason in resolving on a hunting-party. always provided, old books showed the way of it! what meant old poets by their strictures? and when old poets had said their say of it, how taught old painters in their pictures? we must revert to the proper channels, workings in tapestry, paintings on panels, and gather up woodcraft's authentic traditions: here was food for our various ambitions, as on each case, exactly stated-- to encourage your dog, now, the properest chirrup or best prayer to saint hubert on mounting your stirrup-- we of the household took thought and debated. blessed was he whose back ached with the jerkin his sire was wont to do forest-work in; blesseder he who nobly sunk "ohs" and "ahs" while he tugged on his grandsire's trunk-hose; what signified hats if they had no rims on, each slouching before and behind like the scallop, and able to serve at sea for a shallop, loaded with lacquer and looped with crimson? so that the deer now, to make a short rhyme on't, what with our venerers, prickers and verderers, might hope for real hunters at length and not murderers, and oh the duke's tailor, he had a hot time on't! xi now you must know that when the first dizziness of flap-hats and buff-coats and jack-boots subsided, the duke put this question, "the duke's part provided, had not the duchess some share in the business?" for out of the mouth of two or three witnesses did he establish all fit-or-unfitnesses: and, after much laying of heads together, somebody's cap got a notable feather by the announcement with proper unction that he had discovered the lady's function; since ancient authors gave this tenet, "when horns wind a mort and the deer is at siege, let the dame of the castle prick forth on her jennet, and with water to wash the hands of her liege in a clean ewer with a fair toweling, let her preside at the disemboweling." now, my friend, if you had so little religion as to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner, and thrust her broad wings like a banner into a coop for a vulgar pigeon; and if day by day and week by week you cut her claws, and sealed her eyes, and clipped her wings, and tied her beak, would it cause you any great surprise if, when you decided to give her an airing, you found she needed a little preparing? --i say, should you be such a curmudgeon, if she clung to the perch, as to take it in dudgeon? yet when the duke to his lady signified, just a day before, as he judged most dignified, in what a pleasure she was to participate,-- and, instead of leaping wide in flashes, her eyes just lifted their long lashes, as if pressed by fatigue even he could not dissipate, and duly acknowledged the duke's fore-thought, but spoke of her health, if her health were worth aught, of the weight by day and the watch by night, and much wrong now that used to be right, so, thanking him, declined the hunting-- was conduct ever more affronting? with all the ceremony settled-- with the towel ready, and the sewer polishing up his oldest ewer, and the jennet pitched upon, a piebald, black-barred, cream-coated and pink eye-balled-- no wonder if the duke was nettled! and when she persisted nevertheless,-- well, i suppose here's the time to confess that there ran half round our lady's chamber a balcony none of the hardest to clamber; and that jacynth the tire-woman, ready in waiting, stayed in call outside, what need of relating? and since jacynth was like a june rose, why, a fervent adorer of jacynth of course was your servant; and if she had the habit to peep through the casement, how could i keep at any vast distance? and so, as i say, on the lady's persistence, the duke, dumb-stricken with amazement, stood for a while in a sultry smother, and then, with a smile that partook of the awful, turned her over to his yellow mother to learn what was held decorous and lawful; and the mother smelt blood with a cat-like instinct, as her cheek quick whitened thro' all its quince-tinct. oh, but the lady heard the whole truth at once! what meant she?--who was she?--her duty and station, the wisdom of age and the folly of youth, at once, its decent regard and its fitting relation-- in brief, my friend, set all the devils in hell free and turn them out to carouse in a belfry and treat the priests to a fifty-part canon, and then you may guess how that tongue of hers ran on! well, somehow or other it ended at last and, licking her whiskers, out she passed; and after her,--making (he hoped) a face like emperor nero or sultan saladin, stalked the duke's self with the austere grace of ancient hero or modern paladin, from door to staircase--oh such a solemn unbending of the vertebral column! xii however, at sunrise our company mustered; and here was the huntsman bidding unkennel, and there 'neath his bonnet the pricker blustered, with feather dank as a bough of wet fennel; for the court-yard walls were filled with fog you might have cut as an axe chops a log-- like so much wool for colour and bulkiness; and out rode the duke in a perfect sulkiness, since, before breakfast, a man feels but queasily and a sinking at the lower abdomen begins the day with indifferent omen. and lo, as he looked around uneasily, the sun ploughed the fog up and drove it asunder this way and that from the valley under; and, looking through the court-yard arch, down in the valley, what should meet him but a troop of gipsies on their march? no doubt with the annual gifts to greet him. xiii now, in your land, gipsies reach you, only after reaching all lands beside; north they go, south they go, trooping or lonely and still, as they travel far and wide, catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace there, that puts you in mind of a place here, a place there. but with us, i believe they rise out of the ground, and nowhere else, i take it, are found with the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned: born, no doubt, like insects which breed on the very fruit they are meant to feed on. for the earth-not a use to which they don't turn it, the ore that grows in the mountain's womb, or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb, they sift and soften it, bake it and burn it-- whether they weld you, for instance, a snaffle with side-bars never a brute can baffle; or a lock that's a puzzle of wards within wards; or, if your colt's fore-foot inclines to curve inwards, horseshoes they hammer which turn on a swivel and won't allow the hoof to shrivel. then they cast bells like the shell of the winkle that keep a stout heart in the ram with their tinkle; but the sand-they pinch and pound it like otters; commend me to gipsy glass-makers and potters! glasses they'll blow you, crystal-clear, where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear, as if in pure water you dropped and let die a bruised black-blooded mulberry; and that other sort, their crowning pride, with long white threads distinct inside, like the lake-flower's fibrous roots which dangle loose such a length and never tangle, where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters, and the cup-lily couches with all the white daughters: such are the works they put their hand to, the uses they turn and twist iron and sand to. and these made the troop, which our duke saw sally toward his castle from out of the valley, men and women, like new-hatched spiders, come out with the morning to greet our riders. and up they wound till they reached the ditch, whereat all stopped save one, a witch that i knew, as she hobbled from the group, by her gait directly and her stoop, i, whom jacynth was used to importune to let that same witch tell us our fortune. the oldest gipsy then above ground; and, sure as the autumn season came round, she paid us a visit for profit or pastime, and every time, as she swore, for the last time. and presently she was seen to sidle up to the duke till she touched his bridle, so that the horse of a sudden reared up as under its nose the old witch peered up with her worn-out eyes, or rather eye-holes of no use now but to gather brine, and began a kind of level whine such as they used to sing to their viols when their ditties they go grinding up and down with nobody minding and then, as of old, at the end of the humming her usual presents were forthcoming --a dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles, (just a sea-shore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles) or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw on a pipe-end-- and so she awaited her annual stipend. but this time, the duke would scarcely vouchsafe a word in reply; and in vain she felt with twitching fingers at her belt for the purse of sleek pine-martin pelt, ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe-- till, either to quicken his apprehension, or possibly with an after-intention, she was come, she said, to pay her duty to the new duchess, the youthful beauty. no sooner had she named his lady, than a shine lit up the face so shady, and its smirk returned with a novel meaning-- for it struck him, the babe just wanted weaning; if one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow, she, foolish today, would be wiser tomorrow; and who so fit a teacher of trouble as this sordid crone bent well-nigh double? so, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture, (if such it was, for they grow so hirsute that their own fleece serves for natural fur-suit) he was contrasting, 'twas plain from his gesture, the life of the lady so flower-like and delicate with the loathsome squalor of this helicat. i, in brief, was the man the duke beckoned from out of the throng, and while i drew near he told the crone-as i since have reckoned by the way he bent and spoke into her ear with circumspection and mystery-- the main of the lady's history, her frowardness and ingratitude: and for all the crone's submissive attitude i could see round her mouth the loose plaits tightening, and her brow with assenting intelligence brightening as though she engaged with hearty goodwill whatever he now might enjoin to fulfil, and promised the lady a thorough frightening. and so, just giving her a glimpse of a purse, with the air of a man who imps the wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hernshaw, he bade me take the gipsy mother and set her telling some story or other of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw, to wile away a weary hour for the lady left alone in her bower, whose mind and body craved exertion and yet shrank from all better diversion. xiv then clapping heel to his horse, the mere curveter, out rode the duke, and after his hollo horses and hounds swept, huntsman and servitor, and back i turned and bade the crone follow. and what makes me confident what's to be told you had all along been of this crone's devising, is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you, there was a novelty quick as surprising: for first, she had shot up a full head in stature, and her step kept pace with mine nor faltered, as if age had foregone its usurpature, and the ignoble mien was wholly altered, and the face looked quite of another nature, and the change reached too, whatever the change meant, her shaggy wolf-skin cloak's arrangement: for where its tatters hung loose like sedges, gold coins were glittering on the edges, like the band-roll strung with tomans which proves the veil a persian woman's: and under her brow, like a snail's horns newly come out as after the rain he paces, two unmistakeable eye-points duly live and aware looked out of their places. so, we went and found jacynth at the entry of the lady's chamber standing sentry; i told the command and produced my companion, and jacynth rejoiced to admit any one, for since last night, by the same token, not a single word had the lady spoken: they went in both to the presence together, while i in the balcony watched the weather. xv and now, what took place at the very first of all, i cannot tell, as i never could learn it: jacynth constantly wished a curse to fall on that little head of hers and burn it if she knew how she came to drop so soundly asleep of a sudden and there continue the whole time sleeping as profoundly as one of the boars my father would pin you 'twixt the eyes where life holds garrison, --jacynth forgive me the comparison! but where i begin my own narration is a little after i took my station to breathe the fresh air from the balcony, and, having in those days a falcon eye, to follow the hunt thro' the open country, from where the bushes thinlier crested the hillocks, to a plain where's not one tree. when, in a moment, my ear was arrested by--was it singing, or was it saying, or a strange musical instrument playing in the chamber?--and to be certain i pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain, and there lay jacynth asleep, yet as if a watch she tried to keep, in a rosy sleep along the floor with her head against the door; while in the midst, on the seat of state, was a queen-the gipsy woman late, with head and face downbent on the lady's head and face intent: for, coiled at her feet like a child at ease, the lady sat between her knees and o'er them the lady's clasped hands met, and on those hands her chin was set, and her upturned face met the face of the crone wherein the eyes had grown and grown as if she could double and quadruple at pleasure the play of either pupil --very like, by her hands' slow fanning, as up and down like a gor-crow's flappers they moved to measure, or bell-clappers. i said, "is it blessing, is it banning, do they applaud you or burlesque you-- those hands and fingers with no flesh on?" but, just as i thought to spring in to the rescue, at once i was stopped by the lady's expression: for it was life her eyes were drinking from the crone's wide pair above unwinking, --life's pure fire received without shrinking, into the heart and breast whose heaving told you no single drop they were leaving, --life, that filling her, passed redundant into her very hair, back swerving over each shoulder, loose and abundant, as her head thrown back showed the white throat curving; and the very tresses shared in the pleasure, moving to the mystic measure, bounding as the bosom bounded. i stopped short, more and more confounded, as still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened, as she listened and she listened: when all at once a hand detained me, the selfsame contagion gained me, and i kept time to the wondrous chime, making out words and prose and rhyme, till it seemed that the music furled its wings like a task fulfilled, and dropped from under the words it first had propped, and left them midway in the world: word took word as hand takes hand i could hear at last, and understand, and when i held the unbroken thread, the gipsy said: "and so at last we find my tribe. and so i set thee in the midst, and to one and all of them describe what thou saidst and what thou didst, our long and terrible journey through, and all thou art ready to say and do in the trials that remain: i trace them the vein and the other vein that meet on thy brow and part again, making our rapid mystic mark; and i bid my people prove and probe each eye's profound and glorious globe till they detect the kindred spark in those depths so dear and dark, like the spots that snap and burst and flee, circling over the midnight sea. and on that round young cheek of thine i make them recognize the tinge, as when of the costly scarlet wine they drip so much as will impinge and spread in a thinnest scale afloat one thick gold drop from the olive's coat over a silver plate whose sheen still thro' the mixture shall be seen. for so i prove thee, to one and all, fit, when my people ope their breast, to see the sign, and hear the call, and take the vow, and stand the test which adds one more child to the rest-- when the breast is bare and the arms are wide, and the world is left outside. for there is probation to decree, and many and long must the trials be thou shalt victoriously endure, if that brow is true and those eyes are sure; like a jewel-finder's fierce assay of the prize he dug from its mountain tomb-- let once the vindicating ray leap out amid the anxious gloom, and steel and fire have done their part and the prize falls on its finder's heart; so, trial after trial past, wilt thou fall at the very last breathless, half in trance with the thrill of the great deliverance, into our arms for evermore; and thou shalt know, those arms once curled about thee, what we knew before, how love is the only good in the world. henceforth be loved as heart can love, or brain devise, or hand approve! stand up, look below, it is our life at thy feet we throw to step with into light and joy; not a power of life but we employ to satisfy thy nature's want; art thou the tree that props the plant, or the climbing plant that seeks the tree-- canst thou help us, must we help thee? if any two creatures grew into one, they would do more than the world has done: though each apart were never so weak, ye vainly through the world should seek for the knowledge and the might which in such union grew their right: so, to approach at least that end, and blend,--as much as may be, blend thee with us or us with thee-- as climbing plant or propping tree, shall some one deck thee, over and down, up and about, with blossoms and leaves? fix his heart's fruit for thy garland-crown, cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves, die on thy boughs and disappear while not a leaf of thine is sere? or is the other fate in store, and art thou fitted to adore, to give thy wondrous self away, and take a stronger nature's sway? i foresee and could foretell thy future portion, sure and well: but those passionate eyes speak true, speak true, let them say what thou shalt do! only be sure thy daily life, in its peace or in its strife, never shall be unobserved; we pursue thy whole career, and hope for it, or doubt, or fear-- lo, hast thou kept thy path or swerved, we are beside thee in all thy ways, with our blame, with our praise, our shame to feel, our pride to show, glad, angry--but indifferent, no! whether it be thy lot to go, for the good of us all, where the haters meet in the crowded city's horrible street; or thou step alone through the morass where never sound yet was save the dry quick clap of the stork's bill, for the air is still, and the water still, when the blue breast of the dipping coot dives under, and all is mute. so, at the last shall come old age, decrepit as befits that stage; how else wouldst thou retire apart with the hoarded memories of thy heart, and gather all to the very least of the fragments of life's earlier feast, let fall through eagerness to find the crowning dainties yet behind? ponder on the entire past laid together thus at last, when the twilight helps to fuse the first fresh with the faded hues, and the outline of the whole, as round eve's shades their framework roll, grandly fronts for once thy soul. and then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam of yet another morning breaks, and like the hand which ends a dream, death, with the might of his sunbeam, touches the flesh and the soul awakes, then--" ay, then indeed something would happen! but what? for here her voice changed like a bird's; there grew more of the music and less of the words; had jacynth only been by me to clap pen to paper and put you down every syllable with those clever clerkly fingers, all i've forgotten as well as what lingers in this old brain of mine that's but ill able to give you even this poor version of the speech i spoil, as it were, with stammering --more fault of those who had the hammering of prosody into me and syntax and did it, not with hobnails but tintacks! but to return from this excursion-- just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest, the peace most deep and the charm completest, there came, shall i say, a snap-- and the charm vanished! and my sense returned, so strangely banished, and, starting as from a nap, i knew the crone was bewitching my lady, with jacynth asleep; and but one spring made i down from the casement, round to the portal, another minute and i had entered-- when the door opened, and more than mortal stood, with a face where to my mind centred all beauties i ever saw or shall see, the duchess: i stopped as if struck by palsy. she was so different, happy and beautiful, i felt at once that all was best, and that i had nothing to do, for the rest but wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. not that, in fact, there was any commanding; i saw the glory of her eye, and the brow's height and the breast's expanding, and i was hers to live or to die. as for finding what she wanted, you know god almighty granted such little signs should serve wild creatures to tell one another all their desires, so that each knows what his friend requires, and does its bidding without teachers. i preceded her; the crone followed silent and alone; i spoke to her, but she merely jabbered in the old style; both her eyes had slunk back to their pits; her stature shrunk; in short, the soul in its body sunk like a blade sent home to its scabbard. we descended, i preceding; crossed the court with nobody heeding; all the world was at the chase, the courtyard like a desert-place, the stable emptied of its small fry; i saddled myself the very palfrey i remember patting while it carried her, the day she arrived and the duke married her. and, do you know, though it's easy deceiving oneself in such matters, i can't help believing the lady had not forgotten it either, and knew the poor devil so much beneath her would have been only too glad for her service to dance on hot ploughshares like a turk dervise, but, unable to pay proper duty where owing was reduced to that pitiful method of showing it: for though the moment i began setting his saddle on my own nag of berold's begetting, (not that i meant to be obtrusive) she stopped me, while his rug was shifting, by a single rapid finger's lifting, and, with a gesture kind but conclusive, and a little shake of the head, refused me-- i say, although she never used me, yet when she was mounted, the gipsy behind her, and i ventured to remind her i suppose with a voice of less steadiness than usual, for my feeling exceeded me, --something to the effect that i was in readiness whenever god should please she needed me-- then, do you know, her face looked down on me with a look that placed a crown on me, and she felt in her bosom--mark, her bosom-- and, as a flower-tree drops its blossom, dropped me... ah, had it been a purse of silver, my friend, or gold that's worse, why, you see, as soon as i found myself so understood,--that a true heart so may gain such a reward,--i should have gone home again, kissed jacynth, and soberly drowned myself! it was a little plait of hair such as friends in a convent make to wear, each for the other's sake-- this, see, which at my breast i wear, ever did (rather to jacynth's grudgment), and ever shall, till the day of judgment. and then-and then--to cut short--this is idle, these are feelings it is not good to foster-- i pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle, and the palfrey bounded--and so we lost her. xvi when the liquor's out why clink the cannikin? i did think to describe you the panic in the redoubtable breast of our master the mannikin, and what was the pitch of his mother's yellowness, how she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib clean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving carib, when she heard, what she called the flight of the feloness --but it seems such child's play, what they said and did with the lady away! and to dance on, when we've lost the music, always made me--and no doubt makes you--sick. nay, to my mind, the world's face looked so stern as that sweet form disappeared through the postern, she that kept it in constant good humour, it ought to have stopped; there seemed nothing to do more. but the world thought otherwise and went on, and my head's one that its spite was spent on: thirty years are fled since that morning, and with them all my head's adorning. nor did the old duchess die outright, as you expect, of suppressed spite, the natural end of every adder not suffered to empty its poison-bladder: but she and her son agreed, i take it, that no one should touch on the story to wake it, for the wound in the duke's pride rankled fiery, so, they made no search and small inquiry-- and when fresh gipsies have paid us a visit, i've notice the couple were never inquisitive, but told them they're folks the duke don't want here, and bade them make haste and cross the frontier. brief, the duchess was gone and the duke was glad of it, and the old one was in the young one's stead, and took, in her place, the household's head, and a blessed time the household had of it! and were i not, as a man may say, cautious how i trench, more than needs, on the nauseous, i could favour you with sundry touches of the paint-smutches with which the duchess heightened the mellowness of her cheek's yellowness (to get on faster) until at last her cheek grew to be one master-plaster of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse: in short, she grew from scalp to udder just the object to make you shudder. xvii you're my friend-- what a thing friendship is, world without end! how it gives the heart and soul a stir-up as if somebody broached you a glorious runlet, and poured out, all lovelily, sparklingly, sunlit, our green moldavia, the streaky syrup, cotnar as old as the time of the druids-- friendship may match with that monarch of fluids; each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs, gives your life's hour-glass a shake when the thin sand doubts whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease. i have seen my little lady once more, jacynth, the gipsy, berold, and the rest of it, for to me spoke the duke, as i told you before; i always wanted to make a clean breast of it: and now it is made-why, my heart's blood, that went trickle, trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets, is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle, and genially floats me about the giblets. i'll tell you what i intend to do: i must see this fellow his sad life through-- he is our duke, after all, and i, as he says, but a serf and thrall. my father was born here, and i inherit his fame, a chain he bound his son with; could i pay in a lump i should prefer it, but there's no mine to blow up and get done with: so, i must stay till the end of the chapter. for, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter, be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on, some day or other, his head in a morion and breast in a hauberk, his heels he'll kick up, slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup. and then, when red doth the sword of our duke rust, and its leathern sheath lie o'ergrown with a blue crust, then i shall scrape together my earnings; for, you see, in the churchyard jacynth reposes, and our children all went the way of the roses: it's a long lane that knows no turnings. one needs but little tackle to travel in; so, just one stout cloak shall i indue: and for a staff, what beats the javelin with which his boars my father pinned you? and then, for a purpose you shall hear presently, taking some cotnar, a tight plump skinful, i shall go journeying, who but i, pleasantly! sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. what's a man's age? he must hurry more, that's all; cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold: when we mind labour, then only, we're too old-- what age had methusalem when he begat saul? and at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees, (come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil) i hope to get safely out of the turmoil and arrive one day at the land of the gipsies, and find my lady, or hear the last news of her from some old thief and son of lucifer, his forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop, sunburned all over like an aethiop. and when my cotnar begins to operate and the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate, and our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent, i shall drop in with--as if by accident-- "you never knew, then, how it all ended, what fortune good or bad attended the little lady your queen befriended?" --and when that's told me, what's remaining? this world's too hard for my explaining. the same wise judge of matters equine who still preferred some slim four-year-old to the big-boned stock of mighty berold and, for strong cotnar, drank french weak wine, he also must be such a lady's scorner! smooth jacob still robs homely esau: now up, now down, the world's one see-saw. --so, i shall find out some snug corner under a hedge, like orson the wood-knight, turn myself round and bid the world good night; and sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet blowing wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen) to a world where will be no further throwing pearls before swine that can't value them. amen! notes: "the flight of the duchess." a story of the triumph of a free and loving life over a cold and conventional one. the duke's huntsman frees his mind to his friend as to his part in the escape of the gladsome, ardent young duchess from the blighting yoke of a husband whose life consisted in imitating defunct mediaeval customs. an old gipsy is the agency that awakens her to the joy and freedom of love. her mystic chant and charm claim the duchess as the true heir of gipsy blood, thrill her with life, half-hypnotize the huntsman, too, and seem to transform the gipsy crone herself into an eastern queen. he helps them off, and looks for no better future, when the duke's death releases him, than to travel to the land of the gipsies and hear the last news of his lady. the poem grew from the fancies aroused in the poet's heart by the snatch of a woman's song he overheard when a boy--"following the queen of the gipsies, o!" a grammarian's funeral, shortly after the revival of learning in europe let us begin and carry up this corpse, singing together. leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes each in its tether sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, cared-for till cock-crow: look out if yonder be not day again rimming the rock-row! that's the appropriate country; there, man's thought, rarer, intenser, self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, chafes in the censer. leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; seek we sepulture on a tall mountain, citied to the top, crowded with culture! all the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; clouds overcome it; no! yonder sparkle is the citadel's circling its summit. thither our path lies; wind we up the heights: wait ye the warning? our low life was the level's and the night's; he's for the morning. step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 'ware the beholders! this is our master, famous calm and dead, borne on our shoulders. sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, safe from the weather! he, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, singing together, he was a man born with thy face and throat, lyric apollo! long he lived nameless: how should spring take note winter would follow? till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! cramped and diminished, moaned he, "new measures, other feet anon! my dance is finished?" no, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side, make for the city!) he knew the signal, and stepped on with pride over men's pity; left play for work, and grappled with the world bent on escaping: "what's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled? show me their shaping theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage, give!"--so, he gowned him, straight got by heart that book to its last page: learned, we found him. yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead, accents uncertain: "time to taste life," another would have said, "up with the curtain!" this man said rather, "actual life comes next? patience a moment! grant i have mastered learning's crabbed text, still there's the comment. let me know all! prate not of most or least, painful or easy! even to the crumbs i'd fain eat up the feast, ay, nor feel queasy." oh, such a life as he resolved to live, when he had learned it, when he had gathered all books had to give! sooner, he spurned it. image the whole, then execute the parts-- fancy the fabric quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, ere mortar dab brick! (here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place gaping before us.) yea, this in him was the peculiar grace (hearten our chorus!) that before living he'd learn how to live-- no end to learning: earn the means first-god surely will contrive use for our earning. others mistrust and say, "but time escapes: live now or never!" he said, "what's time? leave now for dogs and apes! man has forever." back to his book then: deeper drooped his head: calculus racked him: leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: tussis attacked him. "now, master, take a little rest!"--not he! (caution redoubled, step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) not a whit troubled back to his studies, fresher than at first, fierce as a dragon he (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) sucked at the flagon. oh, if we draw a circle premature, heedless of far gain, greedy for quick returns of profit, sure bad is our bargain! was it not great? did not he throw on god, (he loves the burthen) god's task to make the heavenly period perfect the earthen? did not he magnify the mind, show clear just what it all meant? he would not discount life, as fools do here, paid by instalment. he ventured neck or nothing-heaven's success found, or earth's failure: "wilt thou trust death or not?" he answered "yes: hence with life's pale lure!" that low man seeks a little thing to do, sees it and does it: this high man, with a great thing to pursue, dies ere he knows it. that low man goes on adding one to one, his hundred's soon hit: this high man, aiming at a million, misses an unit. that, has the world here-should he need the next, let the world mind him! this, throws himself on god, and unperplexed seeking shall find him. so, with the throttling hands of death at strife, ground he at grammar; still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife: while he could stammer he settled hoti's business--let it be!-- properly based oun-- gave us the doctrine of the enclitic de, dead from the waist down. well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: hail to your purlieus, all ye highfliers of the feathered race, swallows and curlews! here's the top-peak; the multitude below live, for they can, there: this man decided not to live but know-- bury this man there? here--here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, lightnings are loosened, stars come and go! let joy break with the storm, peace let the dew send! lofty designs must close in like effects: loftily iying, leave him--still loftier than the world suspects, living and dying. notes: "a grammarian's funeral" is an elegy of a typical pioneer scholar of the renaissance period, sung by the leader of the chorus of disciples, and interspersed with parenthetical directions to them, while they all bear the body of their master to its appropriate burial-place on the highest mountain-peak. a humorous sense of disproportion in the labors of devoted scholarship to its results heightens their exaltation of the dead humanist's indomitable trust in the supremacy of the immaterial. . calculus: the stone. . tussis: a cough. . hydroptic: dropsical. . hoti: greek particle, conjunction, that. . oun: greek particle, then, now then. . enclitic de: greek, concerning which browning wrote to the editor of the news, london, nov. , : "in a clever article you speak of 'the doctrine of the enclitic de--which, with all deference to mr. browning, in point of fact, does not exist.' no, not to mr. browning, but pray defer to herr buttmann, whose fifth list of 'enclitics' ends with the inseparable de,'-- or to curtius, whose fifth list ends also with de (meaning 'towards' and as a demonstrative appendage). that this is not to be confounded with the accentuated 'de, meaning but,' was the 'doctrine' which the grammarian bequeathed to those capable of receiving it." the heretic's tragedy a middle-age interlude rosa mundi; seu, fulcite me floribus. a conceit of master gysbrecht, canon-regular of saint jodocus-by- the-bar, ypres city. cantuque, virgilius. and hath often been sung at hock-tide and festivals. gavisus eram, jessides. (it would seem to be a glimpse from the burning of jacques du bourg-molay, at paris, a.d. , as distorted by the refraction from flemish brain to brain, during the course of a couple of centuries.) [molay was grand master of the templars when that order was suppressed in .] i preadmonisheth the abbot deodaet. the lord, we look to once for all, is the lord we should look at, all at once: he knows not to vary, saith saint paul, nor the shadow of turning, for the nonce. see him no other than as he is! give both the infinitudes their due-- infinite mercy, but, i wis, as infinite a justice too. [organ: plagal-cadence.] as infinite a justice too. ii [one singeth] john, master of the temple of god, falling to sin the unknown sin, what he bought of emperor aldabrod, he sold it to sultan saladin: till, caught by pope clement, a-buzzing there, hornet-prince of the mad wasps' hive, and clipt of his wings in paris square, they bring him now to be burned alive. [and wanteth there grace of lute or clavicithern, ye shall say to confirm him who singeth-- we bring john now to be burned alive. iii in the midst is a goodly gallows built; 'twixt fork and fork, a stake is stuck; but first they set divers tumbrils a-tilt, make a trench all round with the city muck; inside they pile log upon log, good store; faggots no few, blocks great and small, reach a man's mid-thigh, no less, no more,-- for they mean he should roast in the sight of all. chorus. we mean he should roast in the sight of all. iv good sappy bavins that kindle forthwith; billets that blaze substantial and slow; pine-stump split deftly, dry as pith; larch-heart that chars to a chalk-white glow: they up they hoist me john in a chafe, sling him fast like a hog to scorch, spit in his face, then leap back safe, sing "laudes" and bid clap-to the torch. chorus. laus deo--who bids clap-to the torch. v john of the temple, whose fame so bragged, is burning alive in paris square! how can he curse, if his mouth is gagged? or wriggle his neck, with a collar there? or heave his chest, which a band goes round? or threat with his fist, since his arms are spliced? or kick with his feet, now his legs are bound? --thinks john, i will call upon jesus christ. [here one crosseth himself.] vi jesus christ--john had bought and sold, jesus christ--john had eaten and drunk; to him, the flesh meant silver and gold. (salva reverentia.) now it was, "saviour, bountiful lamb, "i have roasted thee turks, though men roast me! "see thy servant, the plight wherein i am! "art thou a saviour? save thou me!" chorus. 'tis john the mocker cries, "save thou me!" vii who maketh god's menace an idle word? --saith, it no more means what it proclaims, than a damsel's threat to her wanton bird? for she too prattles of ugly names. --saith, he knoweth but one thing--what he knows? that god is good and the rest is breath; why else is the same styled sharon's rose? once a rose, ever a rose, he saith. chorus. o, john shall yet find a rose, he saith! viii alack, there be roses and roses, john! some, honied of taste like your leman's tongue: some, bitter; for why? (roast gaily on!) their tree struck root in devil's-dung. when paul once reasoned of righteousness and of temperance and of judgment to come, good felix trembled, he could no less: john, snickering, crook'd his wicked thumb. chorus. what cometh to john of the wicked thumb? ix ha ha, john plucketh now at his rose to rid himself of a sorrow at heart! lo,--petal on petal, fierce rays unclose; anther on anther, sharp spikes outstart; and with blood for dew, the bosom boils; and a gust of sulphur is all its smell; and lo, he is horribly in the toils of a coal-black giant flower of hell! chorus. what maketh heaven, that maketh hell. x so, as john called now, through the fire amain, on the name, he had cursed with, all his life-- to the person, he bought and sold again-- for the face, with his daily buffets rife-- feature by feature it took its place: and his voice, like a mad dog's choking bark, at the steady whole of the judge's face-- died. forth john's soul flared into the dark. subjoineth the abbot deodaet. god help all poor souls lost in the dark! notes: "the heretic's tragedy" is an interlude imagined in the manner of the middle ages, and typically representing this period of human development in its quaint piety and prejudice, its childish delight in cruelty, and its cumulative legend-making during the course of two centuries as reflected through the flemish nature. it is supposed to be sung by an abbot, a choir-singer, and a chorus, in celebration of the burning of jacques du bourg-molay, last grand master of the wealthy and powerful secular order of knights templar, which came into rivalry with the church after the crusades and was finally suppressed by philip iv of france and pope clement v, molay's burning at paris in being a final scene in their discomfiture and the church's triumph. . plagal-cadence: a closing progression of chords in which the sub-dominant or chord on the fourth degree of the scale precedes the tonic or chord on the first degree of the scale. the name arises from the modes used in early church music called plagal modes, which were a transposition of the authentic modes beginning on the fourth degree of the authentic modes. . bought of... aldabrod, etc.: clement's arraignment of jacques or john being that the riches won piously by the order during the crusades, he had not scrupled to sell again to saladin, the sultan, who is portrayed by scott in "the talisman.'' . pope clement: the fifth clement ( - ). . clavicithern: a cithern with keys like a harpsichord. . sing "laudes": sing the seven psalms of praise making up the service of the church called lauds. . salvâ, etc. the bidding to greet here with a reverence, according to custom, the host, or christ's flesh, which had been mentioned. . sharon's rose: solomon's song . . holy-cross day on which the jews were forced to attend an annual christian sermon in rome [" now was come about holy-cross day, and now must my lord preach his first sermon to the jews: as it was of old cared for in the merciful bowels of the church, that, so to speak, a crumb at least from her conspicuous table here in rome should be, though but once yearly, cast to the famishing dogs, under-trampled and bespitten-upon beneath the feet of the guests. and a moving sight in truth, this, of so many of the besotted blind restif and ready-to-perish hebrews! now maternally brought-nay (for he saith, 'compel them to come in') haled, as it were, by the head and hair, and against their obstinate hearts, to partake of the heavenly grace. what awakening, what striving with tears, what working of a yeasty conscience! nor was my lord wanting to himself on so apt an occasion; witness the abundance of conversions which did incontinently reward him: though not to my lord be altogether the glory."-diary by the bishop's secretary, .] what the jews really said, on thus being driven to church, was rather to this effect:-- i fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak! blessedest thursday's the fat of the week. rumble and tumble, sleek and rough, stinking and savoury, smug and gruff, take the church-road, for the bell's due chime gives us the summons--'tis sermon-time! ii boh, here's barnabas! job, that's you? up stumps solomon--bustling too? shame, man! greedy beyond your years to handsel the bishop's shaving-shears? fair play's a jewel! leave friends in the lurch? stand on a line ere you start for the church! iii higgledy piggledy, packed we lie, rats in a hamper, swine in a stye, wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve, worms in a carcase, fleas in a sleeve. hist! square shoulders, settle your thumbs and buzz for the bishop--here he comes. iv bow, wow, wow--a bone for the dog! i liken his grace to an acorned hog. what, a boy at his side, with the bloom of a lass, to help and handle my lord's hour-glass! didst ever behold so lithe a chine? his cheek hath laps like a fresh-singed swine. v aaron's asleep--shove hip to haunch, or somebody deal him a dig in the paunch! look at the purse with the tassel and knob and the gown with the angel and thingumbob! what's he at, quotha? reading his text! now you've his curtsey--and what comes next? vi see to our converts--you doomed black dozen-- no stealing away--nor cog nor cozen! you five, that were thieves, deserve it fairly; you seven, that were beggars, will live less sparely; you took your turn and dipped in the hat, got fortune--and fortune gets you; mind that! vii give your first groan--compunction's at work and soft! from a jew you mount to a turk. lo, micah,--the selfsame beard on chin he was four times already converted in! here's a knife, clip quick--it's a sign of grace-- or he ruins us all with his hanging-face. viii whom now is the bishop a-leering at? i know a point where his text falls pat. i'll tell him to-morrow, a word just now went to my heart and made me vow i meddle no more with the worst of trades-- let somebody else pay his serenades. ix groan all together now, whee-hee-hee! it's a-work, it's a-work, ah, woe is me! it began, when a herd of us, picked and placed, were spurred through the corso, stripped to the waist; jew brutes, with sweat and blood well spent to usher in worthily christian lent. x it grew, when the hangman entered our bounds, yelled, pricked us out to his church like hounds: it got to a pitch, when the hand indeed which gutted my purse would throttle my creed: and it overflows when, to even the odd, men i helped to their sins help me to their god. xi but now, while the scapegoats leave our flock, and the rest sit silent and count the clock, since forced to muse the appointed time on these precious facts and truths sublime, let us fitly employ it, under our breath, in saying ben ezra's song of death. xii for rabbi ben ezra, the night he died, called sons and sons' sons to his side, and spoke, "this world has been harsh and strange; something is wrong: there needeth change. but what, or where? at the last or first? in one point only we sinned, at worst. xiii "the lord will have mercy on jacob yet, and again in his border see israel set. when judah beholds jerusalem, the stranger-seed shall be joined to them: to jacob's house shall the gentiles cleave. so the prophet saith and his sons believe. xiv "ay, the children of the chosen race shall carry and bring them to their place: in the land of the lord shall lead the same bondsmen and handmaids. who shall blame, when the slaves enslave, the oppressed ones o'er the oppressor triumph for evermore? xv "god spoke, and gave us the word to keep, bade never fold the hands nor sleep 'mid a faithless world, at watch and ward, till christ at the end relieve our guard. by his servant moses the watch was set: though near upon cock-crow, we keep it yet. xvi "thou! if thou wast he, who at mid-watch came, by the starlight, naming a dubious name! and if, too heavy with sleep--too rash with fear--o thou, if that martyr-gash fell on thee coming to take thine own, and we gave the cross, when we owed the throne-- xvii "thou art the judge. we are bruised thus. but, the judgment over, join sides with us! thine too is the cause! and not more thine than ours, is the work of these dogs and swine, whose life laughs through and spits at their creed! who maintain thee in word, and defy thee in deed! xviii "we withstood christ then? be mindful how at least we withstand barabbas now! was our outrage sore? but the worst we spared, to have called these--christians, had we dared! let defiance to them pay mistrust of thee, and rome make amends for calvary! xix "by the torture, prolonged from age to age, by the infamy, israel's heritage, by the ghetto's plague, by the garb's disgrace, by the badge of shame, by the felon's place, by the branding-tool, the bloody whip, and the summons to christian fellowship,-- xx "we boast our proof that at least the jew would wrest christ's name from the devil's crew. thy face took never so deep a shade but we fought them in it, god our aid! a trophy to bear, as we march, thy band, south, east, and on to the pleasant land!" [pope gregory xvi abolished this bad business of the sermon. --r. b.] notes: "holy-cross day" reflects the attitude of the corrupt mediaeval christians and jews toward each other. the prose preceding the poem gives the point of view of an imaginary bishop's secretary, who congratulates himself upon the good work the church is doing in forcing its doctrine on the jews in the holy-cross day sermon, and effecting many conversions. the poem shows that the jews regard this solicitude on the part of the christians with hatred and scorn, and that their conversions are in derision of their would-be converters. the sarcasm of the speaker reaches a pinnacle of bitterness when he accuses the christian bishops of being men he had helped to their sins and who now help him to their god. from scorn toward such followers of christ, he passes, in the contemplation of rabbi ben ezra's death song, to a defence of christ against these followers who profess but do not act his precepts, and a hope that if the jews were mistaken in not accepting christ, the tortures they now suffer will be received as expiation for their sin. holy-cross day is september . the discovery of the true cross by saint helen inaugurated the festival, celebrated both by latins and greeks as early as the fifth or sixth century, under the title of the exaltation of the cross and later in commemoration of the alleged miraculous appearance of the cross to constantine in the sky at midday. though the particular incidents of the poem are not historical, it is a fact (see milman's "history of the jews'') that, by a papal bull issued by gregory xiii in , all jews above the age of twelve years were compelled to listen every week to a sermon from a christian priest. . corso: a street in rome . rabbi ben ezra: or ibn ezra, a mediaeval jewish writer and thinker, born in toledo, near the end of the eleventh century. iii. ghetto: the jew's quarter. pope paul iv first shut the jews up in the ghetto, and prohibited them from leaving it after sunset. protus among these latter busts we count by scores, half-emperors and quarter-emperors, each with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thonged vest, loric and low-browed gorgon on the breast, one loves a baby face, with violets there, violets instead of laurel in the hair, as those were all the little locks could bear. now, read here. "protus ends a period of empery beginning with a god; born in the porphyry chamber at byzant, queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant: and if he quickened breath there, 'twould like fire pantingly through the dim vast realm transpire. a fame that he was missing spread afar: the world from its four corners, rose in war, till he was borne out on a balcony to pacify the world when it should see. the captains ranged before him, one, his hand made baby points at, gained the chief command. and day by day more beautiful he grew in shape, all said, in feature and in hue, while young greek sculptors, gazing on the child, became with old greek sculpture reconciled. already sages laboured to condense in easy tomes a life's experience: and artists took grave counsel to impart in one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art, to make his graces prompt as blossoming of plentifully-watered palms in spring: since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne, for beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone, and mortals love the letters of his name." --stop! have you turned two pages? still the same. new reign, same date. the scribe goes on to say how that same year, on such a month and day, "john the pannonian, groundedly believed a blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand reprieved the empire from its fate the year before, came, had a mind to take the crown, and wore the same for six years (during which the huns kept off their fingers from us), till his sons put something in his liquor"--and so forth. then a new reign. stay--"take at its just worth" (subjoins an annotator) "what i give as hearsay. some think, john let protus live and slip away. 'tis said, he reached man's age at some blind northern court; made, first a page, then tutor to the children; last, of use about the hunting-stables. i deduce he wrote the little tract 'on worming dogs,' whereof the name in sundry catalogues is extant yet. a protus of the race is rumoured to have died a monk in thrace, and if the same, he reached senility." here's john the smith's rough-hammered head. great eye, gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can to give you the crown-grasper. what a man! notes: "protus" sets in contrast the representations by artist and annalist of the two busts and the two lives of protus, the baby emperor of byzantium, born in the purple, gently nurtured and cherished, yet fated to obscurity, and of john, the blacksmith's bastard, predestined to usurp his throne and save the empire with his harder hand. the statue and the bust there's a palace in florence, the world knows well, and a statue watches it from the square, and this story of both do our townsmen tell. ages ago, a lady there, at the farthest window facing the east asked, "who rides by with the royal air?" the bridesmaids' prattle around her ceased; she leaned forth, one on either hand; they saw how the blush of the bride increased-- they felt by its beats her heart expand-- as one at each ear and both in a breath whispered, "the great-duke ferdinand." that self-same instant, underneath, the duke rode past in his idle way, empty and fine like a swordless sheath. gay he rode, with a friend as gay, till he threw his head back--"who is she?" "a bride the riccardi brings home to-day." hair in heaps lay heavily over a pale brow spirit-pure-- carved like the heart of a coal-black tree, crisped like a war-steed's encolure-- and vainly sought to dissemble her eyes of the blackest black our eyes endure. and lo, a blade for a knight's emprise filled the fine empty sheath of a man-- the duke grew straightway brave and wise. he looked at her, as a lover can; she looked at him, as one who awakes: the past was a sleep, and her life began. now, love so ordered for both their sakes, a feast was held that selfsame night in the pile which the mighty shadow makes. (for via larga is three-parts light, but the palace overshadows one, because of a crime which may god requite! to florence and god the wrong was done, through the first republic's murder there by cosimo and his cursed son.) the duke (with the statue's face in the square) turned in the midst of his multitude at the bright approach of the bridal pair. face to face the lovers stood a single minute and no more, while the bridegroom bent as a man subdued-- bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor-- for the duke on the lady a kiss conferred, as the courtly custom was of yore. in a minute can lovers exchange a word? if a word did pass, which i do not think, only one out of the thousand heard. that was the bridegroom. at day's brink he and his bride were alone at last in a bedchamber by a taper's blink. calmly he said that her lot was cast, that the door she had passed was shut on her till the final catafalk repassed. the world meanwhile, its noise and stir, through a certain window facing the east, she could watch like a convent's chronicler. since passing the door might lead to a feast and a feast might lead to so much beside, he, of many evils, chose the least. "freely i choose too," said the bride-- "your window and its world suffice," replied the tongue, while the heart replied-- "if i spend the night with that devil twice, may his window serve as my loop of hell whence a damned soul looks on paradise! "i fly to the duke who loves me well, sit by his side and laugh at sorrow! ere i count another ave-bell, "'tis only the coat of a page to borrow, and tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim, and i save my soul--but not to-morrow"-- (she checked herself and her eye grew dim) "my father tarries to bless my state: i must keep it one day more for him. "is one day more so long to wait? moreover the duke rides past, i know; we shall see each other, sure as fate." she turned on her side and slept. just so! so we resolve on a thing and sleep: so did the lady, ages ago. that night the duke said, "dear or cheap as the cost of this cup of bliss may prove to body or soul, i will drain it deep." and on the morrow, bold with love, he beckoned the bridegroom (close on call, as his duty bade, by the duke's alcove) and smiled, "'twas a very funeral, your lady will think, this feast of ours, a shame to efface, whate'er befall! "what if we break from the arno bowers, and try if petraja, cool and green, cure last night's fault with this morning's flowers?" the bridegroom, not a thought to be seen on his steady brow and quiet mouth, said, "too much favour for me so mean! "but, alas! my lady leaves the south; each wind that comes from the apennine is a menace to her tender youth: "nor a way exists, the wise opine, if she quits her palace twice this year, to avert the flower of life's decline." quoth the duke, "a sage and a kindly fear. moreover petraja is cold this spring: be our feast to-night as usual here!" and then to himself--"which night shall bring thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool-- or i am the fool, and thou art the king! "yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool-- for to-night the envoy arrives from france whose heart i unlock with thyself my tool. "i need thee still and might miss perchance. to-day is not wholly lost, beside, with its hope of my lady's countenance: "for i ride--what should i do but ride? and passing her palace, if i list, may glance at its window-well betide!" so said, so done: nor the lady missed one ray that broke from the ardent brow, nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed. be sure that each renewed the vow, no morrow's sun should arise and set and leave them then as it left them now. but next day passed, and next day yet, with still fresh cause to wait one day more ere each leaped over the parapet. and still, as love's brief morning wore, with a gentle start, half smile, half sigh, they found love not as it seemed before. they thought it would work infallibly, but not in despite of heaven and earth: the rose would blow when the storm passed by. meantime they could profit in winter's dearth by store of fruits that supplant the rose: the world and its ways have a certain worth: and to press a point while these oppose were simple policy; better wait: we lose no friends and we gain no foes. meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate who daily may ride and pass and look where his lady watches behind the grate! and she--she watched the square like a book holding one picture and only one, which daily to find she undertook: when the picture was reached the book was done, and she turned from the picture at night to scheme of tearing it out for herself next sun. so weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleam the glory dropped from their youth and love, and both perceived they had dreamed a dream; which hovered as dreams do, still above: but who can take a dream for a truth? oh, hide our eyes from the next remove! one day as the lady saw her youth depart, and the silver thread that streaked her hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth, the brow so puckered, the chin so peaked, and wondered who the woman was, hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked, fronting her silent in the glass-- "summon here," she suddenly said, "before the rest of my old self pass, "him, the carver, a hand to aid, who fashions the clay no love will change and fixes a beauty never to fade. "let robbia's craft so apt and strange arrest the remains of young and fair, and rivet them while the seasons range. "make me a face on the window there, waiting as ever, mute the while, my love to pass below in the square! "and let me think that it may beguile dreary days which the dead must spend down in their darkness under the aisle, "to say, 'what matters it at the end? 'i did no more while my heart was warm than does that image, my pale-faced friend.' "where is the use of the lip's red charm, the heaven of hair, the pride of the brow, and the blood that blues the inside arm-- "unless we turn, as the soul knows how, the earthly gift to an end divine? a lady of clay is as good, i trow." but long ere robbia's cornice, fine, with flowers and fruits which leaves enlace, was set where now is the empty shrine-- (and, leaning out of a bright blue space, as a ghost might lean from a chink of sky, the passionate pale lady's face-- eyeing ever, with earnest eye and quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch, some one who ever is passing by) the duke had sighed like the simplest wretch in florence, "youth--my dream escapes! will its record stay?" and he bade them fetch some subtle moulder of brazen shapes-- "can the soul, the will, die out of a man ere his body find the grave that gapes? "john of douay shall effect my plan, set me on horseback here aloft, alive, as the crafty sculptor can, "in the very square i have crossed so oft: that men may admire, when future suns shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft, "while the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze-- admire and say, 'when he was alive how he would take his pleasure once!' "and it shall go hard but i contrive to listen the while, and laugh in my tomb at idleness which aspires to strive." -------------------------------- so! while these wait the trump of doom, how do their spirits pass, i wonder, nights and days in the narrow room? still, i suppose, they sit and ponder what a gift life was, ages ago, six steps out of the chapel yonder. only they see not god, i know, nor all that chivalry of his, the soldier-saints who, row on row, burn upward each to his point of bliss-- since, the end of life being manifest, he had burned his way thro' the world to this. i hear you reproach, "but delay was best, for their end was a crime." oh, a crime will do as well, i reply, to serve for a test, as a virtue golden through and through, sufficient to vindicate itself and prove its worth at a moment's view! must a game be played for the sake of pelf where a button goes, 'twere an epigram to offer the stamp of the very guelph. the true has no value beyond the sham: as well the counter as coin, i submit, when your table's a hat, and your prize a dram. stake your counter as boldly every whit, venture as warily, use the same skill, do your best, whether winning or losing it, if you choose to play!--is my principle. let a man contend to the uttermost for his life's set prize, be it what it will! the counter our lovers staked was lost as surely as if it were lawful coin: and the sin i impute to each frustrate ghost is--the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, though the end in sight was a vice, i say. you of the virtue (we issue join) how strive you? de te, fabula! notes: "the statue and the bust" creates the characters and the situation, and dramatically represents a story which is based on a florentine tradition that duke ferdinand i placed his equestrian statue in the piazza dell' annunziata so that he might gaze forever towards the old riccardi palace, where a lady he loved was imprisoned by her jealous husband. the bride and her ducal lover are seen exchanging their first looks, through which they perceive the genuineness of their love; and the temporizing of each is presented, through which, for the sake of petty conveniences, they submit to be thwarted by the wary husband, and to have the end they count supreme delayed until love and youth have gone, and the best left them is the artificial gaze interchanged by a bronze statue in the square and a clay face at the window. the closing stanzas point the moral against the palsy of the will, whose strenuous exercise is life's main gift. i. there's a palace in florence: refers to the old riccardi palace, now the palazzo antinori, in the square of the annunziata, where the statue still stands. . encolure: neck and shoulder of a horse . the pile which the mighty shadow makes: refers to another palace in the via larga where the duke (not the lady) lived, and which is to-day known as the riccardi palace. cooke's "browning guide book" and berdoe's "browning cyclopaedia" both confuse the two, attributing error to browning in spite of his letter about it. this confusion was cleared up by harriet ford (poet-lore, dec. , vol. iii. p. , "browning right about the riccardi palace''). . because of a crime, etc.: refers to the destroying of the liberties of the florentine republic by cosimo dei medici and his grandson, lorenzo, who lived in the then medici (now riccardi) palace, whose darkening of the street with its bulk symbolizes the crime which took the light from florence. . catafalk: the stage or scaffolding for a coffin whilst in the church . arno bowers: the palace by the arno, the river flowing through florence. . petraja: a florentine suburb. . robbia's craft: the robbia family were skilled in shaping the bisque known as della robbia ware which was long one of the florentine manufactures, and traces of which, when browning wrote, still adorned the outer cornice of the palace. . john of douay [giovanni of bologna], sculptor ( - ). the statue is one of his finest works. . de te, fabula! concerning thee, this fable! porphyria's lover the rain set early in to-night, the sullen wind was soon awake, it tore the elm-tops down for spite, and did its worst to vex the lake: i listened with heart fit to break. when glided in porphyria; straight she shut the cold out and the storm, and kneeled and made the cheerless grate blaze up, and all the cottage warm; which done, she rose, and from her form withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, and laid her soiled gloves by, untied her hat and let the damp hair fall, and, last, she sat down by my side and called me. when no voice replied, she put my arm about her waist, and made her smooth white shoulder bare, and all her yellow hair displaced, and, stooping, made my cheek lie there, and spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, murmuring how she loved me--she too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, to set its struggling passion free from pride, and vainer ties dissever, and give herself to me for ever. but passion sometimes would prevail, nor could to-night's gay feast restrain a sudden thought of one so pale for love of her, and all in vain: so, she was come through wind and rain. be sure i looked up at her eyes happy and proud; at last i knew porphyria worshipped me; surprise made my heart swell, and still it grew while i debated what to do. that moment she was mine, mine, fair, perfectly pure and good: i found a thing to do, and all her hair in one long yellow string i wound three times her little throat around, and strangled her. no pain felt she; i am quite sure she felt no pain. as a shut bud that holds a bee, i warily oped her lids: again laughed the blue eyes without a stain. and i untightened next the tress about her neck; her cheek once more blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: i propped her head up as before, only, this time my shoulder bore her head, which droops upon it still: the smiling rosy little head, so glad it has its utmost will, that all it scorned at once is fled, and i, its love, am gained instead! porphyria's love: she guessed not how her darling one wish would be heard. and thus we sit together now, and all night long we have not stirred, and yet god has not said a word! notes: "porphyria's lover" relates how, by strangling porphyria with her own yellow hair, the lover seized and preserved the moment of perfect love when, pure and good, porphyria left the world she could not forego for his sake, and came to him, for once conquered by her love. a latent misgiving as to his action is intimated in the closing line of the poem. remarking upon the fact that browning removed the original title, "madhouse cells," which headed this poem, and "johannes agricola in meditation," mrs. orr says: "such a crime might be committed in a momentary aberration, or even intense excitement of feeling. it is characterized here by a matter-of-fact simplicity, which is its sign of madness. the distinction, however, is subtle; and we can easily guess why this and its companion poem did not retain their title. a madness which is fit for dramatic treatment is not sufficiently removed from sanity." "childe roland to the dark tower came." (see edgar's song in "lear.") i my first thought was, he lied in every word, that hoary cripple, with malicious eye askance to watch the working of his lie on mine, and mouth scarce able to afford suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. ii what else should he be set for, with his staff? what, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare all travellers who might find him posted there, and ask the road? i guessed what skull-like laugh would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph for pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, iii if at his counsel i should turn aside into that ominous tract which, all agree hides the dark tower. yet acquiescingly i did turn as he pointed: neither pride nor hope rekindling at the end descried so much as gladness that some end might be. iv for, what with my whole world-wide wandering, what with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope with that obstreperous joy success would bring, i hardly tried now to rebuke the spring my heart made, finding failure in its scope. v as when a sick man very near to death seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end the tears and takes the farewell of each friend, and hears one bid the other go, draw breath freelier outside ("since all is o'er," he saith, "and the blow fallen no grieving can amend"); vi while some discuss if near the other graves be room enough for this, and when a day suits best for carrying the corpse away, with care about the banners, scarves and staves: and still the man hears all, and only craves he may not shame such tender love and stay. vii thus, i had so long suffered in this quest, heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ so many times among "the band"--to wit, the knights who to the dark tower's search addressed their steps--that just to fail as they, seemed best, and all the doubt was now--should i be fit? viii so, quiet as despair, i turned from him, that hateful cripple, out of his highway into the path he pointed. all the day had been a dreary one at best, and dim was settling to its close, yet shot one grim red leer to see the plain catch its estray. ix for mark! no sooner was i fairly found pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, than, pausing to throw backward a last view o'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round: nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. i might go on; nought else remained to do. x so, on i went. i think i never saw such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: for flowers-as well expect a cedar grove! but cockle, spurge, according to their law might propagate their kind, with none to awe, you'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove. xi no! penury, inertness and grimace, in some strange sort, were the land's portion. "see or shut your eyes," said nature peevishly, "it nothing skills: i cannot help my case: 'tis the last judgment's fire must cure this place, calcine its clods and set my prisoners free." xii if there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents were jealous else. what made those holes and rents in the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk all hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. xiii as for the grass, it grew as scant as hair in leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. one stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, stood stupefied, however he came there: thrust out past service from the devil's stud! xiv alive? he might be dead for aught i know, with that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, and shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; i never saw a brute i hated so; he must be wicked to deserve such pain. xv i shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. as a man calls for wine before he fights, i asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, ere fitly i could hope to play my part. think first, fight afterwards--the soldier's art: one taste of the old time sets all to rights. xvi not it! i fancied cuthbert's reddening face beneath its garniture of curly gold, dear fellow, till i almost felt him fold an arm in mine to fix me to the place that way he used. alas, one night's disgrace! out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. xvii giles then, the soul of honour--there he stands frank as ten years ago when knighted first. what honest man should dare (he said) he durst. good-=but the scene shifts--faugh! what hangman hands pin to his breast a parchment? his own bands read it. poor traitor, spit upon and curst! xviii better this present than a past like that; back therefore to my darkening path again! no sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. will the night send a howlet or a bat? i asked: when something on the dismal flat came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. xix a sudden little river crossed my path as unexpected as a serpent comes. no sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; this, as it frothed by, might have been a bath for the fiend's glowing hoof--to see the wrath of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. xx so petty yet so spiteful! all along, low scrubby alders kneeled down over it drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit of mute despair, a suicidal throng: the river which had done them all the wrong, whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. xxi which, while i forded,--good saints, how i feared to set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, each step, or feel the spear i thrust to seek for hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! --it may have been a water-rat i speared, but, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek. xxii glad was i when i reached the other bank. now for a better country. vain presage! who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, whose savage trample thus could pad the dank soil to a plash? toads in a poisoned tank, or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage-- xxiii the fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. what penned them there, with all the plain to choose? no foot-print leading to that horrid mews, none out of it. mad brewage set to work their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the turk pits for his pastime, christians against jews. xxiv and more than that--a furlong on--why, there! what bad use was that engine for, that wheel, or brake, not wheel--that harrow fit to reel men's bodies out like silk? with all the air of tophet's tool, on earth left unaware or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. xxv then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood changes and off he goes!) within a rood-- bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth. xxvi now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, now patches where some leanness of the soil's broke into moss or substances like boils; then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him like a distorted mouth that splits its rim gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. xxvii and just as far as ever from the end! nought in the distance but the evening, nought to point my footstep further! at the thought a great black bird, apollyon's bosom-friend, sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned that brushed my cap--perchance the guide i sought. xxviii for, looking up, aware i somehow grew, 'spite of the dusk, the plain had given place all round to mountains--with such name to grace mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. how thus they had surprised me,--solve it, you! how to get from them was no clearer case. xxix yet half i seemed to recognize some trick of mischief happened to me, god knows when-- in a bad dream perhaps. here ended, then, progress this way. when, in the very nick of giving up, one time more, came a click as when a trap shuts--you're inside the den! xxx burningly it came on me all at once, this was the place! those two hills on the right crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; while to the left, a tall scalped mountain... dunce, dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, after a life spent training for the sight! xxxi what in the midst lay but the tower itself? the round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, built of brown stone, without a counterpart in the whole world. the tempest's mocking elf points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf he strikes on, only when the timbers start. xxxii not see? because of night perhaps?--why, day came back again for that! before it left, the dying sunset kindled through a cleft: the hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,-- "now stab and end the creature--to the heft!" xxxiii not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled increasing like a bell. names in my ears of all the lost adventurers my peers,-- how such a one was strong, and such was bold, and such was fortunate, yet each of old lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. xxxiv there they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met to view the last of me, a living frame for one more picture! in a sheet of flame i saw them and i knew them all. and yet dauntless the slug-horn to my lips i set, and blew. "childe roland to the dark tower came." notes: "childe roland" symbolizes the conquest of despair by fealty to the ideal. browning emphatically disclaimed any precise allegorical intention in this poem. he acknowledged only an ideal purport in which the significance of the whole, as suggesting a vision of life and the saving power of constancy, had its due place. certain picturesque materials which had made their impressions on the poet's mind contributed towards the building up of this realistic fantasy: a tower he saw in the carrara mountains; a painting which caught his eye later in paris; the figure of a horse in the tapestry in his own drawing-room--welded together with the remembrance of the line cited from king lear, iii. , , which last, it should be remembered, has a background of ballads and legend cycles of which a man like browning was not unaware. for allegorical schemes of the poem see nettleship's "essays and thoughts," and the critic, apr. , ; for an antidote to these, the critic, may , ; an orthodox view, poet-lore, nov. : for interpretations touching on the ballad sources, london browning society papers, part iii. p. , and poet-lore, aug.-sept. . note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) transcriber's note: minor punctuation errors have been corrected without notice. other changes are listed at the end. all other inconsistencies are as in the original. the lake library edition selections from the poems and plays of robert browning edited, with an introduction by myra reynolds professor of english literature in the university of chicago [illustration: robert browning] scott, foresman and company chicago atlanta new york copyright, scott, foresman and company . contents introduction-- page i. the life of browning ii. the poetry of browning bibliography chronological table selections from browning-- (_the figures in parentheses refer to the pages of the notes._) songs from paracelsus ( ) cavalier tunes ( ) the lost leader ( ) "how they brought the good news" ( ) the flower's name ( ) meeting at night ( ) parting at morning ( ) evelyn hope ( ) love among the ruins ( ) up at a villa--down in the city ( ) a toccata of galuppi's ( ) old pictures in florence ( ) "de gustibus--" ( ) home-thoughts, from abroad ( ) home-thoughts, from the sea ( ) saul ( ) my star ( ) two in the campagna ( ) in three days ( ) the guardian-angel ( ) memorabilia ( ) incident of the french camp ( ) my last duchess ( ) the boy and the angel ( ) the pied piper of hamelin ( ) the flight of the duchess ( ) a grammarian's funeral ( ) "childe roland to the dark tower came" ( ) how it strikes a contemporary ( ) fra lippo lippi ( ) andrea del sarto ( ) the bishop orders his tomb at saint praxed's church ( ) cleon ( ) one word more ( ) abt vogler ( ) rabbi ben ezra ( ) caliban upon setebos ( ) may and death ( ) prospice ( ) a face ( ) o lyric love ( ) prologue to pacchiarotto ( ) house ( ) shop ( ) hervé riel ( ) good to forgive ( ) "such a starved bank of moss" ( ) epilogue to the two poets of croisic ( ) pheidippides ( ) muléykeh ( ) wanting is--what? ( ) never the time and the place ( ) the patriot ( ) instans tyrannus ( ) the italian in england ( ) "round us the wild creatures" ( ) prologue to asolando ( ) summum bonum ( ) epilogue to asolando ( ) pippa passes ( ) notes introduction the life of browning robert browning, the poet, was the third of that name. the first robert browning, a man of energy and ability, held an important post in the bank of england. his wife, margaret tittle, was a creole from the west indies, and at the time of her marriage her property was still in the estates owned by her father near st. kitts. when their son, the second robert, was seven years of age, his mother died, and his father afterwards married again. the second wife's ascendency over her husband was unfortunately exerted against the best interests of the son. his desire to become an artist, his wish for a university training, were disregarded, and he was sent instead to st. kitts, where he was given employment on his mother's sugar plantations. the breach between robert and his father became absolute when the boy defied local prejudice by teaching a negro to read, and when, because of what his father considered a sentimental objection to slavery, he finally refused to remain in the west indies. the young man returned to england and at twenty-two started on an independent career as a clerk in the bank of england. in he married sarah anne wiedemann. they settled in camberwell, london, where robert, the poet, was born, may , , and his sister sarianna in . browning's father was a competent official in the bank and a successful business man, but his tastes were æsthetic and literary, and his leisure time was accordingly devoted to such pursuits as the collection of old books and manuscripts. he also read widely in both classic and modern literatures. the first book of the _iliad_ he knew by heart, and all the _odes_ of horace, and he was accustomed to soothe his child to sleep by humming to him snatches of anacreon to the tune of "a cottage in the wood." mr. browning had also considerable skill in two realms of art, for he drew vigorous portraits and caricatures, and he had, even according to his son's mature judgment, extraordinary force and facility in verse-making. in character he was serene, lovable, gentle, "tenderhearted to a fault." so instinctively chivalrous was he that there was "no service which the ugliest, oldest, crossest woman in the world might not have exacted of him." he was a man of great physical vigor, dying at the age of eighty-four without ever having been ill. browning's mother was the daughter of william wiedemann, a german who had settled in dundee and married a scotch wife. mrs. browning impressed all who knew her by her sweetness and goodness. carlyle spoke of her as "the true type of a scottish gentlewoman"; her son's friend, mr. kenyon, said that such as she had no need to go to heaven, because they made it wherever they were; and her son called her "a divine woman." she had deep religious instincts and concerned herself particularly with her son's moral and spiritual development. the bond between them was always very strong, and when she died in his wife wrote, "he has loved his mother as such passionate natures can love, and i never saw a man so bowed down in an extremity of sorrow--never." robert browning's childhood was passed in an unusually serene and happy home. in _development_ he tells how, at five years of age, he was made to understand the main facts of the trojan war by his father's clever use of the cat, the dogs, the pony in the stable, and the page-boy, to impersonate the heroes of that ancient conflict. latin declensions were taught the child by rhymes concocted by his father as memory-easing devices. stories and even lessons were made intelligible and vivid by colored maps and comic drawings. until the boy was fourteen, his schooling was of the most casual sort, his only formal training being such as he received in the comparatively unimportant three or four years he spent, after he was ten, at mr. ready's private school. his real education came, through all his early life, from his home. what would now be called nature-study he pursued ardently and on his own initiative in the home garden and neighboring fields. his love for animals was inherited from his mother and fostered by her. he used to keep, says mrs. orr in her account of his life, "owls and monkeys, magpies and hedge-hogs, an eagle, and even a couple of large snakes, constantly bringing home the more portable animals in his pockets and transferring them to his mother for immediate care." browning says that his faculty of observation at this time would not have disgraced a seminole indian. in the matter of reading he was not entirely without advice and guidance, but was, on the whole, allowed unusual freedom of choice. he afterwards told mrs. orr that milton, quarles, voltaire, mandeville, and horace walpole were the authors in whom, as a boy, he particularly delighted. his love for art was established and developed by visits to the dulwich picture gallery, of which he afterwards wrote to miss barrett with "love and gratitude" because he had been allowed to go there before the age prescribed by the rules, and had thus learned to know "a wonderful rembrandt," a watteau, "three triumphant murillos," a giorgione music lesson, and various poussins. his marked early susceptibility to music is evidenced by an incident narrated by mr. sharp: "one afternoon his mother was playing in the twilight to herself. she was startled to hear a sound behind her. glancing round she beheld a little white figure distinct against an oak bookcase, and could just discern two large wistful eyes looking earnestly at her. the next moment the child had sprung into her arms, sobbing passionately at he knew not what, but, as his paroxysm subsided, whispering with shy urgency: 'play! play!'" in various ways the boy robert was noticeably precocious. he could not remember a time, he said, when he did not rhyme, and his sister records that as a very little boy he used to walk around the table "spanning out on the smooth mahogany the scansion of verses he had composed." some of these early lines he could recall and he could recall, too, the prodigious satisfaction with which he uttered them, especially the sentence he put into the mouth of a man who had just committed murder--"now my soul is satisfied." at twelve he had a volume named _incondita_ ready for publication. to discerning eyes the little volume was a production of great promise, dominated though it was by the influence of his father's idol, pope, and of his own temporary ruling deity, byron. but a publisher was not found, and in later years, at browning's request, the two extant manuscript copies of _incondita_ were destroyed, along with many others of his youthful poems that had been preserved by his father. browning's early tastes in the realm of poetry were, on the whole, romantic. "now here is the truth," he wrote to miss barrett, "the first book i ever bought in my life was ossian--and years before that the first _composition_ i ever was guilty of was something in _imitation_ of ossian whom i had not read, but _conceived_, through two or three scraps in other books." but the decisive literary influence was yet to come. when he was fourteen he happened to see on a bookstall a volume marked, "mr. shelley's atheistical poem. very scarce"; and he at once wished to know more of this mr. shelley. after a perplexing search his mother found the desired poems, most of them in first editions, at the olliers, vere street, london. she took home also three volumes by another poet, john keats, who, she was told, was the subject of an elegy by shelley. browning never forgot the may evening when he first read these new books, to the accompaniment, he said, of two nightingales, one in a copper-beech, one in a laburnum, each striving to outdo the other in melody. a new imaginative world was opened to the boy. in _memorabilia_ he afterwards recorded the strong intellectual and emotional excitement, the thrill and ecstasy of this poetical experience. to shelley especially did he give immediate and fervid personal loyalty, even to the extent of endeavoring to follow him in "atheism" and vegetarianism. when at fourteen the boy left mr. ready's school it was decided that his further education should be carried on at home under private tutors. he studied music under able masters, one in thorough-bass, and one in execution. he played and sang, and he composed spirited settings for songs. he read voraciously. he took lessons in dancing, riding, boxing, and fencing, and is said to have shown himself exceptionally active and vigorous. he kept up his interest in art, and he practiced drawing from casts. he found time also for various friendships. for miss eliza and miss sarah flower, two sisters, nine and seven years his senior, he had a deep affection. both young ladies were gifted in music, and this was one source of their attractions for the music-loving boy. miss sarah flower wrote sacred hymns, the best known of which is "nearer my god to thee," and her sister composed music which browning, even in his mature years, ranked as of especial significance. other friends of this period were joseph arnold, afterwards chief justice of bombay, and a man of great ability; alfred domett, a striking and interesting personality described by browning in a poem beginning "what's become of waring," and referred to in "the guardian angel"; and the three silverthorne boys, his cousins, the death of one of whom was the occasion of the poem "may and death." in spite of friends, a beautiful home, and congenial work, this period of home tutelage does not seem to have been altogether happy. his sister in commenting on this period said, "the fact was, poor boy, he had outgrown his social surroundings. they were absolutely good, but they were narrow; it could not be otherwise; he chafed under them." furthermore, the youth, before he had found his real work as a poet, was restless, irritable, and opinionated; and an ever-present cause of friction was the fact that there were few subjects of taste on which he and his father did not disagree. their poetic tastes were especially at variance. the father counted pope supreme in poetry, and it was many years before he could take pleasure in the form in which his son's genius expressed itself. all the more noteworthy, then, is the generosity with which mr. browning looked after his son's interests through the unprofitable early years of his poetic career, a generosity never lost sight of by the son. mr. sharp in his _life of browning_ records some words uttered by mr. browning a week or two before his death, which show how permanent was his sense of indebtedness to his father. "it would have been quite unpardonable in my case," he said, "not to have done my best. my dear father put me in a condition most favorable for the best work i was capable of. when i think of the many authors who have had to fight their way through all sorts of difficulties, i have no reason to be proud of my achievements.... he secured for me all the care and comfort that a literary man needs to do good work. it would have been shameful if i had not done my best to realize his expectations of me." after it was determined that robert should "commence poet," he and his father came to the conclusion that a university training had many elements foreign to the aim the youth had set before him, and that a richer and more directly available preparation could be gained from "sedulous cultivation of the powers of his mind" at home, and from "seeing life in the best sense" at home and abroad. mrs. orr tells us that the first qualifying step of the zealous young poet was to read and digest the whole of dr. johnson's _dictionary_. browning's first published poem, _pauline_, appeared anonymously in january, , when he was twenty years old. this poem is of especial autobiographical interest. its enthusiastic praise of shelley recalls his early devotion to that poet, and in many scattered passages we find references to his own personality or experiences. the following lines show with what intensity he recreated the lives and scenes in the books he read: and i myself went with the tale--a god wandering after beauty, or a giant standing vast in the sunset--an old hunter talking with gods, or a high-crested chief sailing with troops of friends to tenedos. i tell you, naught has ever been so clear as the place, the time, the fashion of those lives: i had not seen a work of lofty art, nor woman's beauty, nor sweet nature's face, yet, i say, never morn broke clear as those on the dim clustered isles in the blue sea, the deep groves and white temples and wet caves; and nothing ever will surprise me now-- who stood beside the naked swift-footed, who bound my forehead with proserpine's hair. there is true and powerful self-analysis in the lines beginning: i am made up of an intensest life; and the invocation in lines - reveals the passionately religious nature of the young poet. in _the early writings of robert browning_[ ] mr. gosse gives an account of the impression made by this poem upon men so diverse as the rev. william johnson fox, john stuart mill, and dante gabriel rossetti, to all of whom, in spite of its crudities and very evident immaturity, it seemed a production of exceptional promise. after an interval of two years browning published, this time under his own name, a second long poem. the subject, paracelsus, had been suggested by the friend, amédeé de ripert-monclar, to whom the poem is dedicated. in pursuance of his purposed rehabilitation of a vanished age browning made extensive researches in the british museum into the history of paracelsus, the great leader in sixteenth century medical science; but in the poem the facts are subordinated to a minute analysis of the spiritual history of paracelsus. the poem was too abstruse in subject and style to bring browning popularity, but his genius was recognized by important critics, and, though he was but twenty-three, he was admitted into the foremost literary circles of london. one of his most distinguished new friends was mr. macready, the great actor. it was at his house that browning first met mr. forster, who had already written favorable critiques of _paracelsus_, one for _the examiner_ and one for _the new monthly magazine_. other literary associates of this period were leigh hunt, barry cornwall, sergeant talfourd, dickens, and walter savage landor. there were not infrequent dinners and suppers to which the young poet was welcomed. he is described as being at this period singularly handsome. "he looks and acts," said mr. macready, "more like a youthful poet than any man i ever saw." he had sculpturesque masses of dark wavy hair, a skin like delicate ivory, deep-set, expressive eyes, and a sensitive mouth. he was slender, graceful, and most attractive in manner, and he was something of a dandy in his attention to dress. he is said to have made an especially good impression on one occasion when the circumstances must have been as trying as they were exhilarating. in may, , a group of poets had assembled at mr. talfourd's to celebrate macready's successful production of talfourd's _ion_. browning sat opposite macready, who was between wordsworth and landor. when talfourd proposed a toast, "the poets of england," he spoke in complimentary terms of wordsworth and landor, but called for a response from "the youngest of the poets of england, the author of _paracelsus_." landor raised his cup to the young man, and wordsworth shook hands with him across the table, saying, "i am proud to know you, mr. browning." browning's third literary venture was a tragedy, _strafford_, dedicated to macready, at whose request it was written. the drama presents the impeachment, condemnation, and execution of the earl of strafford, a statesman who, according to the play, loved the unworthy king charles the first and sacrificed everything, even to life itself, in his blind loyalty to a master who treacherously deserted him in the hour of need. it was a topic to which browning had already given much thought, for he had the preceding year completed, from materials supplied by mr. john forster, a _life of strafford_ begun by forster for lardner's _eminent british statesmen_.[ ] the question of the historic truthfulness of the drama is discussed by the historian gardiner in the introduction to miss emily h. hickey's edition of _strafford_. he shows that the play is in its details and "even in the very roots of the situation" untrue to fact, and yet he maintains that in the chief characters there is essential truth of conception. "every time that i read the play," says gardiner, "i feel more certain that browning has seized the real strafford ... charles, too, with his faults, perhaps exaggerated, is nevertheless the real charles." the play was produced at covent garden theater in may, , with macready as strafford and miss helen faucit as lady carlisle, and was successful in spite of poor scenery and costuming and poor acting in some of the parts. but owing to the financial condition of the theater and the consequent withdrawal of one of the important actors after the fifth night, the play had but a brief run. it was presented again in under the auspices of the browning society, and its power as an acting play "surprised and impressed" the audience. before the composition of _strafford_ browning had begun a long poem, _sordello_, which he completed after his first visit to italy in , and published in . no one of his poems is more difficult to read, and many are the stories told of the dismay occasioned by its various perplexities. the effect of this poem on browning's fame was disastrous. in fact, after _sordello_ there began a period, twenty years long, of almost complete indifference in england to browning's work. the enthusiasm over the promise of his early poems died quite away. late in life mr. browning commented on this period of his literary career as a time of "prolonged desolateness." yet the years - are the years in which he attained his poetic maturity, and years in which he did some of his best work. during this period he brought out the series somewhat fancifully called _bells and pomegranates_. the phrase itself comes from _exodus_ xxviii, , . as a title browning explained it to mean "something like a mixture of music with discoursing, sound with sense, poetry with thought." this cheap serial edition, the separate numbers of which sold at first at sixpence and later at half a crown, included _pippa passes_, _king victor and king charles_, _dramatic lyrics_, _the return of the druses_, _a blot in the 'scutcheon_, _colombe's birthday_, _dramatic romances and lyrics_, _luria_, and _a soul's tragedy_. all of browning's plays except _strafford_ and _in a balcony_ came out of this series. the most beautiful of them all, _pippa passes_, appeared in . it is hardly a drama at all in the conventional sense, though it has one scene, that between ottima and sebald, of the highest dramatic power; but it has always been a favorite with readers. when it was published miss barrett wrote to mr. browning that she found it in her heart to covet the authorship of this poem more than any other of his works, and he said in answer that he, too, liked _pippa_ better than anything else he had yet done. mr. sharp, while emphasizing the undramatic quality of the play, counts it "the most imperishable because the most nearly immaculate of browning's dramatic poems." "it seems to me," he adds, "like all simple and beautiful things, profound enough for the sinking plummet of the most curious explorer of the depths of life. it can be read, re-read, learned by heart, and the more it is known the wider and more alluring are the avenues of imaginative thought which it discloses. it has, more than any other long composition by its author, that quality of symmetry, that _symmetria prisca_ recorded of leonardo da vinci in the latin epitaph of platino piatto; and, as might be expected, its mental basis, what rossetti called fundamental brain work, is as luminous, depth within depth, as the morning air.... everyone who knows browning at all knows _pippa passes_." of the seven dramas published in _bells and pomegranates_ there is comparatively little stage history to record. in spite of occasional fairly successful productions it must be admitted that browning's plays have never achieved, probably never will achieve, popularity in the shape of long runs in many cities.[ ] they are too subjective, too analytic, too psychological, for quick or easy understanding. but to the reader they offer many delights. the stories are clear, coherent, interesting; the characters strongly individualized; the crises of experience stimulating; the interaction of personalities subtly analyzed; the poetry noble and beautiful. the two non-dramatic numbers of _bells and pomegranates_ were _dramatic lyrics_ (no. , ) and _dramatic romances and lyrics_ (no. , ). the first included such poems as "cavalier tunes," "in a gondola," "porphyria," and "the pied piper of hamelin"; the second included "how they brought the good news from ghent to aix," "the lost leader," "the tomb at st. praxed's," "the flight of the duchess," "the boy and the angel," and the first part of "saul." these poems, together with the dramas, make a remarkably rich body of poetry to be produced in the short space of five years. and the character of the work, its variety and beauty and strength and originality, were such that its meager and grudging acceptance seems now inexplicable. the most important event in the life of browning during this period was his acquaintance with miss elizabeth barrett. in she brought out a new volume of poems which he saw and greatly admired. he wrote to her expressing delight in her work and asking permission to call; but miss barrett, owing to long-continued invalidism, had lived in almost entire seclusion, and she was not at first willing to receive mr. browning. this was in january, , and many letters passed between them before the first interview in the following may. mr. browning's love for miss barrett found almost immediate expression and she was soon conscious of an equally strong love for him, but for a considerable time she persistently refused to marry him. to her mind the obstacles were almost insurmountable. of these her ill-health was chief. she could not consent, she said, to dim the prosperities of his career by a union with her future, which she characterized as a precarious thing, a thing for making burdens out of--but not for his carrying. in exchange for the "noble extravagancies" of his love she could bring him only "anxiety and more sadness than he was born to." this obstacle of ill-health was unexpectedly modified by a very mild winter and by the new physical vigor brought in the train of new happiness. from this point of view the marriage, though hazardous, was practicable by the end of the summer of . a second obstacle lay in the nature and opinions of miss barrett's father, who governed even his grown-up children by "an incredible system of patriarchal absolutism." by what was variously termed an obliquity of the will, an eccentricity, a monomania, he had decided that none of his children should marry, and on this point he demanded "passive obedience." it was perfectly clear that miss barrett could not gain his consent to her marriage, and so, after long hesitation and much unhappiness, she decided to marry mr. browning without that consent. in order to save her family and close friends from the blame sure to fall upon them for the remotest sanction of her marriage, her plans were kept an absolute secret. she met mr. browning at marylebone church on september , , and they were married there, mrs. browning returning at once to her own home, where she remained till a week later, when she started for italy with her husband. the wedding was then announced. throughout her father's life mrs. browning endeavored to placate him, for she devotedly loved him and she had been his favorite child, but in vain. he would never see her again, he returned her letters unopened, and he would not allow her to be spoken of in his presence. after resting a week in paris mr. and mrs. browning went on to pisa, where they remained nearly seven months. the "miracle" of the pisa life was mrs. browning's gain in health. "you are not _improved_, you are _transformed_," was mrs. jameson's exclamation. it was at pisa that mr. browning came to know of the sonnets his wife had written during the progress of their courtship and engagement. in _critical kit-kats_ ( ) mr. gosse tells the story as mr. browning gave it to him: "one day, early in , their breakfast being over, mrs. browning went upstairs, while her husband stood at the window watching the street till the table could be cleared. he was presently aware of someone behind him, although the servant had gone. it was mrs. browning who held him by the shoulder to prevent his turning to look at her, and at the same time pushed a packet of papers into the pocket of his coat. she told him to read that and to tear it up if he did not like it; and then she fled again to her room." mr. browning felt at once that he had no right to keep such poetry as a private possession. "i dared not," he said, "reserve to myself the finest sonnets written in any language since shakespeare's." they were accordingly published in , under the intentionally mystifying title, _sonnets from the portuguese_. the brownings reached florence april , . after several changes they were, in may, , established in the home in which they remained during mrs. browning's life. it was a suite of rooms on the second floor of the palazzo guidi. of the practical side of this early florentine life, mrs. browning wrote, "my dear brothers have the illusion that nobody should marry on less than two thousand a year. good heavens! how preposterous it does seem to me! we scarcely spend three hundred, and i have every luxury i ever had, and which it would be so easy to give up, at need; and robert wouldn't sleep, i think, if an unpaid bill dragged itself by any chance into another week. he says that when people get into pecuniary difficulties his sympathies always go with the butchers and the bakers." in accordance with this horror of owing five shillings five days, the furnishings of the new home, "the rococo chairs, spring sofas, carved bookcases, satin from cardinals' beds, and the rest," were accumulated at a pace dictated by the bank account, but for all that it was not long before the rooms began to take on an aspect as beautiful as it was homelike. by preference the brownings lived very quietly. at the end of fifteen months mrs. browning wrote, "robert has not been out an evening of the fifteen months; but what with music and books and writing and talking, we scarcely know how the days go, it's such a gallop on the grass." march , , was born wiedemann, later known as "penini" or "pen" browning. coincident with this joy was the grief caused by the death of browning's mother, a sorrow from which he rallied but slowly. the florentine life was occasionally varied by summers at bagni di lucca, winters in paris or rome, and several visits to england. there was also an increasing social life. americans were especially welcome to the brownings because, while england was still indifferent to browning's work, america had given it an appreciative welcome. in march, , mrs. browning wrote, "i don't complain for myself of an unappreciative public. _i have no reason_. but just for _that_ reason i complain more about robert.... in america he is a power, a writer, a poet--he is read, he lives in the hearts of the people."[ ] among the americans associated with the brownings for longer or shorter periods during their life in florence were two distinguished women, margaret fuller ossoli and harriet beecher stowe. in , george william curtis spent two days with the brownings at vallombrosa, a visit later described in his _easy chair_. mr. field, who had brought out the american reprint of the two-volume edition of browning's poems in , was a guest at casa guidi in . charles sumner writes of "delicious tuscan evenings" with the brownings and the storys in . mr. browning's interests in art led to friendships with american artists, among whom were mr. page, who painted a successful portrait of browning; miss harriet hosmer, to whom mr. and mrs. browning finally consented to sit for the "clasped hands"; and hiram powers. the dearest american friends were, however, mr. and mrs. hawthorne and mr. and mrs. story. music and art were among browning's chief delights in florence. george william curtis in describing the trip to vallombrosa says that it was part of their pleasure to sit in the dusky convent chapel while browning at the organ "chased a fugue of master hughes of saxe gotha, or dreamed out upon twilight keys a faint throbbing toccata of galuppi's." modeling in clay was even more satisfying as a personal resource. in the autumn of mrs. browning wrote, "robert has taken to modeling under mr. story (at his studio) and is making extraordinary progress, turning to account his studies in anatomy. he has copied already two busts, the young augustus and the psyche, and is engaged on another, enchanted with his new trade, working six hours a day." some months later she added, "the modeling combines body-work and soul-work, and the more tired he has been, and the more his back ached, poor fellow, the more he has exulted and been happy--'_no, nothing ever made him so happy before_.'" he found, also, an unfailing pleasure in the study of great pictures. and he was a buyer of pictures with a collector's delight in hunting out the work of the unappreciated early tuscan artists. mrs. orr says that he owned at least one picture by each of the obscure artists mentioned in "old pictures in florence." mrs. browning sometimes expressed regret that browning should give himself so unreservedly in so many directions, because she felt that he had thus too little time and energy left for poetry. her fear was not without justification, for after the richly productive period from to , we come upon a space of nine years the only publications of which are, in , _christmas eve and easter day_, a long poem in two parts giving the arguments in favor of christianity; and, in , an introduction to a collection of letters then supposed to be by shelley, but since found to be spurious. the essay is nevertheless of importance as an exposition of browning's theory of poetry, and as an interesting study of shelley. in , at the close of this period of nine years, there appeared a collection of fifty-one poems entitled _men and women_. in "fundamental brain power," insight, beauty, and mastery of style, these poems show browning at the highest level of his poetic achievement. it is in these remarkable poems that he brought to perfection a poetic form which he practically invented, the dramatic monologue, a form in which there is but one speaker but which is essentially dramatic in effect. the dramatic quality arises partly from the implied presence of listeners whose expressions of assent or dissent determine the progress or the abrupt changes of direction of the speaker's words. in "andrea del sarto," for example, lucrezia's smiles and frowns and gestures of impatience are a constant influence, and the poem presents as vivid an interplay of personalities as any scene in a drama. but the implied listener is hardly more than a secondary dramatic element, the chief one being that the speaker talks, as do the characters in a play, out of the demands of the immediate experience, gradually and casually disclosing all the tangled web of influence, all the clashes of will with destiny, of desire with convention, that have led to the crisis depicted. fra lippo lippi gives no consecutive history of his life, only such snatches of it as partially account for his present mad freak, but the strife between his own nature and instinct on the one hand and the conventions and traditions of religious art on the other could hardly be more vividly presented. _in a balcony_, the one drama in _men and women_, has but a fragment of a plot, but in intensity, reality, and passion it excels most of browning's dramas, and, in spite of its long speeches, has proved effective on the stage.[ ] in variety of theme, subject-matter, and verse-form, the poems of _men and women_ defy classification. whatever page one turns, there is something novel, stimulating, captivating. all of browning's florentine interests are represented here--his love of old pictures and little-known music, his delight in florence, venice, rome, in all italy, her skies and her landscapes, the vagrants of her streets, her religious ceremonies, her church dignitaries, her scholars. then there are love-poems in all tones and tempers, the noblest of them all, "one word more," being browning's most direct and personal tribute to his wife. and we see in its keenest form his intellectual delight in subtle disquisition. the doctrine of immortality as it appeals to the mind of the cultured, dissatisfied pagan cleon; the miracle of lazarus as it is brooded over by the arab physician karshish; the balancing of faith and doubt in the clever casuistry of bishop blougram--these are topics to browning's taste and are treated with skill and mastery. taken all in all these poems give to the reader a full impression of browning's characteristic force, the darting, penetrating power of his phrase, the rush and energy and leap of his thought. it is by _men and women_, the somewhat similar _dramatis personæ_, and the earlier _dramatic lyrics_ and _dramatic romances_, that browning is most widely and most favorably known. during the first ten years that the brownings were in florence mrs. browning's health was so good that she was able to enjoy social and outdoor pleasures to a degree that would have been thought impossible before her marriage. she had also kept up her literary work. a new edition of her poems appeared in ; in she published _casa guidi windows_, poems illustrative of her ardent interest in all that pertained to the fight for italian freedom; and in her long-planned verse novel _aurora leigh_ was completed and published. but soon after this her strength began insensibly to fail and during the last three years of her life she suffered much from repeated bronchial attacks. however, her death, in june, , was entirely unexpected. the florentines had loved her deeply and had appreciated her utterances in behalf of a free italy. she was, accordingly, buried in florence, with "extraordinary demonstrations of respect," and the house where she had lived was marked by the municipality with a commemorative tablet. browning's wish was to leave florence at once and to make the new life as unlike the old as possible. he went to london, and after some delay established himself in a house at warwick crescent, where he lived till . the first portion of his life in england was one of "unbearable loneliness." he took care of his son, busied himself with a new edition of his wife's poems, read and studied and wrote with feverish intensity, and avoided people. but with the spring of , says mr. gosse, "a great change came over browning's habits. he had shunned all invitations into society, but ... it suddenly occurred to him that this mode of life was morbid and unworthy," and thereupon he entered into the social, literary, musical, and artistic life of london. the nine years following were again a period of small productivity. _dramatis personæ_ was a slender volume to represent so many years, even though it contained such great poems as "rabbi ben ezra," "a death in the desert," and "abt vogler." but during this period a long poem, _the ring and the book_, had been maturing. in , while still at casa guidi, browning had found at a book-stall the now famous "square old yellow book," containing the legal record of a famous roman murder case. he read the account on the way home, and before night had so mastered the details that, as he paced up and down on the terrace in the darkness, he saw the tragedy unfold before him in picture after picture. it was not, however, till that he definitely set to work on the composition of the poem. it was published in four volumes of three parts each, in the winter and spring of - . the poem has a novel structure. the story is retold ten times by different persons and with such variations of fact and opinions and style as are dictated by the knowledge and the character of the speaker. the monologues of count guido, who murdered his wife, of pompilia the young wife, of caponsacchi the "soldier saint" who endeavored to save her, and of the old pope, are by far the most interesting portions of the poem, but the whole of it is remarkable, and it justly takes rank as one of england's greatest poems. with the appearance of this book browning's genius received adequate recognition in high places. _the athenæum_ called it "the _opus magnum_ of the generation, not merely beyond all parallel the supremest poetic achievement of the time, but the most precious and profound spiritual treasure that england has possessed since the days of shakespeare." the last ten or twelve years of browning's life were so crowded with interests, occupations, publications, friends, honors, that not even a summary of them can be undertaken here. mr. sharp says of this period: "everybody wished him to come and dine; and he did his best to gratify everybody. he saw everything; read all the notable books; kept himself acquainted with the leading contents of the journals and magazines; conducted a large correspondence; read new french, german, and italian books of mark; read and translated euripides and Æschylus; knew all the gossip of the literary clubs, the salons, and the studios; was a frequenter of afternoon tea parties; and then, over and above it, he was browning--the most profoundly subtle mind that has exercised itself in poetry since shakespeare." mr. henry james in commenting on browning's rich and ample london period with "its felicities and prosperities of every sort," says that in contemplating "the wonderful browning ... the accomplished, saturated, sane, sound man of the london world and the world of culture," it was impossible not to believe that "he had arrived somehow, for his own deep purposes, at the enjoyment of a double identity," so dissociated were the poet and the "member of society." phillips brooks, who met browning in england in - , was impressed by his fullness of life and said he was "very like some of the best of thackeray's london men." in public and on ordinary social occasions browning is said to have been frank, charming, friendly--"more agreeable," mary anderson said, "than distinguished." with intimate friends, however, the poet had quite another sort of charm. "to a single listener," says mr. gosse, with whom he was on familiar terms, "the browning of his own study was to the browning of a dinner party as a tiger cat is to a domestic cat. in such conversation his natural strength came out. his talk assumed the volume and the tumult of a cascade. his voice rose to a shout, sank to a whisper, ran up and down the gamut of conversational melody. those whom he was expecting will never forget his welcome, the loud trumpet-note from the other end of the passage, the talk already in full flood at a distance of twenty feet. then, in his own study or drawing-room, what he loved was to capture his visitor in a low armchair's 'sofa-lap of leather,' and from a most unfair vantage of height to tyrannize, to walk around the victim, in front, behind, on this side, on that, weaving magic circles, now with gesticulating arms thrown high, now groveling on the floor to find some reference in a folio, talking all the while, a redundant turmoil of thoughts, fancies, and reminiscences flowing from those generous lips." elsewhere mr. gosse summed up his personal impressions of mr. browning, as follows: "i am bound to tell you that i saw a different browning from the hero of all the handbooks and 'gospels' which are now in vogue. people are beginning to treat this vehement and honest poet as if he were a sort of marcus aurelius and john the baptist rolled into one. i have just seen a book in which it is proposed that browning should supersede the bible, in which it is asserted that a set of his volumes will teach religion better than all the theologies in the world. well, i did not know that holy monster.... what i saw was an unostentatious, keen, active man of the world, one who never failed to give good practical advice in matters of business and conduct, one who loved his friends and certainly hated his enemies; a man alive in every eager passionate nerve of him; a man who loved to discuss people and affairs, and a bit of a gossip; a bit of a partisan, too, and not without his humorous prejudices. he was simple to a high degree, simple in his scrupulous dress, his loud, happy voice, his insatiable curiosity." browning's london life was varied by many summer journeyings to french sea-coast towns, to wales, and to scotland. but it was seventeen years after the death of his wife before he could bring himself to revisit italy. even then he avoided florence. he took his sister to northern italy; and asolo and venice became the towns around which their affections centered. two american friends, mrs. bloomfield-moore, and mrs. arthur bronson,[ ] contributed to the happiness of these italian sojourns. in browning's son, who had married an american girl, bought the palazzo rezzonico in venice, so that browning had an additional personal reason for his trip to venice in . he was well, and he took great pleasure in his son's admirably planned restoration of the old venetian palace. he worked, walked, talked with nearly normal vigor. but a bronchial attack proved more than his weakened heart could withstand, and he died peacefully, almost painlessly, in his son's home on december , . on the day of his death his last book, _asolando_, was published, so that his brave-hearted "epilogue" was really his valediction to this and his heroic greeting to another world. he could "greet the unseen with a cheer," because in thought and act he was one who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake. browning was buried in westminster abbey on the last day of the year. the most pathetic element of the imposing ceremonies was the singing of mrs. browning's poem, "he giveth his beloved sleep." the poetry of browning before entering upon a discussion of browning's poetry it will be of interest to note briefly some of the more striking general characteristics of the english literature contemporary with his work. from _pauline_ to _asolando_ is over half a century, but as a central and especially significant portion of browning's career we may take the three decades from , when he began the _bells and pomegranates_ series, to , when _the ring and the book_ appeared, for these years include all of his dramas and most of the poetry on which his fame rests. a survey of this period at once reveals the predominance of fiction. within these years come nearly all the novels of charles dickens, of william makepeace thackeray, of charlotte brontë, of wilkie collins, of charles kingsley, of mrs. gaskell, of anthony trollope, of george macdonald, of charles reade, much of the work of bulwer lytton, all the novels of george eliot except _middlemarch_ and _daniel deronda_, and the earliest of george meredith's books. this is a notable showing. no previous period in english literature had presented anything like so wide a range in fiction or had brought forward so large a number of novels of the first rank. these years were equally rich in essays, including much of carlyle's work, all of macaulay's except the early "essay on milton," the religious polemics of frederick dennison maurice and john henry newman, nearly all of ruskin's discussions of art and social history, most of leigh hunt's literary criticism, and matthew arnold's important early critical essays. this, too, is a notable showing. but if we turn to the two realms in which browning excelled, poetry and drama, we find different conditions. during the central period of his career, there was, aside from his own work, not a single important drama published. the theaters were prosperous, but they brought out only old plays or new ones of inferior rank. in poetry, too, if we set aside the great names of tennyson and browning, the period was neither rich nor varied. during browning's first great productive period, - , the only other poems of note were tennyson's two volumes in . in the nine years from to _men and women_ in , the chief poems were tennyson's _the princess_, _in memoriam_, and _maud_, for though wordsworth's _prelude_ was one of the greatest publications of the mid-century, it was written years before, and can hardly be counted as belonging to this era. there are, during the decade, many poems of secondary rank, the most important of them being mrs. browning's _sonnets from the portuguese_ and _aurora leigh_, but besides tennyson and browning, the only poet of high rank is matthew arnold, whose slender volumes voice the doubts and difficulties of the age as browning's poems voice its optimism. in the fourteen years between _men and women_ and _the ring and the book_ poets of a new kind appear; william morris's _defense of guinevere_, _the life and death of jason_ and _the earthly paradise_, and swinburne's early poems are alien to the work of browning in form, subject-matter, and ideals. the fact is, the more definitely we try to place browning in his literary environment the more distinctly do we perceive that he was _sui generis_ among his contemporaries. he combined in striking fashion the intensity of the poet and the strong social sense of the prose writer. it seems also wise to glance at the outset at a few of the main criticisms that have been made on browning's poetry, for the result of his marked originality is that no poet of the time has been so greatly praised and blamed. a natural first topic is his really famous "obscurity." this obscurity is variously ascribed to a diction unduly learned, or almost unintelligibly colloquial, or grotesquely inventive; to figures of speech drawn from sources too unfamiliar or elaborated to the point of confusion; to sentences complicated by startling inversions, by double parentheses, by broken constructions, or by a grammatical structure defying analysis. it would be quite possible to illustrate each of these points from browning's works, and it cannot be denied that his poetry is sometimes needlessly and inexcusably hard reading. but in reality the difficulties in his poems come less from stylistic defects than from the subject matter. what mr. chesterton calls browning's love for "the holes and corners of history," leads him to the use of much unfamiliar detail. a large part of the difficulty in reading _sordello_ arises from the fact that all browning's accumulated knowledge of medieval italy is there poured forth in an allusive, taken-for-granted manner, till even the practiced reader turns away perplexed and overwhelmed. so, too, "old pictures in florence," "pictor ignotus," and "fra lippo lippi" assume on the part of the reader a minute familiarity with early florentine art. occasionally the poems demand an exceptional technical knowledge of some sort, as in "abt vogler," where only a trained musician can fully understand the terminology. many even of the minor poems belong to realms of thought and experience so remote that only by distinct effort do we transport ourselves thither. it would, for instance, be absurd to call "two in the campagna" difficult in form or phrasing, yet it narrates an experience intelligible only to those who have loved deeply but have found in the very heart of that love a baffling sense of inevitable personal isolation. sometimes the difficulty arises from the extreme subtlety of the thought. "evelyn hope," the simplest of poems in expression, presents novel and elusive ideas. mr. chesterton ingeniously ascribes browning's obscurity to "intellectual humility," to an assumption that his readers were in possession of a native endowment and an acquired intellectual wealth on a par with his own; but the defense seems rather forced. mrs. browning gave one of the best brief analyses of mr. browning's obscurity. he had been attacked as being "misty" and she wrote to him, "you never _are_ misty, not even in 'sordello'--never vague. your graver cuts deep, sharp lines, always--and there is an extra distinctness in your images and thoughts, from the midst of which, crossing each other infinitely, the general significance seems to escape." but the classic defense of browning from this point of view may be found in swinburne's introduction to chapman's _poems_: "the difficulty found by many in certain of mr. browning's works arises from a quality the very reverse of that which produces obscurity, properly so-called. obscurity is the natural product of turbid forces and confused ideas; of a feeble and clouded or of a vigorous but unfixed and chaotic intellect.... now if there is any great quality more perceptible than another in mr. browning's intellect it is his decisive and incisive faculty of thought, his sureness and intensity of perception, his rapid and trenchant resolution of aim.... the very essence of mr. browning's aim and method, as exhibited in the ripest fruits of his intelligence, is such as implies above all other things the possession of a quality the very opposite of obscurity--a faculty of spiritual illumination rapid and intense and subtle as lightning, which brings to bear upon its object by way of direct and vivid illustration every symbol and every detail on which its light is flashed in passing." browning has himself a word to say on this topic. he wrote to a friend: "i can have little doubt that my writing has been in the main too hard for many i should have been pleased to communicate with; but i never designedly tried to puzzle people as some of my critics have supposed. on the other hand, i never pretended to offer such literature as should be a substitute for a cigar or a game at dominoes to an idle man. so, perhaps, on the whole, i get my deserts, and something over--not a crowd but a few i value more." a second charge not infrequently brought against browning's verse is that it is harsh, and at times even ugly. this charge, like that of obscurity, cannot be wholly denied. the harshness results from incorrect rhymes, from irregular movement of the verse, or from difficult combinations of vowels and consonants. no reader of browning's poems can fail to have been impressed by his intellectual agility in matching odd rhymes. in dash and originality his rhymes out-rank even those in butler's _hudibras_ and lowell's _fable for critics_. we find in _pacchiarotto_, for instance, many rhymes of the gayest, most freakish, most grotesque character--"monkey, one key," "prelude, hell-hued," "stubborn, cub-born," "_was_ hard, hazard," all occur in a single stanza. an example of exceptional facility in rhyming is found in "through the metidja," where, without repetition of words and without forcing of the sense thirty-six words rhyme with "ride." it cannot be denied that this remarkable facility led browning occasionally into the use of odd rhymes in poems where no light or comic effect was intended; but a detailed study of his rhymes[ ] shows that the proportion of incorrect rhymes is really small, that the grotesque rhymes are more striking than numerous, and that they are usually in places where they are dramatically appropriate. his use of harsh words and sound-blendings is also often to be justified on the ground of their appropriateness to the idea. compare, for instance, the flowing, easy words, the musical linking of sounds, in the first stanza of "love among the ruins" with the harsh words, harshly combined, in the twelfth and thirteenth stanzas of "childe roland." both effects are artistic because each sort of combination is in response to the nature of the thought. it is true that sometimes, perhaps not infrequently, the verse is rugged or uncouth where the sense does not call for such form, and there are lines that not only remind us of de quincey's dictum that certain words should be "boiled before they are eaten," but which have no metrical flow at all; they defy any sort of scansion and read like rough prose. but a poet has a right of appeal to the sum of his manifest excellencies rather than to his defects, and if we take browning's best work we find a harmony of movement superior in musical effect to a more technically regular meter. in many poems the meter is indissolubly fused with the pictures, the ideas, the events. take, for instance, "the pied piper of hamelin," where the hurry-skurry of the verse is in complete harmony with the quaint, rapid tale. the hoof-beats of galloping horses is heard all through "how they brought the good news from ghent to aix." the slow march, the stately chant, are rhythmically present throughout "a grammarian's funeral." in "the flight of the duchess" the change from the rough servitor's narrative to the incantation of the gypsy-queen is as exquisitely marked in the metrical movement and in the rhymes as it is in the diction and tone of thought. many other examples might be cited. mr. brinton, who has made a detailed and competent study of browning's verse, gives his final opinion in these words: "in the volumes of browning i maintain that we find so many instances of profound insight into verbal harmonies, such singular strength of poetic grouping, and such a marvelous grasp of the rhythmic properties of the english language that we must assign to him a rank second to no english poet of this century."[ ] a third charge brought against browning's art is that he makes all his characters talk "browningese"; that is, that he endows all of them with the power to use such words and sentences and thought processes as are natural to him and to him only. mr. stedman in emphasizing this characteristic of the poet says of _pippa passes_: "the usual fault is present--the characters, whether students, peasants, or soldiers, all talk like sages; pippa reasons like a paracelsus in pantalettes." it is, of course, obvious at the first glance that there is a lack of verisimilitude in pippa's rich and beautiful soliloquies. certainly no fourteen-year-old mill girl could so describe a sunrise, or play so brilliantly with a sunbeam in a water-basin, or outline so cleverly the stories of the happiest four in asolo. the same is true of phene's long speech to jules; no untutored girl brought up in degradation, could present such thoughts in such words. when we analyze browning's way of presenting a character, however, we find that the lack of verisimilitude is usually external and has to do chiefly with expression. browning works on the fundamental assumption that he has a poetic right to make all sorts of people articulate. he lends his mind out in the service of their thoughts and feelings. he makes people reveal themselves by putting into words their elusive, dim, tangled, and even unrecognized motives and hopes and joys and despairs. he sums up in the speeches all the potentialities of the situation. all the significance latent in the type of character and environment is somehow heightened and symbolized. all this is put in his own highly individual diction. yet it can hardly be said that he violates poetic realism in the deeper sense, for he never puts a halo around a situation, never goes counter to its potentialities. instead he strikes fire from it. he shows what is actually in the situation, but at white heat and laid bare to its center. when this method has once been recognized, discomfort on the score of lack of verisimilitude practically disappears, and the reader yields himself to the joy of the rich, subtle, and stimulating analysis. we may now turn to a consideration of the subject-matter and the main ideas of browning's poetry. from whatever point of view we regard his work, we find that ultimately the emphasis rests on the same great central fact, the supremacy of his interest in human nature. this dominating interest is shown, for instance, by a study of his treatment of physical nature. to be sure, no one can read his poems without recognizing the truth that his use of natural facts is distinctive in kind and very stimulating. a mere reference to the pictures of the sky in _pippa passes_, the vivid descriptions of fruits and flowers in "an englishman in italy," the remarkable studies of small animal life in "saul" and "caliban upon setebos," of birds in "home-thoughts, from abroad," of insects in the first part of _paracelsus_ and in many later poems, suffices to show that in mature life he did not lose the keenness of observation and interest characteristic of his youth. yet it is also evident that his use of nature by way of direct description, or even as illustrative material, is far less in amount than that of other notable nineteenth century poets. he cares much less for "the river's line, the mountains round it and the sky above" than for the "figures of man, woman, and child these are frame to." where nature is drawn upon, it is almost invariably in complete subordination to some human interest, and its literary form is almost always that of casual mention, background, or similitude, and the first of these is the most frequent. furthermore, nearly all these passages are a mere statement of observed fact without comment or interpretation. there is one great passage in _paracelsus_ where the joy of god in the act of creation is depicted; there are occasional references to the delight of man in the external world; and now and then, as in "by the fireside," man and nature are intimately fused; but such conceptions rarely occur. in browning's poetry the boundary lines between man and nature are clearly marked. in _paracelsus_ he definitely protests against man's way of reading his own moods into nature, and of attributing to her his own qualities and emotions. he also always accounts man, if he has truly entered into his spiritual heritage, as consciously superior to nature. the troubadour eglamour, in _sordello_, says that man shrinks to naught if matched with a quiet sea or sky, but browning calls that eglamour's "false thought." to browning, nature was to be studied, enjoyed, and used, but it was not as to keats a realm of enchantment; or as to wordsworth the realm where alone the divine and the human could pass the boundaries of sense and meet; or as to matthew arnold a refuge from pain and disillusionment. browning regards the world about him more in the sane, unsentimental, straightforward, intelligible way of chaucer or of shakespeare. the mystical elements in wordsworth's feeling for nature were foreign to browning's mind. an instructive comparison might be made between wordsworth's "ode on intimations of immortality" and browning's "prologue to asolando." the poems have the same starting point. each one attributes sadness to the poet's old age, and each gives as a cause of the sadness the inevitable fading of the glory with which all nature was invested to the eye of his youth. but here the resemblance ends. wordsworth believes that the youthful vision was a divine revelation to be regained when the round of existence should be completed by a return to his immortal home, and on the memory of that vision he founded his faith in a future life. but browning welcomed the loss of the vision. objects had been to him "palpably fire-clothed"; but with the loss of "flame" there was a gain in reality. the vision had enthralled and subjugated him; but with the sight of "a naked world" he had become conscious of things as they are, and he rejoiced in a justness of perception that declared what were to him the two great facts of life, the power and beauty of god, and the glory of the human soul. on these, not on nature, he put his stress. browning's paramount interest in human nature is further illustrated by his poems on the various arts. of music, painting, and sculpture he has written with the intimate and minute knowledge of a specialist in each art. he is familiar with implements and materials, with the tricks of the trade, the talk of the studios; but, after all, the art as an art is of much less interest to him than is the worker. the process and even the completed product are in browning's view important only in so far as they reveal or affect the artist, the musician, the sculptor, or some phase of life. in such poems as "abt vogler," "fra lippo lippi," "andrea del sarto," we are conscious not so much of music and pictures as of the secret springs of failure, the divine despairs and discontents, the aspirations, the creative ecstasies, of the men who wrought in these realms. andrea del sarto's art is not the real theme of the poem bearing his name. it is, rather, his character, of which his art is an expression. the central fact of the poem is the recognition that a soul morally impoverished cannot, even with well-nigh perfect technique, produce great work, while, even with faulty technique, a setting of the soul to grand issues will secure transcendent meanings. so, too, with abt vogler. his music is not of the greatest, but our concern is with the musician who, through the completeness of his spiritual absorption in music, is conducted into a realm of experience beyond that of speech or even of articulate thought. another distinctly human aspect of art interests browning, and that is its power to represent and so to recall a vanished civilization. greek statues, the devotional pictures of the early florentines, the work of the later italian realists, stand, in "old pictures in florence," as representatives of the life and thought that produced them. in "a toccata of galuppi's" the music revivifies the superficial gaiety, the undertone of fear, in the life of eighteenth century venice. highly significant in this connection are the poems in which he traces the evolution of art. running through "old pictures in florence" and "fra lippo lippi" we find an ordered statement of the chief changes in the ideals of art as browning saw them. the greeks, we are told, had produced in sculpture the most beautiful representations of the human body. but if their successors had been content merely to admire this perfect achievement, they would have purchased satisfaction at the price of their own arrested development. progress came only when, in the dawn of italian art, men turned from greek perfection, from the supremely beautiful but limited representations of the human body, to an attempt to paint the invisible, the spiritual side of man's nature. the work of these artists was great because it was not imitative and because it stretched toward an unending and ideal future. but the idealistic and aspiring temper of early tuscan art had the defects of its qualities. its spiritual ecstasy once conventionalized and reduced to a formula led to unreality, and, if not to untruth, at least to an unwholesome ignoring of a part of truth. there was, therefore, an inevitable reaction to the naturalism described with such verve and gusto by fra lippo lippi. but this is, after all, social history in terms of art, and to browning what has happened in painting is of value chiefly as showing concretely what has happened in the mind of man. from the instances already cited it is apparent that browning's interest centered, not in abstract or theoretical discussions of human problems, but in the individuals who face the problems. in this point browning is sharply distinguished from his poetic contemporaries as a class. they felt deeply "all the weary weight of this unintelligible world," so deeply that while they gave much thought to ideals of social amelioration, few of them presented individuals with any dramatic distinctness. browning stands practically by himself in the nineteenth century as the poet who gives us both the "doubter and the doubt," who is able to join with an impressive statement of the hopes and fears of man, an equally impressive sequence of individual men and women. in this he harks back to the broad inclusiveness of the elizabethan dramatists. in contemporary literature, his nearest congeners are in fiction, not in poetry. the great number and variety of browning's characters can be illustrated in different ways. we might, for instance, note how many nationalities are represented. the personages in "stafford" and the "cavalier tunes" are englishmen from the time of the civil war. "clive" is a true story of the indian empire. we have from italian life the numerous characters in _sordello_, "fra lippo lippi," "pictor ignotus," "the bishop orders his tomb at st. praxed's church," "my last duchess," _the ring and the book_, "a grammarian's funeral," "up at a villa--down in the city," "in a gondola," and many more. "count gismond" and "hervé riel" are french stories. _paracelsus_ and "abt vogler" are of german origin. _balaustion's adventure_, _aristophanes' apology_, "pheidippides," and "echetlos" celebrate greek thought and adventure. very important poems such as "saul" and "rabbi ben ezra," have to do with jewish life. and unlike shakespeare, who is not concerned with making julius cæsar a roman or duke theseus a greek, browning brings to the creation of each of these widely divergent characters, a detailed knowledge of the special habits of life and thought of the nation or race concerned. he represents also many kinds of human interest. we find in his poems seekers after knowledge such as paracelsus, who takes all thought and fact as his domain; or such as the grammarian, who found greek particles too wide a realm; or such as the pedant sibrandus schafnaburgensis, whose learned rubbish cumbers the land. there are likewise those who grope after the truths of religion from caliban on his island to the learned physician karshish and the highly cultured cleon; those who have the full vision from john to rabbi ben ezra; those who juggle with terms and creeds as does bishop blougram; and out and out frauds like sludge the medium. the church is represented by many men dissimilar in endowments, tastes, spiritual experiences, and aims. there are italian prelates of every sort, from the worldly-minded bishop of st. praxed's, occupied in death with vain thoughts of lapis-lazuli and pure latin, to the "soldier-saint," caponsacchi, who saved pompilia, and the wise old pope who pronounced guido's doom; from the unworthy priest in the spanish cloister to the very human, kindly pope in "the bean feast." and from all these it is far down the ages to the evangelical parish priest of _the inn album_, that "purblind honest drudge," who, the deeper to impress his flock, painted heaven dimly but "made hell distinct." there are many artists, many musicians. there are poets from aprile in _paracelsus_, and the troubadours eglamour and sordello, to keats and shelley. the extremes of social life are given. there are the street-girls in _pippa passes_ and there are kings and queens with royal retinues. there are statesmen, and warriors, and seekers after romantic adventure. there are haughty aristocrats of cold and cruel natures, and there are obscure but high-hearted doers of heroic deeds. browning's dictum, "study man, man, whatever the issue," led him into a world wider than that known by any other poet of his time, and akin, as has been pointed out, to that of the great writers of fiction. as an observer of human life he was not unlike his poor poet of valladolid who, with his "scrutinizing hat," went about the streets, absorbed in watching all kinds of people, all sorts of occupations, "scenting the world, looking it full in the face." he chose to set forth "the wants and ways" of actual life. he summed up his work in the "epilogue to pacchiarotto": man's thoughts and loves and hates! earth is my vineyard, these grew there: from grape of the ground i made or marred my vintage. it is further apparent that browning's characters are never merely types, but must always be reckoned with as individuals. it was his belief that no two beings were ever made similar in head and heart; hence, even where there are external similarities the essential elements are strongly differentiated. take, for instance, three poems in which the situations are not unlike. in "my last duchess," "the flight of the duchess," and _the ring and the book_, we have a portrayal of three men of high lineage, but cold, egotistic, cruel, who have married very young and lovely women over whom the custom of the times gives them absolute power. but there the likeness ends. we cannot for a moment class together the polished, aesthetic, well-bred aristocrat of the first poem, the absurd little popinjay of the second, and the "tiger-cat" of the third. less strongly, but as clearly are the wives differentiated. to the innocent gaiety of heart, the bright, sweet friendliness of the hapless lady in "my last duchess" must be added for the lady in "the flight of the duchess" a native force of character which, when roused by the call of the gypsy-queen, enables her to break the yoke imposed on her by the duke and his mother and go forth into a life of adventure, freedom, and love. the delicate, flower-like pompilia in _the ring and the book_ has also power to initiate and carry through a plan of escape, but her incentive is no call to romantic freedom. her passive endurance changes to active revolt only when motive and energy are supplied by her love for her child. or take pippa and phene in _pippa passes_, two beautiful young girls brought up in dangerous and evil surroundings, but both innately pure. in character and experience they are, however, as unlike as two girls could be. phene, undeveloped in mind and heart, the easily duped agent of a cruel trick, appeals to us by her slow, incredulous, but eager response to goodness and aspiration, the tremulous opening of her soul to love. but pippa, with her observant love of nature, her gay, sportive, winsome fancies, her imaginative sympathy with the lives of others, her knowledge of good and evil, her poise, her bright steadiness of soul, carries us into a different and much more highly evolved world of thought and feeling. so we might go through the great assemblage of browning's characters to find that each one stands out by himself as a person with his own qualities, possibilities, and problems. in all this portrayal of individuals the emphasis is on things of the mind and heart. in these realms browning found nothing alien or uninteresting. from point to point his poetry illustrates what he said in his comment on _sordello_, "my stress lay on the incidents in the development of a human soul; little else is worth study." in all his poetry environment is of importance only in so far as it is the stuff on which the soul works. it is "the subtle thing called spirit," it is "the soul's world" to which he devotes himself. it is only from a study of browning's many characters that we may arrive at a statement of some of the distinguishing features of his philosophy of life. and any such statements must be made with extreme caution because of his dramatic method. he utters this caution himself when he says of his poems, "their contents are always dramatic in principle, and so many utterances of so many imaginary people." yet it is possible, by taking the general trend and scope of his work, to make justifiable deductions concerning the dominant ideas in the rich field of his poetry and drama. in browning's philosophy of life, words of especial significance are "growth" and "progress." domizia in _luria_ says: how inexhaustibly the spirit grows! one object, she seemed erewhile born to reach with her whole energies and die content-- so like a wall at the world's edge is stood, with naught beyond to live for--is that reached?-- already are new undreamed energies outgrowing under, and extending farther to a new object. so, too, john in "a death in the desert" sums up his belief in the line, i say that man was made to grow, not stop. growth here and growth hereafter are the essential elements of browning's creed. and there is no other poet in whom all kinds of thinking and doing are so uniformly tested by their outcome in the growth of the soul. does joy stimulate to fuller life; does suffering bring out moral qualities; do obstacles develop energy; do sharp temptations become a source of strength and assured soldiership; does knowledge of evil lead to a new exaltation of good; does sin lead to self-knowledge and so to regeneration? then all these are ministers of grace, for through them the soul has reached greater heights and fuller life. whatever bids the soul "nor stand nor sit, but go" is to be welcomed. the cost of this growth may be great, but the advances of spirit are represented as worth any sacrifice. the lady in "the flight of the duchess" goes from splendor and ease to hardship and obscurity, but she wins freedom of thought and of act and the opportunity to test the qualities of her soul. in _pippa passes_ sebald might have had love and wealth, jules might have attained fame along the conventional path marked out for him by the monsignor, luigi had the prospect of an easy life and happy love, the monsignor might have had enhanced honor from the church into whose coffers he could have turned great revenues. but instead each responds in turn to pippa's songs; sebald gains a true view of sin, jules gets a new conception of service and attainment, luigi's wavering purpose of self-sacrifice for his country's good is strengthened, the monsignor is held back from connivance at a crime. in all these cases the external loss is as nothing compared to the gain in spiritual knowledge and energy. contact with magnetic and superior personalities is a way of growth particularly noted by browning. there are men, he says, who bring new feeling fresh from god, and whose life "reteaches us what life should be, what faith is, loyalty and simpleness." pompilia says of caponsacchi: through such souls alone god stooping shows sufficient of his light for us i' the dark to rise by. the highest souls are "seers" in the noblest sense and they "impart the gift of seeing to the rest." but the helpful personality need not be great in knowledge or rank. in pippa browning emphasizes the power of unconscious goodness in clarifying the spiritual vision of others and in thus stimulating to right action. and in david he shows the power of poetic charm, innocence, and eager love to drive away from another heart a mood of black despair. but outside influences are, after all, says browning, of secondary importance. they can, at best, do no more than stimulate and guide. when andrea del sarto attributes his general lowering of ideals and power to the influence of lucrezia, he evades the real issue. incentives must come from the soul's self. growth is dependent on personal struggle. man is, by his very nature, forced to try and make, else fail to grow-- formed to rise, reach at, if not grasp and gain the good beyond him--which attempt is growth. so, also, is it better that youth should strive, through acts uncouth, toward making, than repose on aught found made. it is in the independence and originality of such striving that the soul discovers and frees its innate potentialities. an inevitable corollary of this idea of progress is the emphasis put upon aspiration as a habit of the mind. the pursuit of an ideal, a divine discontent with present accomplishment, are enjoined upon man. the gleams of heaven on earth are not meant to be permanent or satisfying, but only to sting man into hunger for full light. when a human being has achieved to the full extent of his perceptions or aspirations, he has, thinks browning, met with the greatest possible disaster, that of arrested development. man's powers should ever climb new heights. for his soul's health he should always see "a flying point of bliss remote, a happiness in store afar, a sphere of distant glory." "a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" according to this ideal, man's conception of good is ever changing and ever widening and hence never in this life to be fully attained; yet the condition of growth is that he have an unmeasured thirst for good and that he pursue it with unquenchable ardor. the importance of love as one of the most effective agencies in spiritual growth is stated and restated in browning's poetry and by exceedingly diverse characters. the queen in _in a balcony_ turns away from her lonely splendor to exclaim, there is no good of life but love--but love! what else looks good is some shade flung from love; love gilds it, gives it worth. the duchess learns from the gypsy how love is the only good in the world. the famous singer in "dis aliter visum" knows that art, verse, music, count as naught beside "love found, gained, and kept." browning seems to regard almost any genuine love as a means of opening out the nature to fuller self-knowledge, to wider sympathies, and to increased power of action. hence he condemns all cautious calculation of obstacles, all dwelling upon conventional difficulties, in the path of those who have clearly seen "the love-way." hence even love unrequited is counted of inestimable value. in _colombe's birthday_ valence says, is the knowledge of her, naught? the memory, naught? --lady, should such an one have looked on you, ne'er wrong yourself so far as quote the world and say, love can go unrequited here! you will have blessed him to his whole life's end-- low passions hindered, baser cares kept back, all goodness cherished where you dwelt--and dwell. but the love of man and woman is not the only sort. a part of the value of this individual relationship is that it may be regarded as a revelation and symbol of the spirit of all-embracing sympathy whereby mankind should be ruled. when paracelsus analyzes his life he ascribes his failure to the fact that he has sought knowledge to the exclusion of all else; he finally came to see that knowledge, however profound, is of itself barren of satisfaction. he had meant to serve men by revealing truth to them, but he found that real service is based on the understanding given by love. in self condemnation he says, in my own heart love had not been made wise to trace love's faint beginnings in mankind, to know even hate is but a mask of love's. to see a good in evil, and a hope in ill-success; to sympathize, be proud of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies, their prejudice and fears and cares and doubts; all with a touch of nobleness, despite their error, upward tending all though weak. browning's conception of the function and power of love is based on his belief in its divine origin. twice at least, in "easter day" and "saul," his characters work out from an overpowering recognition of god's omniscience and omnipotence to a final recognition that his love is equal in scope with his power and knowledge. and he counts human service as most complete when, as in david before saul, it reaches out to god's love and recruits its failing forces from the divine source. underlying browning's doctrine of the value of love, and his doctrine of progress and aspiration, is his belief in personal immortality. when he was charged with being strongly against darwin, with rejecting the truths of science and regretting its advance, he answered that the idea of a progressive development from senseless matter until man's appearance had been a familiar conception to him from the beginning, but he reiterated his constant faith in creative intelligence acting on matter but not resulting from it. "soul," he said, "is not matter, nor from matter, but above." two assumptions which though not susceptible of proof he regards as "inescapable," are the existence of creative intelligence and of "the subtle thing called spirit." when he argues out the question of the immortality of this spirit, as in _la saisiaz_, he admits the subjective character of the evidence; but when he speaks spontaneously out of his own feeling or experience, it is with positive belief in life after death. to mr. sharp he said, "death, death! it is this harping on death that i do despise so much! why, _amico mio_, you know as well as i that death is life, just as our daily, our momentarily dying body is none the less alive and ever recruiting new forces of existence. without death which is our crape-like church-yardy word for change, for growth, there could be no prolongation of what we call life. pshaw, it is foolish to argue upon such a thing, even. for myself, i deny death as an end of everything. never say of me that i am dead!" when his wife died he wrote in her testament these words from dante, "thus i believe, thus i affirm, thus i am certain it is, that from this life i shall pass to another better there where that lady lives of whom my soul was enamored." this faith in life after death explains much of browning's philosophy. the source of the pagan cleon's profound discouragement was the fact that man should be dowered with "joy-hunger," should be given the ability to perceive and comprehend splendor and breadth of experience, but should, through the straitness of human limitations, be held back from satisfaction and achievement, and should be left to die thus dazzled, thus baffled. the secret of browning's optimism, on the other hand, is his belief that in heaven the soul is freed from limitations, and blossoms out into capabilities of joy and of activity beyond anything suggested by the most golden dreams of earth. to him all life is a unit, beginning here and destined to unimaginable development hereafter. earth is regarded as a place of tutelage where man may learn to set foot on some one path to heaven. and no work begun here shall ever pause for death. even apparent failure here counts for little so the quest be not abandoned. each of us may, as abt vogler, look without despair on the broken arcs of earth if his faith reveals the perfect round in heaven. from any prolonged study of browning's poetry we become conscious of certain dominant qualities of style that may be thought of quite apart from his themes or message. that his style has the defect of its qualities has already been pointed out. here we may appropriately indicate those qualities as positive elements of his power. his diction, rich alike in the most learned words and the most colloquial, is responsive to all demands. his power of phrasing runs the whole gamut from the most pellucid simplicity to the most triumphant originality. his figures of speech, drawn from all realms, are penetrating in quality, of startling aptness. equally characteristic is his versification, varying as it does from passages of melodic smoothness and grace to lines as strident, broken, and harsh as the thought they dramatically reflect. in narration, whether in the brilliant rapidity and ease of a short poem like "hervé riel" or in the sustained flow of a long story like that of pompilia, we find unusual skill. in disquisition, in the presentation of complicated and elusive intellectual processes, there is a quite unmatched agility and dexterity. probably no two forms of poetry contain more of browning's most noteworthy work than the lyric, especially the reflective love lyric, and that form which is distinctively his own, the dramatic monologue. in his best poems in this last form he has no competitor. it is in the presentation of character through the medium of dramatic monologue that he most fully reveals the unerring precision of his analysis, his lightning glance into the heart of a mystery, the ease with which he tracks a motive or mood or thought to its last hiding place, and his consequent passion and fire of sympathy or scorn. finally, whether we consider browning's style or subject matter or philosophy of life, we become growingly conscious of his force. the "clear virgilian line" of tennyson is the outcome of a nature instinctively aristocratic and aloof. browning is out in the thick of the fight and almost vociferously demands a hearing. whatever makes his thought clear, vivid, active, forcible, seems to him, however prosaic it may appear at first glance, proper poetic material. the immediate effect of his verse is the rousing of the mind to great issues. his tremendous sincerity results in a dispelling of mists, a stripping off of husks. his demand for the truth is a trumpet note of challenge to our doubt or fear or indifference. his penetrating study of human problems leads to an inevitable widening of the horizon of comprehension and sympathy on the part of his readers. and his courage and optimism constitute an inspiration and stimulus of an uncommonly virile sort. it has been said that browning is "not a poet, but a literature," and in work so vast and varied that it can be thus characterized there must be wide extremes of value. it is almost certain that portions of his work cannot live. they are too difficult, too unliterary. but in the portions where great thought finds adequate form, the product is a priceless gift and one not equaled by any other poet of his age. footnotes: [footnote : _the century_, december, , vol. xxiii, pp. - .] [footnote : see the article by mr. f. j. furnivall in the _pall mall gazette_ for april, .] [footnote : the first production of _pippa passes_ was given in copley hall, boston, in , with an arrangement in six scenes by miss helen a. clarke. _the return of the druses_ was arranged and presented by miss charlotte porter in and was a dramatic success. _a blot in the 'scutcheon_ was brought out by macready, with phelps in the chief part and with miss helen faucit as mildred. it was played to crowded houses and received much applause. it was revived by phelps at sadler's wells in ; and by the browning society in at st. george's hall, london. in the winter of that year the play was given in washington by lawrence barrett. it has also within a few years been admirably presented by mrs. lemoyne in new york and elsewhere. _colombe's birthday_, which was published in , was not put upon the stage till , when it was performed at the haymarket theater in london with lady martin (helen faucit) as colombe. it was performed in boston in and enthusiastically received. it was revived in with miss alma murray as colombe, when it was commented on as being "charming on the boards, clearer, more direct in action, more picturesque, more full of delicate surprises than one imagines it in print." it was also successfully produced at mcvicker's theater, chicago, in november, , with miss marlowe as colombe.] [footnote : an interesting corroboration of mrs. browning's words is found in the fact that the edition of browning's works, by smith elder and co., was reprinted as numbers - of the _official guide of the chicago and alton r. r., and monthly reprint and advertiser_, edited by mr. james charlton. a copy is in the british museum. the reprint appeared in - . see mrs. orr's bibliography.] [footnote : a particularly interesting dramatic event was mrs. lemoyne's presentation of _in a balcony_ at wallack's theater, new york, in the autumn of . mrs. lemoyne was the queen, otis skinner was norbet, and eleanor robson was constance. see _the bookman_, , .] [footnote : mrs. bronson has given a vivid picture of the brownings at asolo and at venice in the _century magazine_ for and .] [footnote : see miss e. m. clark in _poet-lore_, volume ii. page ( ).] [footnote : _poet-lore_, volume ii. page ( ).] bibliography the great number of books and articles on browning and his work is shown by the bibliography of biography and criticism prepared by john p. anderson of the british museum and printed in william sharp's _life of robert browning_. the selection to be given here can hardly more than suggest this large amount of material. the - edition of browning's _works_ by smith, elder and company incorporates browning's last revisions and his own punctuation. the macmillan edition in nine volumes in reproduces this text. for biographical material important books are: _the letters of robert browning and elizabeth barrett - _, two volumes, , harper brothers. _the letters of elizabeth barrett browning. edited with biographical additions by frederic g. kenyon._ macmillan, . (two volumes in one, .) _the life and letters of robert browning_ by mrs. a. sutherland orr in . a new edition, revised and in part rewritten by mr. frederick g. kenyon, was brought out by houghton, mifflin and company in . mrs. orr and mr. kenyon were both friends of browning and could speak with authority on many details of his life. _robert browning, personalia_, by edmund gosse. houghton mifflin and company, . this book consists of a reprint of two articles, one from _the century magazine_ on "the early career of robert browning," and one from _the new review_ entitled "personal impressions." these articles are of exceptional interest because mr. gosse lived near mr. browning at warwick crescent and they were on terms of close friendship. in _critical kit-kats_, , mr. gosse gives the story of _sonnets from the portuguese_. _robert browning._ in _bookman biographies_, edited by w. robertson nicholl. hodder and stoughton, london. many interesting illustrations. _the century magazine_ for and gives mrs. bronson's account of browning at asolo and at venice. for general handbooks see: _the browning cyclopædia._ edward berdoe, macmillan, . elaborate analysis of each poem. many textual notes. interpretations often involved and far-fetched to the point of being untenable. _handbook of robert browning's works._ mrs. a. sutherland orr. first edition, ; sixth edition, . republished by bell and sons, london, . explanatory analysis of each poem. edition of contains complete bibliography of browning's works. written at the request of the london browning society. for criticism see, as books varying widely in point of view and scope, but each of distinct interest: _an introduction to the study of robert browning's poetry._ hiram corson. boston, . _an introduction to the study of browning._ arthur symons. london, cassell and company, . _life of robert browning._ william sharp. walter scott and company, london, . _the poetry of robert browning._ stopford a. brooke. crowell and company, . _robert browning._ g. k. chesterton. macmillan, . _robert browning._ c. h. herford. dodd, mead and company, . _interpretations of poetry and religion_, by george santayana, scribners, , contains an interesting presentation of browning's work in a chapter entitled "the poetry of barbarism." _browning study programmes_ by charlotte porter and helen a. clarke, crowell and company, , is a series of studies on separate poems or on groups of poems. often very suggestive and helpful. in _poet-lore_, edited by miss clarke and miss porter, are, _passim_, many other valuable studies and notes on browning. the camberwell edition of browning's poems, edited by miss clarke and miss porter with excellent annotations, was published by crowell and company in . _the london browning society's papers_ and _the boston browning society's papers_ contain much valuable material on separate poems or on various phases of browning's life and work. chronological table may , . robert browning born in camberwell, london. . _incondita_ ready for publication. . shelley and keats read. . left mr. ready's school. . _pauline_ published anonymously. - . travels in russia and italy. . _paracelsus._ . _strafford._ acted may , , covent garden. . _sordello._ - . _bells and pomegranates._ . no. i. _pippa passes._ . no. ii. _king victor and king charles._ . no. iii. _dramatic lyrics._ . no. iv. _the return of the druses._ . no. v. _a blot in the 'scutcheon._ acted feb. , , drury lane. . no. vi. _colombe's birthday._ acted april , , haymarket. . no. vii. _dramatic romances and lyrics._ . no. viii. _luria_ and _a soul's tragedy_. jan. , . correspondence between mr. browning and miss barrett begun. may , . their first meeting. sept. , . their marriage at marylebone church, london. oct. . to april, . in pisa. april , . arrival at florence. may . settled in permanent home at casa guidi. . _poems by robert browning._ two volumes. march , . birth of wiedemann (or "penini") browning. march . death of browning's mother. . _christmas eve and easter day._ june . mrs. browning's _casa guidi windows_. . _letters of percy bysshe shelley._ with an introductory essay by robert browning. . _men and women._ in two volumes. oct. . mrs. browning's _aurora leigh_. june . browning found the "yellow book." june , . mrs. browning died. she was buried in florence. july . browning left florence. . established himself at warwick crescent, london, where he lived twenty-five years. . _the poetical works of robert browning._ in three volumes. chapman and hall. . _selections from the poetical works of robert browning._ [editors, b.w. proctor and john forster.] . _dramatis personæ._ . browning's father died and sarianna came to live with her brother. . _the poetical works of robert browning._ in six volumes. smith, elder and company. - . _the ring and the book._ in four volumes. . _balaustion's adventure._ . _prince hohenstiel-schwangau, saviour of society._ . _fifine at the fair._ . _red cotton night-cap country._ . _aristophanes' apology._ . _the inn album._ july . _pacchiarotto and how he worked in distemper._ . _the agamemnon of Æschylus translated._ . _la saisiaz; the two poets of croisic._ aug. . browning first revisited italy. . _dramatic idyls._ . _dramatic idyls._ second series. . the london browning society established. . _jocoseria._ . _ferishtah's fancies._ . browning moved to de vere gardens. . _poetic and dramatic works of robert browning._ riverside edition: houghton, mifflin and company. - . _the poetical works of robert browning._ in sixteen volumes. smith, elder and company. [all the works collected by the author except _asolando_.] dec. , . _asolando._ dec. , . robert browning died in the palazzo rezzonica, his son's home in venice. dec. , . buried in westminster abbey. selections from the poems and plays of robert browning songs from paracelsus i "heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripes" heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripes of labdanum, and aloe-balls, smeared with dull nard an indian wipes from out her hair; such balsam falls down sea-side mountain pedestals, from tree-tops where tired winds are fain, spent with the vast and howling main, to treasure half their island-gain. and strew faint sweetness from some old egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud which breaks to dust when once unrolled; or shredded perfume, like a cloud from closet long to quiet vowed, with mothed and dropping arras hung, moldering her lute and books among, as when a queen, long dead, was young. ii "over the sea our galleys went" over the sea our galleys went with cleaving prows in order brave to a speeding wind and a bounding wave-- a gallant armament; each bark built out of a forest-tree left leafy and rough as first it grew, and nailed all over the gaping sides, within and without, with black bull-hides, seethed in fat and suppled in flame, to bear the playful billows' game. so each good ship was rude to see, rude and bare to the outward view, but each upbore a stately tent where cedar pales in scented row kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, and an awning drooped the mast below, in fold on fold of the purple fine, that neither noontide nor starshine nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, might pierce the regal tenement. when the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad we set the sail and plied the oar; but when the night-wind blew like breath, for joy of one day's voyage more, we sang together on the wide sea, like men at peace on a peaceful shore; each sail was loosed to the wind so free, each helm made sure by the twilight star, and in a sleep as calm as death, we, the voyagers from afar, lay stretched along, each weary crew in a circle round its wondrous tent whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent, and with light and perfume, music too. so the stars wheeled round, and the darkness passed, and at morn we started beside the mast, and still each ship was sailing fast. now one morn land appeared--a speck dim trembling betwixt sea and sky. "avoid it," cried our pilot, "check the shout, restrain the eager eye!" but the heaving sea was black behind for many a night and many a day, and land, though but a rock, drew nigh; so we broke the cedar pales away, let the purple awning flap in the wind, and a statue bright was on every deck! we shouted, every man of us, and steered right into the harbor thus, with pomp and pæan glorious. a hundred shapes of lucid stone! all day we built its shrine for each, a shrine of rock for everyone, nor paused till in the westering sun we sat together on the beach to sing because our task was done. when lo! what shouts and merry songs! what laughter all the distance stirs! a loaded raft with happy throngs of gentle islanders! "our isles are just at hand," they cried, "like cloudlets faint in even sleeping; our temple-gates are opened wide, our olive-groves thick shade are keeping for these majestic forms"--they cried. oh, then we awoke with sudden start from our deep dream, and knew, too late, how bare the rock, how desolate, which had received our precious freight. yet we called out--"depart! our gifts once given must here abide. our work is done; we have no heart to mar our work"--we cried. iii "thus the mayne glideth" thus the mayne glideth where my love abideth. sleep's no softer; it proceeds on through lawns, on through meads, on and on, whate'er befall, meandering and musical, though the niggard pasturage bears not on its shaven ledge aught but weeds and waving grasses to view the river as it passes, save here and there a scanty patch of primroses too faint to catch a weary bee. and scarce it pushes its gentle way through strangling rushes where the glossy kingfisher flutters when noon-heats are near, glad the shelving banks to shun, red and steaming in the sun, where the shrew-mouse with pale throat burrows, and the speckled stoat; where the quick sandpipers flit in and out the marl and grit that seems to breed them, brown as they. naught disturbs its quiet way, save some lazy stork that springs, trailing it with legs and wings, whom the shy fox from the hill rouses, creep he ne'er so still. cavalier tunes i marching along kentish sir byng stood for his king, bidding the crop-headed parliament swing; and, pressing a troop unable to stoop and see the rogues nourish and honest folk droop, marched them along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song: god for king charles! pym and such carles to the devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles! cavaliers, up! lips from the cup, hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup. till you're-- chorus.--_marching along, fifty-score strong,_ _great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song._ hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell serve hazelrig, fiennes, and young harry as well! england, good cheer! rupert is near! kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, chorus.--_marching along, fifty-score strong,_ _great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?_ then, god for king charles! pym and his snarls to the devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! hold by the right, you double your might; so, onward to nottingham, fresh for the fight. chorus.--_march we along, fifty-score strong,_ _great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!_ ii give a rouse king charles, and who'll do him right now? king charles, and who's ripe for fight now? give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now, king charles! who gave me the goods that went since? who raised me the house that sank once? who helped me to gold i spent since? who found me in wine you drank once? chorus.-- _king charles, and who'll do him right now?_ _king charles, and who's ripe for fight now?_ _give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now,_ _king charles!_ to whom used my boy george quaff else, by the old fool's side that begot him? for whom did he cheer and laugh else, while noll's damned troopers shot him? chorus.-- _king charles, and who'll do him right now?_ _king charles, and who's ripe for fight now?_ _give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now,_ _king charles!_ iii boot and saddle boot, saddle, to horse, and away! rescue my castle before the hot day brightens to blue from its silvery gray, chorus.--_boot, saddle, to horse, and away!_ ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; many's the friend there, will listen and pray "god's luck to gallants that strike up the lay-- chorus.--_boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"_ forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, flouts castle brancepeth the roundheads' array; who laughs, "good fellows ere this, by my fay, chorus.--_boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"_ who? my wife gertrude; that, honest and gay, laughs when you talk of surrendering, "nay! i've better counselors; what counsel they? chorus.--_boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"_ the lost leader just for a handful of silver he left us, just for a riband to stick in his coat-- found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, lost all the others she lets us devote; they, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, so much was theirs who so little allowed; how all our copper had gone for his service! rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud! we that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, lived in his mild and magnificent eye, learned his great language, caught his clear accents, made him our pattern to live and to die! shakespeare was of us, milton was for us, burns, shelley, were with us--they watch from their graves! he alone breaks from the van and the freemen, --he alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! we shall march prospering--not through his presence; songs may inspirit us--not from his lyre; deeds will be done--while he boasts his quiescence, still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, one task more declined, one more footpath untrod, one more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, one wrong more to man, one more insult to god! life's night begins; let him never come back to us! there would be doubt, hesitation and pain, forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight, never glad confident morning again! best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly, menace our heart ere we master his own; then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! "how they brought the good news from ghent to aix" i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he; i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "good speed!" cried the watch, as the gatebolts undrew; "speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, and into the midnight we galloped abreast. not a word to each other; we kept the great pace neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; i turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily roland a whit. 'twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; at boom a great yellow star came out to see; at düffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be; and from mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, so joris broke silence with, "yet there is time!" at aershot up leaped of a sudden the sun, and against him the cattle stood black every one, to stare through the mist at us galloping past, and i saw my stout galloper roland at last, with resolute shoulders, each butting away the haze, as some bluff river headland its spray; and his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back for my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; and one eye's black intelligence--ever that glance o'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! and the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon his fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. by hasselt dirck groaned; and cried joris, "stay spur! your roos galloped bravely--the fault's not in her; we'll remember at aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, and sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, as down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. so we were left galloping, joris and i, past looz and past tongres, no cloud in the sky; the broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; till over by dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, and "gallop," gasped joris, "for aix is in sight!" "how they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; and there was my roland to bear the whole weight of the news which alone could save aix from her fate, with his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, and with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. then i cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, called my roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, till at length into aix roland galloped and stood. and all i remember is--friends flocking round as i sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; and no voice but was praising this roland of mine, as i poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which (the burgesses voted by common consent) was no more than his due who brought good news from ghent. garden fancies the flower's name here's the garden she walked across, arm in my arm, such a short while since; hark, now i push its wicket, the moss hinders the hinges and makes them wince! she must have reached this shrub ere she turned, as back with that murmur the wicket swung; for she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, to feed and forget it the leaves among. down this side of the gravel-walk she went while her robe's edge brushed the box; and here she paused in her gracious talk to point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. roses, ranged in valiant row, i will never think that she passed you by! she loves you, noble roses, i know; but yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie! this flower she stopped at, finger on lip, stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, its soft meandering spanish name. what a name! was it love or praise? speech half-asleep or song half-awake? i must learn spanish, one of these days, only for that slow sweet name's sake. roses, if i live and do well, i may bring her, one of these days, to fix you fast with as fine a spell, fit you each with his spanish phrase; but do not detain me now; for she lingers there, like sunshine over the ground, and ever i see her soft white fingers searching after the bud she found. flower, you spaniard, look that you grow not; stay as you are and be loved forever! bud, if i kiss you 'tis that you blow not; mind, the shut pink month opens never! for while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, twinkling the audacious leaves between, till round they turn and down they nestle-- is not the dear mark still to be seen? where i find her not, beauties vanish; whither i follow her, beauties flee; is there no method to tell her in spanish june's twice june since she breathed it with me? come, bud, show me the least of her traces, treasure my lady's lightest footfall! --ah, you may flout and turn up your faces-- roses, you are not so fair after all! meeting at night the gray sea and the long black land; and the yellow half-moon large and low; and the startled little waves that leap in fiery ringlets from their sleep, as i gain the cove with pushing prow, and quench its speed i' the slushy sand. then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; three fields to cross till a farm appears; a tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch and blue spurt of a lighted match, and a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, than the two hearts beating each to each! parting at morning round the cape of a sudden came the sea, and the sun looked over the mountain's rim; and straight was a path of gold for him, and the need of a world of men for me. evelyn hope beautiful evelyn hope is dead! sit and watch by her side an hour. that is her book-shelf, this her bed; she plucked that piece of geranium-flower, beginning to die too, in the glass; little has yet been changed, i think; the shutters are shut, no light may pass save two long rays through the hinge's chink. sixteen years old when she died! perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; it was not her time to love; beside, her life had many a hope and aim, duties enough and little cares, and now was quiet, now astir, till god's hand beckoned unawares-- and the sweet white brow is all of her. is it too late then, evelyn hope? what, your soul was pure and true, the good stars met in your horoscope, made you of spirit, fire, and dew-- and just because i was thrice as old and our paths in the world diverged so wide, each was naught to each, must i be told? we were fellow mortals, naught beside? no, indeed! for god above is great to grant, as mighty to make, and creates the love to reward the love; i claim you still, for my own love's sake! delayed it may be for more lives yet, through worlds i shall traverse, not a few; much is to learn, much to forget ere the time be come for taking you. but the time will come--at last it will, when, evelyn hope, what meant (i shall say) in the lower earth, in the years long still, that body and soul so pure and gay? why your hair was amber, i shall divine, and your mouth of your own geranium's red-- and what you would do with me, in fine, in the new life come in the old one's stead. i have lived (i shall say) so much since then, given up myself so many times, gained me the gains of various men, ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, either i missed or itself missed me; and i want and find you, evelyn hope! what is the issue? let us see! i loved you, evelyn, all the while! my heart seemed full as it could hold; there was place and to spare for the frank young smile, and the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. so, hush--i will give you this leaf to keep; see, i shut it inside the sweet cold hand! there, that is our secret; go to sleep! you will wake, and remember, and understand. love among the ruins where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles, miles and miles on the solitary pastures where our sheep half-asleep tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop as they crop-- was the site once of a city great and gay (so they say) of our country's very capital, its prince ages since held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far peace or war. now--the country does not even boast a tree, as you see, to distinguish slopes of verdure; certain rills from the hills intersect and give a name to (else they run into one) where the domed and daring palace shot its spires up like fires o'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall bounding all, made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, twelve abreast. and such plenty and perfection, see, of grass never was! such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads and embeds every vestige of the city, guessed alone, stock or stone-- where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe long ago; lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame struck them tame; and that glory and that shame alike, the gold bought and sold. now--the single little turret that remains on the plains, by the caper overrooted, by the gourd overscored, while the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks through the chinks-- marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time sprang sublime, and a burning ring, all around, the chariots traced as they raced, and the monarch and his minions and his dames viewed the games. and i know, while thus the quiet-colored eve smiles to leave to their folding all our many-tinkling fleece in such peace, and the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray melt away-- that a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair waits me there in the turret whence the charioteers caught soul for the goal, when the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb till i come. but he looked upon the city, every side, far and wide, all the mountains topped with temples, all the glades' colonnades, all the causeys, bridges, aqueducts--and then, all the men! when i do come, she will speak not, she will stand, either hand on my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace of my face, ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech each on each. in one year they sent a million fighters forth south and north, and they built their gods a brazen pillar high as the sky, yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force-- gold, of course. o heart! o blood that freezes, blood that burns! earth's returns for whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! shut them in, with their triumphs and their glories and the rest! love is best. up at a villa--down in the city (as distinguished by an italian person of quality) had i but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, the house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square; ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there! something to see, by bacchus, something to hear, at least! there, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; while up at a villa one lives, i maintain it, no more than a beast. well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull, save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull! --i scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool. but the city, oh, the city--the square with the houses! why? they are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye! houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry; you watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high; and the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. what of a villa? though winter be over in march by rights, 'tis may perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights: you've the brown plowed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, and the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees. is it better in may, i ask you? you've summer all at once; in a day he leaps complete with a few strong april suns. 'mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, the wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell. is it ever hot in the square? there's a fountain to spout and splash! in the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flash on the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash round the lady atop in her conch--fifty gazers do not abash, though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash. all the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger, except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger. some think fireflies pretty when they mix i' the corn and mingle, or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. late august or early september, the stunning cicala is shrill, and the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. enough of the seasons--i spare you the months of the fever and chill. ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin; no sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in; you get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. by and by there's the traveling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth; or the pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. at the post office such a scene-picture--the new play, piping hot! and a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. above it, behold the archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, and beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the duke's! or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the reverend don so-and-so, who is dante, boccaccio, petrarca, saint jerome, and cicero; "and, moreover" (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of saint paul has reached, having preached us those six lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached." noon strikes--here sweeps the procession! our lady borne smiling and smart with a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! _bang-whang-whang_ goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife; no keeping one's haunches still; it's the greatest pleasure in life. but bless you, it's dear--it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. they have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate it's a horror to think of. and so the villa for me, not the city! beggars can scarcely be choosers; but still--ah, the pity, the pity! look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, and the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles; one, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, and the duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals; _bang-whang-whang_ goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife. oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life! a toccata of galuppi's o galuppi, baldassare, this is very sad to find! i can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind; but although i take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind! here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings. what, they lived once thus at venice where the merchants were the kings, where saint mark's is, where the doges used to wed the sea with rings? aye, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by ... what you call shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival; i was never out of england--it's as if i saw it all. did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in may? balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day, when they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say? was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red-- on her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed, o'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head? well, and it was graceful of them--they'd break talk off and afford --she, to bite her mask's black velvet--he, to finger on his sword, while you sat and played toccatas, stately at the clavichord? what? those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh, told them something? those suspensions, those solutions--"must we die?" those commiserating sevenths--"life might last! we can but try!" "were you happy?"--"yes."--"and are you still as happy?"--"yes. and you?" --"then, more kisses!"--"did _i_ stop them, when a million seemed so few?" hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to! so an octave struck the answer. oh, they praised you, i dare say! "brave galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay! i can always leave off talking when i hear a master play!" then they left you for their pleasure; till in due time, one by one, some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone, death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun. but when i sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve, while i triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve, in you come with your cold music till i creep through every nerve. yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned: "dust and ashes, dead and done with, venice spent what venice earned. the soul, doubtless, is immortal--where a soul can be discerned. "yours for instance; you know physics, something of geology, mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree; butterflies may dread extinction--you'll not die, it cannot be! "as for venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop, here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop; what of soul was left, i wonder, when the kissing had to stop? "dust and ashes!" so you creak it, and i want the heart to scold. dear dead women, with such hair, too--what's become of all the gold used to hang and brush their bosoms? i feel chilly and grown old. old pictures in florence the morn when first it thunders in march, the eel in the pond gives a leap, they say; as i leaned and looked over the aloed arch of the villa-gate this warm march day, no flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled in the valley beneath where, white and wide and washed by the morning water-gold, florence lay out on the mountain-side. river and bridge and street and square lay mine, as much at my beck and call, through the live translucent bath of air, as the sights in a magic crystal ball. and of all i saw and of all i praised, the most to praise and the best to see was the startling bell-tower giotto raised; but why did it more than startle me? giotto, how, with that soul of yours, could you play me false who loved you so? some slights if a certain heart endures yet it feels, i would have your fellows know! i' faith, i perceive not why i should care to break a silence that suits them best, but the thing grows somewhat hard to bear when i find a giotto join the rest. on the arch where olives overhead print the blue sky with twig and leaf (that sharp-curled leaf which they never shed) 'twixt the aloes, i used to lean in chief, and mark through the winter afternoons, by a gift god grants me now and then, in the mild decline of those suns like moons, who walked in florence, besides her men. they might chirp and chaffer, come and go for pleasure or profit, her men alive-- my business was hardly with them, i trow, but with empty cells of the human hive-- with the chapter-room, the cloister-porch, the church's apsis, aisle, or nave, its crypt, one fingers along with a torch, its face set full for the sun to shave. wherever a fresco peels and drops, wherever an outline weakens and wanes till the latest life in the painting stops, stands one whom each fainter pulse-tick pains; one, wishful each scrap should clutch the brick, each tinge not wholly escape the plaster, --a lion who dies of an ass's kick, the wronged great soul of an ancient master. for oh, this world and the wrong it does! they are safe in heaven with their backs to it, the michaels and rafaels, you hum and buzz round the works of, you of the little wit! do their eyes contract to the earth's old scope, now that they see god face to face, and have all attained to be poets, i hope? 'tis their holiday now, in any case. much they reck of your praise and you! but the wronged great souls--can they be quit of a world where their work is all to do, where you style them, you of the little wit, old master this and early the other, not dreaming that old and new are fellows: a younger succeeds to an elder brother, da vincis derive in good time from dellos. and here where your praise might yield returns, and a handsome word or two give help, here, after your kind, the mastiff girns and the puppy pack of poodles yelp. what, not a word for stefano there, of brow once prominent and starry, called nature's ape and the world's despair for his peerless painting? (see vasari.) there stands the master. study, my friends, what a man's work comes to! so he plans it, performs it, perfects it, makes amends for the toiling and moiling, and then, _sic transit_! happier the thrifty blind-folk labor, with upturned eye while the hand is busy, not sidling a glance at the coin of their neighbor! 'tis looking downward that makes one dizzy. "if you knew their work you would deal your dole." may i take upon me to instruct you? when greek art ran and reached the goal, thus much had the world to boast _in fructu_-- the truth of man, as by god first spoken, which the actual generations garble, was re-uttered, and soul (which limbs betoken) and limbs (soul informs) made new in marble. so you saw yourself as you wished you were, as you might have been, as you cannot be; earth here, rebuked by olympus there: and grew content in your poor degree with your little power, by those statues' godhead, and your little scope, by their eyes' full sway, and your little grace, by their grace embodied, and your little date, by their forms that stay. you would fain be kinglier, say, than i am? even so, you will not sit like theseus. you would prove a model? the son of priam has yet the advantage in arms' and knees' use. you're wroth--can you slay your snake like apollo? you're grieved--still niobe's the grander! you live--there's the racers' frieze to follow: you die--there's the dying alexander. so, testing your weakness by their strength, your meager charms by their rounded beauty, measured by art in your breadth and length, you learned--to submit is a mortal's duty. --when i say "you" 'tis the common soul, the collective, i mean--the race of man that receives life in parts to live in a whole, and grow here according to god's clear plan. growth came when, looking your last on them all, you turned your eyes inwardly one fine day and cried with a start--what if we so small be greater and grander the while than they? are they perfect of lineament, perfect of stature? in both, of such lower types are we precisely because of our wider nature; for time, theirs--ours, for eternity. today's brief passion limits their range; it seethes with the morrow for us and more. they are perfect--how else? they shall never change; we are faulty--why not? we have time in store. the artificer's hand is not arrested with us; we are rough-hewn, nowise polished; they stand for our copy, and, once invested with all they can teach, we shall see them abolished. 'tis a life-long toil till our lump be leaven-- the better! what's come to perfection perishes. things learned on earth we shall practice in heaven: works done least rapidly, art most cherishes. thyself shalt afford the example, giotto! thy one work, not to decrease or diminish, done at a stroke, was just (was it not?) "o!" thy great campanile is still to finish. is it true that we are now, and shall be hereafter, but what and where depend on life's minute? hails heavenly cheer or infernal laughter our first step out of the gulf or in it? shall man, such step within his endeavor, man's face, have no more play and action than joy which is crystallized forever, or grief, an eternal petrifaction? on which i conclude, that the early painters, to cries of "greek art and what more wish you?"-- replied, "to become now self-acquainters, and paint man, man, whatever the issue! make new hopes shine through the flesh they fray, new fears aggrandize the rags and tatters: to bring the invisible full into play! let the visible go to the dogs--what matters?" give these, i exhort you, their guerdon and glory for daring so much, before they well did it. the first of the new, in our race's story, beats the last of the old; 'tis no idle quiddit. the worthies began a revolution, which if on earth you intend to acknowledge, why, honor them now! (ends my allocution) nor confer your degree when the folk leave college. there's a fancy some lean to and others hate-- that, when this life is ended, begins new work for the soul in another state, where it strives and gets weary, loses and wins: where the strong and the weak, this world's congeries, repeat in large what they practiced in small, through life after life in unlimited series; only the scale's to be changed, that's all. yet i hardly know. when a soul has seen by the means of evil that good is best, and, through earth and its noise, what is heaven's serene-- when our faith in the same has stood the test-- why, the child grown man, you burn the rod, the uses of labor are surely done; there remaineth a rest for the people of god; and i have had troubles enough, for one. but at any rate i have loved the season of art's spring-birth so dim and dewy; my sculptor is nicolo the pisan, my painter--who but cimabue? nor ever was a man of them all indeed, from these to ghiberti and ghirlandajo, could say that he missed my critic-meed. so, now to my special grievance--heigh-ho! their ghosts still stand, as i said before, watching each fresco flaked and rasped, blocked up, knocked out, or whitewashed o'er: --no getting again what the church has grasped! the works on the wall must take their chance; "works never conceded to england's thick clime!" (i hope they prefer their inheritance of a bucketful of italian quicklime.) when they go at length, with such a shaking of heads o'er the old delusion, sadly each master his way through the black streets taking, where many a lost work breathes though badly-- why don't they bethink them of who has merited? why not reveal while their pictures dree such doom, how a captive might be out-ferreted? why is it they never remember me? not that i expect the great bigordi, nor sandro to hear me, chivalric, bellicose; nor the wronged lippino; and not a word i say of a scrap of frà angelico's; but are you too fine, taddeo gaddi, to grant me a taste of your intonaco, some jerome that seeks the heaven with a sad eye? not a churlish saint, lorenzo monaco? could not the ghost with the close red cap, my pollajolo, the twice a craftsman, save me a sample, give me the hap of a muscular christ that shows the draftsman? no virgin by him the somewhat petty, of finical touch and tempera crumbly-- could not alesso baldovinetti contribute so much, i ask him humbly? margheritone of arezzo, with the grave-clothes garb and swaddling barret (why purse up mouth and beak in a pet so, you bald old saturnine poll-clawed parrot?) not a poor glimmering crucifixion, where in the foreground kneels the donor? if such remain, as is my conviction, the hoarding it does you but little honor. they pass; for them the panels may thrill, the tempera grow alive and tinglish; their pictures are left to the mercies still of dealers and stealers, jews and the english, who, seeing mere money's worth in their prize, will sell it to somebody calm as zeno at naked high art, and in ecstasies before some clay-cold vile carlino! no matter for these! but giotto, you, have you allowed, as the town-tongues babble it-- oh, never! it shall not be counted true-- that a certain precious little tablet which buonarroti eyed like a lover-- was buried so long in oblivion's womb and, left for another than i to discover, turns up at last! and to whom?--to whom? i, that have haunted the dim san spirito, (or was it rather the ognissanti?) patient on altar-step planting a weary toe! nay, i shall have it yet! _detur amanti!_ my koh-i-noor--or (if that's a platitude) jewel of giamschid, the persian sofi's eye; so, in anticipative gratitude, what if i take up my hope and prophesy? when the hour grows ripe, and a certain dotard is pitched, no parcel that needs invoicing, to the worse side of the mont saint gothard, we shall begin by way of rejoicing; none of that shooting the sky (blank cartridge), nor a civic guard, all plumes and lacquer, hunting radetzky's soul like a partridge over morello with squib and cracker. this time we'll shoot better game and bag 'em hot-- no mere display at the stone of dante, but a kind of sober witanagemot (ex: "casa guidi," _quod videas ante_) shall ponder, once freedom restored to florence, how art may return that departed with her. go, hated house, go each trace of the loraine's, and bring us the days of orgagna hither! how we shall prologuize, how we shall perorate, utter fit things upon art and history, feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood at zero rate, make of the want of the age no mystery; contrast the fructuous and sterile eras, show--monarchy ever its uncouth cub licks out of the bear's shape into chimæra's, while pure art's birth is still the republic's. then one shall propose in a speech (curt tuscan, expurgate and sober, with scarcely an "_issimo_,") to end now our half-told tale of cambuscan, and turn the bell-tower's _alt_ to _altissimo_: and find as the beak of a young beccaccia the campanile, the duomo's fit ally, shall soar up in gold full fifty braccia, completing florence, as florence, italy. shall i be alive that morning the scaffold is broken away, and the long-pent fire, like the golden hope of the world, unbaffled springs from its sleep, and up goes the spire while "god and the people" plain for its motto, thence the new tricolor flaps at the sky? at least to foresee that glory of giotto and florence together, the first am i! "de gustibus----" your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, (if our loves remain) in an english lane, by a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. hark, those two in the hazel coppice-- a boy and a girl, if the good fates please, making love, say-- the happier they! draw yourself up from the light of the moon, and let them pass, as they will too soon, with the bean-flowers' boon, and the blackbird's tune, and may, and june! what i love best in all the world is a castle, precipice-encurled, in a gash of the wind-grieved apennine. or look for me, old fellow of mine, (if i get my head from out the mouth o' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands, and come again to the land of lands)-- in a sea-side house to the farther south, where the baked cicala dies of drouth, and one sharp tree--'tis a cypress--stands, by the many hundred years red-rusted, rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted, my sentinel to guard the sands to the water's edge. for, what expands before the house, but the great opaque blue breadth of sea without a break? while, in the house, forever crumbles some fragment of the frescoed walls, from blisters where a scorpion sprawls. a girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles down on the pavement, green-flesh melons, and says there's news today--the king was shot at, touched in the liver-wing, goes with his bourbon arm a sling: --she hopes they have not caught the felons. italy, my italy! queen mary's saying serves for me-- (when fortune's malice lost her--calais)-- open my heart and you will see graved inside of it, "italy." such lovers old are i and she: so it always was, so shall ever be! home-thoughts, from abroad oh, to be in england now that april's there, and whoever wakes in england sees, some morning, unaware, that the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf round the elm-tree hole are in tiny leaf, while the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough in england--now! and after april, when may follows, and the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge leans to the field and scatters on the clover blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- that's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture! and though the fields look rough with hoary dew, all will be gay when noontide wakes anew the buttercups, the little children's dower --far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! home-thoughts, from the sea nobly, nobly cape saint vincent to the northwest died away; sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into cadiz bay; bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face trafalgar lay; in the dimmest northeast distance dawned gibraltar grand and gray; "here and here did england help me: how can i help england?"--say, whoso turns as i, this evening, turn to god to praise and pray, while jove's planet rises yonder, silent over africa. saul i said abner, "at last thou art come! ere i tell, ere thou speak, kiss my cheek, wish me well!" then i wished it, and did kiss his cheek. and he, "since the king, o my friend, for thy countenance sent, neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tent thou return with the joyful assurance the king liveth yet, shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet. for out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days, not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise, to betoken that saul and the spirit have ended their strife, and that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life. ii "yet now my heart leaps, o beloved! god's child with his dew on thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heat were now raging to torture the desert!" iii then i, as was meet, knelt down to the god of my fathers, and rose on my feet, and ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. the tent was unlooped; i pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under i stooped; hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone, that extends to the second enclosure, i groped my way on till i felt where the foldskirts fly open. then once more i prayed, and opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid but spoke, "here is david, thy servant!" and no voice replied. at the first i saw naught but the blackness; but soon i descried a something more black than the blackness--the vast, the upright main prop which sustains the pavilion; and slow into sight grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all. then a sunbeam, that burst through the tent-roof, showed saul. iv he stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide on the great cross-support in the center, that goes to each side; he relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs and waiting his change, the king-serpent all heavily hangs, far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come with the springtime--so agonized saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb. v then i tuned my harp--took off the lilies we twine round its chords lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide--those sunbeams like swords! and i first played the tune all our sheep know as, one after one, so docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. they are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed; and now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star into eve and the blue far above us--so blue and so far! vi --then the tune for which quails on the cornland will each leave his mate to fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate till for boldness they fight one another; and then, what has weight to set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house-- there are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse! god made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, to give sign, we and they are his children, one family here. vii then i played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when hand grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expand and grow one in the sense of this world's life.--and then, the last song when the dead man is praised on his journey--"bear, bear him along, with his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! are balm seeds not here to console us? the land has none left such as he on the bier. oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!"--and then, the glad chaunt of the marriage--first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vaunt as the beauty, the pride of our dwelling.--and then, the great march wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch naught can break; who shall harm them, our friends?--then, the chorus intoned as the levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. but i stopped here; for here in the darkness saul groaned. viii and i paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart; and the tent shook, for mighty saul shuddered; and sparkles 'gan dart from the jewels that woke in his turban, at once with a start, all its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart. so the head; but the body still moved not, still hung there erect. and i bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked, as i sang: ix "oh, our manhood's prime vigor! no spirit feels waste, not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock, the strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear, and the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair. and the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine, and the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draft of wine, and the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell that the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. how good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy! hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst guard when he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward? didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung the low song of the nearly-departed, and hear her faint tongue joining in while it could to the witness, 'let one more attest, i have lived, seen god's hand through a lifetime, and all was for best'? then they sung through their tears in strong triumph, not much, but the rest. and thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true; and the friends of thy boyhood--that boyhood of wonder and hope, present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope-- till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is thine; and all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine! on one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throe that, a-work in the rock, helps its labor and lets the gold go) high ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them--all brought to blaze on the head of one creature--king saul!" x and lo, with that leap of my spirit--heart, hand, harp, and voice, each lifting saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice saul's fame in the light it was made for--as when, dare i say, the lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its array, and upsoareth the cherubim-chariot--"saul!" cried i, and stopped, and waited the thing that should follow. then saul, who hung propped by the tent's cross-support in the center, was struck by his name. have ye seen when spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim, and some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he alone, while the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of stone a year's snow bound about for a breastplate--leaves grasp of the sheet? fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet, and there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old, with his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold-- yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest--all hail, there they are! --now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crest for their food in the ardors of summer. one long shudder thrilled all the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled at the king's self left standing before me, released and aware. what was gone, what remained? all to traverse, 'twixt hope and despair; death was past, life not come: so he waited. awhile his right hand held the brow, held the eyes left too vacant forthwith to remand to their place what new objects should enter: 'twas saul as before. i looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore, at their sad level gaze o'er the ocean--a sun's slow decline over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine base with base to knit strength more intensely: so, arm folded arm o'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. xi what spell or what charm, (for, awhile there was trouble within me) what next should i urge to sustain him where song had restored him?--song filled to the verge his cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty; beyond, on what fields, glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye and bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by? he saith, "it is good"; still he drinks not; he lets me praise life, gives assent, yet would die for his own part. xii then fancies grew rife which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep fed in silence--above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep; and i lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie 'neath his ken, though i saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky; and i laughed--"since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks, let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks, dream the life i am never to mix with, and image the show of mankind as they live in those fashions i hardly shall know! schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains, and the prudence that keeps what men strive for." and now these old trains of vague thought came again; i grew surer; so, once more the string of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus-- xiii "yea, my king," i began--"thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring from the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute: in our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit. thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree--how its stem trembled first till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; then safely outburst the fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in turn broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect; yet more was to learn, e'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. our dates shall we slight, when their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the plight of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them? not so! stem and branch shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall stanch every wound of man's spirit in winter. i pour thee such wine. leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine! by the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy more indeed, than at first when inconscious, the life of a boy. crush that life, and behold its wine running! each deed thou hast done dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the sun looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests efface, can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace the results of his past summer-prime--so, each ray of thy will, every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill thy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till they too give forth a like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the south and the north with the radiance thy deed was the germ of. carouse in the past! but the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last; as the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height, so with man--so his power and his beauty forever take flight. no! again a long draft of my soul-wine! look forth o'er the years! thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with the seer's! is saul dead? in the depth of the vale make his tomb--bid arise a gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the skies, let it mark where the great first king slumbers; whose fame would ye know? up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go in great characters cut by the scribe--such was saul, so he did; with the sages directing the work, by the populace chid-- for not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there! which fault to amend, in the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend (see, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and record with the gold of the graver, saul's story--the statesman's great word side by side with the poet's sweet comment. the river's a-wave with smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet-winds rave: so the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part in thy being! then, first of the mighty, thank god that thou art!" xiv and behold while i sang ... but o thou who didst grant me that day, and before it not seldom hast granted thy help to essay, carry on and complete an adventure--my shield and my sword in that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word-- still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavor and scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever on the new stretch of heaven above me--till, mighty to save, just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance--god's throne from man's grave! let me tell out my tale to its evening--my voice to my heart which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night i took part, as this morning i gather the fragments, alone with my sheep, and still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep! for i wake in the gray dewy covert, while hebron upheaves the dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and kidron retrieves slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. xv i say then--my song while i sang thus, assuring the monarch, and ever more strong made a proffer of good to console him--he slowly resumed his old motions and habitudes kingly. the right hand replumed his black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes of his turban, and see--the huge sweat that his countenance bathes, he wipes off with the robe; and he girds now his loins as of yore, and feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before. he is saul, ye remember in glory--ere error had bent the broad brow from the daily communion; and still, though much spent be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, god did choose to receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose. so sank he along by the tent-prop till, stayed by the pile of his armor and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there awhile, and sat out my singing--one arm round the tent-prop, to raise his bent head, and the other hung slack--till i touched on the praise i foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there; and thus ended, the harp falling forward. then first i was 'ware that he sat, as i say, with my head just above his vast knees which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak-roots which please to encircle a lamb when it slumbers. i looked up to know if the best i could do had brought solace; he spoke not, but slow lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow; through my hair the large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind power-- all my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine--and oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign? i yearned--"could i help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, i would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this; i would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence, as this moment--had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense!" xvi then the truth came upon me. no harp more--no song more! outbroke-- xvii "i have gone the whole round of creation; i saw and i spoke; i, a work of god's hand for that purpose, received in my brain and pronounced on the rest of his handwork--returned him again his creation's approval or censure; i spoke as i saw; i report, as a man may of god's work--all's love, yet all's law. now i lay down the judgeship he lent me. each faculty tasked to perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked. have i knowledge? confounded it shrivels at wisdom laid bare. have i forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the infinite care! do i task any faculty highest, to image success? i but open my eyes--and perfection, no more and no less, in the kind i imagined, full-fronts me, and god is seen god in the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod. and thus looking within and around me, i ever renew (with that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too) the submission of man's nothing-perfect to god's all-complete, as by each new obeisance in spirit, i climb to his feet. yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known, i shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. there's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, i am fain to keep still in abeyance (i laugh as i think), lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, i worst e'en the giver in one gift.--behold, i could love if i durst! but i sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake god's own speed in the one way of love; i abstain for love's sake. --what, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small, nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appall? in the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all? do i find love so full in my nature, god's ultimate gift, that i doubt his own love can compete with it? here, the parts shift? here, the creature surpass the creator--the end what began? would i fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, and dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can? would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power, to bestow on this saul what i sang of, the marvelous dower of the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul, such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole? and doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest) these good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best? aye, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height this perfection--succeed with life's day-spring, death's minute of night? interpose at the difficult minute, snatch saul the mistake, saul the failure, the ruin he seems now--and bid him awake from the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set clear and safe in new light and new life--a new harmony yet to be run, and continued, and ended--who knows?--or endure! the man taught enough, by life's dream, of the rest to make sure; by the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss, and the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this. xviii "i believe it! 'tis thou, god, that givest, 'tis i who receive: in the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe. all's one gift; thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayer as i breathe out this breath, as i open these arms to the air. from thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread sabaoth: _i_ will?--the mere atoms despise me! why am i not loath to look that, even that in the face too? why is it i dare think but lightly of such impuissance? what stops my despair? this;--'tis not what man does which exalts him, but what man would do! see the king--i would help him but cannot, the wishes fall through. could i wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich, to fill up his life, starve my own out, i would--knowing which, i know that my service is perfect. oh, speak through me now! would i suffer for him that i love? so wouldst thou--so wilt thou! so shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown-- and thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down one spot for the creature to stand in! it is by no breath, turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death! as thy love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved thy power, that exists with and for it, of being beloved! he who did most, shall bear most; the strongest shall stand the most weak. 'tis the weakness in strength, that i cry for! 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, forever: a hand like this hand shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! see the christ stand!" xix i know not too well how i found my way home in the night. there were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right, angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware; i repressed, i got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there, as a runner beset by the populace famished for news-- life or death. the whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews; and the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge; but i fainted not, for the hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressed all the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest, till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth-- not so much, but i saw it die out in the day's tender birth; in the gathered intensity brought to the gray of the hills; in the shuddering forests' held breath; in the sudden wind-thrills; in the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling still though averted with wonder and dread; in the birds stiff and chill that rose heavily, as i approached them, made stupid with awe: e'en the serpent that slid away silent--he felt the new law. the same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers; the same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine-bowers: and the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low, with their obstinate, all but hushed voices--"e'en so, it is so!" my star all that i know of a certain star is, it can throw (like the angled spar) now a dart of red, now a dart of blue; till my friends have said they would fain see, too, my star that dartles the red and the blue! then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled: they must solace themselves with the saturn above it. what matter to me if their star is a world? mine has opened its soul to me; therefore i love it. two in the campagna i wonder do you feel today as i have felt since, hand in hand, we sat down on the grass, to stray in spirit better through the land, this morn of rome and may? for me, i touched a thought, i know, has tantalized me many times, (like turns of thread the spiders throw mocking across our path) for rhymes to catch at and let go. help me to hold it! first it left the yellowing fennel, run to seed there, branching from the brickwork's cleft, some old tomb's ruin; yonder weed took up the floating weft, where one small orange cup amassed five beetles--blind and green they grope among the honey-meal; and last, everywhere on the grassy slope i traced it. hold it fast! the champaign with its endless fleece of feathery grasses everywhere! silence and passion, joy and peace, an everlasting wash of air-- rome's ghost since her decease. such life here, through such lengths of hours, such miracles performed in play, such primal naked forms of flowers, such letting nature have her way while heaven looks from its towers! how say you? let us, o my dove, let us be unashamed of soul, as earth lies bare to heaven above! how is it under our control to love or not to love? i would that you were all to me, you that are just so much, no more, nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free! where does the fault lie? what the core o' the wound, since wound must be? i would i could adopt your will, see with your eyes, and set my heart beating by yours, and drink my fill at your soul's springs--your part my part in life, for good and ill. no. i yearn upward, touch you close, then stand away. i kiss your cheek, catch your soul's warmth--i pluck the rose and love it more than tongue can speak-- then the good minute goes. already how am i so far out of that minute? must i go still like the thistle-ball, no bar, onward, whenever light winds blow, fixed by no friendly star? just when i seemed about to learn! where is the thread now? off again! the old trick! only i discern-- infinite passion, and the pain of finite hearts that yearn. in three days so, i shall see her in three days and just one night, but nights are short, then two long hours, and that is morn. see how i come, unchanged, unworn! feel, where my life broke off from thine, how fresh the splinters keep and fine-- only a touch and we combine! too long, this time of year, the days! but nights, at least the nights are short. as night shows where her one moon is, a hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss, so life's night gives my lady birth and my eyes hold her! what is worth the rest of heaven, the rest of earth? o loaded curls, release your store of warmth and scent, as once before the tingling hair did, lights and darks outbreaking into fairy sparks, when under curl and curl i pried after the warmth and scent inside, through lights and darks how manifold-- the dark inspired, the light controlled! as early art embrowns the gold. what great fear, should one say, "three days that change the world might change as well your fortune; and if joy delays, be happy that no worse befell!" what small fear, if another says, "three days and one short night beside may throw no shadow on your ways; but years must teem with change untried, with chance not easily defied, with an end somewhere undescried." no fear!--or if a fear be born this minute, it dies out in scorn. fear? i shall see her in three days and one night, now the nights are short, then just two hours, and that is morn. the guardian-angel a picture at fano dear and great angel, wouldst thou only leave that child, when thou hast done with him, for me! let me sit all the day here, that when eve shall find performed thy special ministry, and time come for departure, thou, suspending thy flight, mayst see another child for tending, another still, to quiet and retrieve. then i shall feel thee step one step, no more, from where thou standest now, to where i gaze, --and suddenly my head is covered o'er with those wings, white above the child who prays now on that tomb--and i shall feel thee guarding me, out of all the world; for me, discarding yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door. i would not look up thither past thy head because the door opes, like that child, i know, for i should have thy gracious face instead, thou bird of god! and wilt thou bend me low like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, and lift them up to pray, and gently tether me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread? if this was ever granted, i would rest my head beneath thine, while thy healing hands close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, back to its proper size again, and smoothing distortion down till every nerve had soothing, and all lay quiet, happy, and suppressed. how soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! i think how i should view the earth and skies and sea, when once again my brow was bared after thy healing, with such different eyes. o world, as god has made it! all is beauty: and knowing this, is love, and love is duty. what further may be sought for or declared? guercino drew this angel i saw teach (alfred, dear friend!)--that little child to pray, holding the little hands up, each to each pressed gently--with his own head turned away over the earth where so much lay before him of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, and he was left at fano by the beach. we were at fano, and three times we went to sit and see him in his chapel there, and drink his beauty to our soul's content --my angel with me too; and since i care for dear guercino's fame (to which in power and glory comes this picture for a dower, fraught with a pathos so magnificent)-- and since he did not work thus earnestly at all times, and has else endured some wrong-- i took one thought his picture struck from me, and spread it out, translating it to song. my love is here. where are you, dear old friend? how rolls the wairoa at your world's far end? this is ancona, yonder is the sea. memorabilia ah, did you once see shelley plain, and did he stop and speak to you, and did you speak to him again? how strange it seems and new! but you were living before that, and also you are living after; and the memory i started at-- my starting moves your laughter! i crossed a moor, with a name of its own and a certain use in the world no doubt, yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 'mid the blank miles round about: for there i picked up on the heather, and there i put inside my breast a molted feather, an eagle-feather! well, i forget the rest. incident of the french camp you know, we french stormed ratisbon: a mile or so away, on a little mound, napoleon stood on our storming-day; with neck out-thrust, you fancy how, legs wide, arms locked behind, as if to balance the prone brow oppressive with its mind. just as perhaps he mused, "my plans that soar, to earth may fall, let once my army-leader lannes waver at yonder wall"-- out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew a rider, bound on bound full-galloping; nor bridle drew until he reached the mound. then off there flung in smiling joy, and held himself erect by just his horse's mane, a boy; you hardly could suspect-- (so tight he kept his lips compressed, scarce any blood came through) you looked twice ere you saw his breast was all but shot in two. "well," cried he, "emperor, by god's grace we've got you ratisbon! the marshal's in the market-place, and you'll be there anon to see your flag-bird flap his vans where i, to heart's desire, perched him!" the chief's eye flashed; his plans soared up again like fire. the chief's eye flashed; but presently softened itself, as sheathes a film the mother-eagle's eye when her bruised eaglet breathes; "you're wounded!" "nay," the soldier's pride touched to the quick, he said: "i'm killed, sire!" and his chief beside, smiling the boy fell dead. my last duchess ferrara that's my last duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive. i call that piece a wonder, now: frà pandolf's hands worked busily a day, and there she stands. will't please you sit and look at her? i said "frà pandolf" by design, for never read strangers like you that pictured countenance, the depth and passion of its earnest glance, but to myself they turned (since none puts by the curtain i have drawn for you, but i) and seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, how such a glance came there; so, not the first are you to turn and ask thus. sir, 'twas not her husband's presence only, called that spot of joy into the duchess' cheek; perhaps frà pandolf chanced to say, "her mantle laps over my lady's wrist too much," or "paint must never hope to reproduce the faint half-flush that dies along her throat"; such stuff was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough for calling up that spot of joy. she had a heart--how shall i say?--too soon made glad, too easily impressed; she liked whate'er she looked on, and her looks went everywhere. sir, 'twas all one! my favor at her breast, the dropping of the daylight in the west, the bough of cherries some officious fool broke in the orchard for her, the white mule she rode with round the terrace--all and each would draw from her alike the approving speech, or blush, at least. she thanked men--good! but thanked somehow--i know not how--as if she ranked my gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name with anybody's gift. who'd stoop to blame this sort of trifling? even had you skill in speech--(which i have not)--to make your will quite clear to such an one, and say, "just this or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, or there exceed the mark"--and if she let herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, --e'en then would be some stooping; and i choose never to stoop. oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, whene'er i passed her; but who passed without much the same smile? this grew; i gave commands; then all smiles stopped together. there she stands as if alive. will't please you rise? we'll meet the company below, then. i repeat, the count your master's known munificence is ample warrant that no just pretense of mine for dowry will be disallowed; though his fair daughter's self, as i avowed at starting, is my object. nay, we'll go together down, sir. notice neptune, though, taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, which claus of innsbruck cast in bronze for me! the boy and the angel morning, evening, noon, and night, "praise god!" sang theocrite. then to his poor trade he turned, whereby the daily meal was earned. hard he labored, long and well; o'er his work the boy's curls fell. but ever, at each period, he stopped and sang, "praise god!" then back again his curls he threw, and cheerful turned to work anew. said blaise, the listening monk, "well done; i doubt not thou art heard, my son: "as well as if thy voice today were praising god, the pope's great way. "this easter day, the pope at rome praises god from peter's dome." said theocrite, "would god that i might praise him, that great way, and die!" night passed, day shone, and theocrite was gone. with god a day endures alway, a thousand years are but a day. god said in heaven, "nor day nor night now brings the voice of my delight." then gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, spread his wings and sank to earth; entered, in flesh, the empty cell, lived there, and played the craftsman well; and morning, evening, noon, and night, praised god in place of theocrite. and from a boy, to youth he grew; the man put off the stripling's hue; the man matured and fell away into the season of decay; and ever o'er the trade he bent, and ever lived on earth content. (he did god's will; to him, all one if on the earth or in the sun.) god said, "a praise is in mine ear; there is no doubt in it, no fear: "so sing old worlds, and so new worlds that from my footstool go. "clearer loves sound other ways; i miss my little human praise." then forth sprang gabriel's wings, off fell the flesh disguise, remained the cell. 'twas easter day; he flew to rome, and paused above saint peter's dome. in the tiring-room close by the great outer gallery, with his holy vestments dight, stood the new pope, theocrite; and all his past career came back upon him clear, since when, a boy, he plied his trade, till on his life the sickness weighed; and in his cell, when death drew near, an angel in a dream brought cheer; and rising from the sickness drear he grew a priest, and now stood here. to the east with praise he turned, and on his sight the angel burned. "i bore thee from thy craftsman's cell and set thee here; i did not well. "vainly i left my angel-sphere, vain was thy dream of many a year. "thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped-- creation's chorus stopped! "go back and praise again the early way, while i remain. "with that weak voice of our disdain, take up creation's pausing strain. "back to the cell and poor employ; resume the craftsman and the boy!" theocrite grew old at home; a new pope dwelt in peter's dome. one vanished as the other died; they sought god side by side. the pied piper of hamelin; a child's story i hamelin town's in brunswick, by famous hanover city; the river weser, deep and wide, washes its wall on the southern side; a pleasanter spot you never spied; but when begins my ditty, almost five hundred years ago, to see the townsfolk suffer so from vermin was a pity. ii rats! they fought the dogs and killed the cats, and bit the babies in the cradles, and ate the cheeses out of the vats, and licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, split open the kegs of salted sprats, made nests inside men's sunday hats, and even spoiled the women's chats by drowning their speaking with shrieking and squeaking in fifty different sharps and flats. iii at last the people in a body to the town hall came flocking: "'tis clear," cried they, "our mayor's a noddy; and as for our corporation--shocking to think we buy gowns lined with ermine for dolts that can't or won't determine what's best to rid us of our vermin! you hope, because you're old and obese, to find in the furry civic robe ease? rouse up, sirs! give your brains a racking to find the remedy we're lacking, or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" at this the mayor and corporation quaked with a mighty consternation. iv an hour they sat in council; at length the mayor broke silence: "for a guilder i'd my ermine gown sell, i wish i were a mile hence! it's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- i'm sure my poor head aches again, i've scratched it so, and all in vain. oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!" just as he said this, what should hap at the chamber door but a gentle tap? "bless us," cried the mayor, "what's that?" (with the corporation as he sat, looking little though wondrous fat; nor brighter was his eye, nor moister than a too-long-opened oyster, save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous for a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "only a scraping of shoes on the mat? anything like the sound of a rat makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" v "come in!"--the mayor cried, looking bigger-- and in did come the strangest figure! his queer long coat from heel to head was half of yellow and half of red, and he himself was tall and thin, with sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, and light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, no tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, but lips where smiles went out and in; there was no guessing his kith and kin; and nobody could enough admire the tall man and his quaint attire. quoth one: "it's as my great-grandsire, starting up at the trump of doom's tone, had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" vi he advanced to the council-table: and, "please your honors," said he, "i'm able, by means of a secret charm, to draw all creatures living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run, after me so as you never saw! and i chiefly use my charm on creatures that do people harm, the mole and toad and newt and viper; and people call me the pied piper." (and here they noticed round his neck a scarf of red and yellow stripe, to match with his coat of the self-same check; and at the scarf's end hung a pipe; and his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying as if impatient to be playing upon this pipe, as low it dangled over his vesture so old-fangled.) "yet," said he, "poor piper as i am, in tartary i freed the cham, last june, from his huge swarms of gnats; i eased in asia the nizam of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: and as for what your brain bewilders, if i can rid your town of rats will you give me a thousand guilders?" "one? fifty thousand!"--was the exclamation of the astonished mayor and corporation. vii into the street the piper stepped, smiling first a little smile, as if he knew what magic slept in his quiet pipe the while; then, like a musical adept, to blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, and green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; and ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, you heard as if an army muttered; and the muttering grew to a grumbling; and the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; and out of the houses the rats came tumbling. great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, grave old plodders, gay young friskers, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, cocking tails and pricking whiskers, families by tens and dozens, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- followed the piper for their lives. from street to street he piped advancing, and step for step they followed dancing, until they came to the river weser, wherein all plunged and perished! --save one who, stout as julius cæsar, swam across and lived to carry (as he, the manuscript he cherished) to rat-land home his commentary: which was, "at the first shrill notes of the pipe, i heard a sound as of scraping tripe, and putting apples, wondrous ripe, into a cider-press's gripe: and a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, and a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, and a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, and a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: and it seemed as if a voice (sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery is breathed) called out, 'o rats, rejoice! the world is grown to one vast drysaltery! so munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' and just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, all ready staved, like a great sun shone glorious scarce an inch before me, just as methought it said, 'come, bore me!' --i found the weser rolling o'er me." viii you should have heard the hamelin people ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "go," cried the mayor, "and get long poles, poke out the nests and block up the holes! consult with carpenters and builders, and leave in our town not even a trace of the rats!"--when suddenly, up the face of the piper perked in the market-place, with a, "first, if you please, my thousand guilders!" ix a thousand guilders! the mayor looked blue; so did the corporation, too. for council dinners made rare havoc with claret, moselle, vin-de-grave, hock; and half the money would replenish their cellar's biggest butt with rhenish. to pay this sum to a wandering fellow with a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "beside," quoth the mayor with a knowing wink, "our business was done at the river's brink; we saw with our eyes the vermin sink, and what's dead can't come to life, i think. so, friend, we're not the folks to shrink from the duty of giving you something for drink, and a matter of money to put in your poke; but as for the guilders, what we spoke of them, as you very well know, was in joke. beside, our losses have made us thrifty. a thousand guilders! come, take fifty!" x the piper's face fell, and he cried, "no trifling! i can't wait, beside! i've promised to visit by dinner time bagdat, and accept the prime of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in, for having left, in the caliph's kitchen, of a nest of scorpions no survivor; with him i proved no bargain-driver, with you, don't think i'll bate a stiver! and folks who put me in a passion may find me pipe after another fashion." xi "how?" cried the mayor, "d'ye think i brook being worse treated than a cook? insulted by a lazy ribald with idle pipe and vesture piebald? you threaten us, fellow? do your worst, blow your pipe there till you burst!" xii once more he stepped into the street, and to his lips again laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; and ere he blew three notes (such sweet soft notes as yet musician's cunning never gave the enraptured air) there was a rustling that seemed like a bustling of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, and, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, out came the children running. all the little boys and girls, with rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, and sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, tripping and skipping, ran merrily after the wonderful music with shouting and laughter. xiii the mayor was dumb, and the council stood as if they were changed into blocks of wood, unable to move a step, or cry to the children merrily skipping by, --could only follow with the eye that joyous crowd at the piper's back. but how the mayor was on the rack, and the wretched council's bosoms beat, as the piper turned from the high street to where the weser rolled its waters right in the way of their sons and daughters! however he turned from south to west, and to koppelberg hill his steps addressed, and after him the children pressed; great was the joy in every breast. "he never can cross that mighty top! he's forced to let the piping drop, and we shall see our children stop!" when, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, a wondrous portal opened wide, as if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; and the piper advanced and the children followed, and when all were in to the very last, the door in the mountain-side shut fast. did i say, all? no! one was lame, and could not dance the whole of the way; and in after years, if you would blame his sadness, he was used to say-- "it's dull in our town since my playmates left! i can't forget that i'm bereft of all the pleasant sights they see, which the piper also promised me. for he led us, he said, to a joyous land, joining the town and just at hand, where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew and flowers put forth a fairer hue, and everything was strange and new; the sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, and their dogs outran our fallow deer, and honey-bees had lost their stings, and horses were born with eagles' wings: and just as i became assured my lame foot would be speedily cured, the music stopped and i stood still, and found myself outside the hill, left alone against my will, to go now limping as before, and never hear of that country more!" xiv alas, alas for hamelin! there came into many a burgher's pate a text which says that heaven's gate opes to the rich at as easy rate as the needle's eye takes a camel in! the mayor sent east, west, north, and south, to offer the piper, by word of mouth, wherever it was men's lot to find him, silver and gold to his heart's content, if he'd only return the way he went, and bring the children behind him. but when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, and piper and dancers were gone forever, they made a decree that lawyers never should think their records dated duly if, after the day of the month and year, these words did not as well appear, "and so long after what happened here on the twenty-second of july, thirteen hundred and seventy-six"; and the better in memory to fix the place of the children's last retreat, they called it the pied piper's street-- where anyone playing on pipe or tabor was sure for the future to lose his labor. nor suffered they hostelry or tavern to shock with mirth a street so solemn; but opposite the place of the cavern they wrote the story on a column, and on the great church-window painted the same, to make the world acquainted how their children were stolen away, and there it stands to this very day. and i must not omit to say that in transylvania there's a tribe of alien people who ascribe the outlandish ways and dress on which their neighbors lay such stress, to their fathers and mothers having risen out of some subterraneous prison into which they were trepanned long time ago in a mighty band out of hamelin town in brunswick land, but how or why, they don't understand. xv so, willy, let me and you be wipers of scores out with all men--especially pipers! and, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, if we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! the flight of the duchess i you're my friend: i was the man the duke spoke to; i helped the duchess to cast off his yoke, too; so here's the tale from beginning to end, my friend! ii ours is a great wild country: if you climb to our castle's top, i don't see where your eye can stop; for when you've passed the cornfield country, where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, and sheep-range leads to cattle-tract, and cattle-tract to open-chase, and open-chase to the very base of the mountain where, at a funeral pace, round about, solemn and slow, one by one, row after row, up and up the pine-trees go, so, like black priests up, and so down the other side again to another greater, wilder country, that's one vast red drear burnt-up plain, branched through and through with many a vein whence iron's dug, and copper's dealt; look right, look left, look straight before-- beneath they mine, above they smelt, copper-ore and iron-ore, and forge and furnace mold and melt and so on, more and ever more, till at the last, for a bounding belt, comes the salt sand hoar of the great seashore, --and the whole is our duke's country. iii i was born the day this present duke was-- (and o, says the song, ere i was old!) in the castle where the other duke was-- (when i was happy and young, not old!) i in the kennel, he in the bower: we are of like age to an hour. my father was huntsman in that day; who has not heard my father say that, when a boar was brought to bay, three times, four times out of five, with his huntspear he'd contrive to get the killing-place transfixed, and pin him true, both eyes betwixt? and that's why the old duke would rather he lost a salt-pit than my father, and loved to have him ever in call; that's why my father stood in the hall when the old duke brought his infant out to show the people, and while they passed the wondrous bantling round about, was first to start at the outside blast as the kaiser's courier blew his horn, just a month after the babe was born. "and," quoth the kaiser's courier, "since the duke has got an heir, our prince needs the duke's self at his side"; the duke looked down and seemed to wince, but he thought of wars o'er the world wide, castles a-fire, men on their march, the toppling tower, the crashing arch; and up he looked, and awhile he eyed the row of crests and shields and banners of all achievements after all manners, and "aye," said the duke with a surly pride. the more was his comfort when he died at next year's end, in a velvet suit, with a gilt glove on his hand, his foot in a silken shoe for a leather boot, petticoated like a herald, in a chamber next to an ante-room, where he breathed the breath of page and groom, what he called stink, and they, perfume: --they should have set him on red berold mad with pride, like fire to manage! they should have got his cheek fresh tannage such a day as today in the merry sunshine! had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin! (hark, the wind's on the heath at its game! oh, for a noble falcon-lanner to flap each broad wing like a banner, and turn in the wind, and dance like flame!) had they broached a white-beer cask from berlin --or if you incline to prescribe mere wine put to his lips, when they saw him pine, a cup of our own moldavia fine, cotnar for instance, green as may sorrel and ropy with sweet--we shall not quarrel. iv so, at home, the sick, tall, yellow duchess was left with the infant in her clutches, she being the daughter of god knows who: and now was the time to revisit her tribe. abroad and afar they went, the two, and let our people rail and gibe at the empty hall and extinguished fire, as loud as we liked, but ever in vain, till after long years we had our desire, and back came the duke and his mother again. v and he came back the pertest little ape that ever affronted human shape; full of his travel, struck at himself. you'd say he despised our bluff old ways? --not he! for in paris they told the elf our rough north land was the land of lays, the one good thing left in evil days; since the mid-age was the heroic time, and only in wild nooks like ours could you taste of it yet as in its prime, and see true castles, with proper towers, young-hearted women, old-minded men, and manners now as manners were then. so, all that the old dukes had been, without knowing it, this duke would fain know he was, without being it; 'twas not for the joy's self, but the joy of his showing it, nor for the pride's self, but the pride of our seeing it, he revived all usages thoroughly worn-out, the souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them torn-out: and chief in the chase his neck he periled on a lathy horse, all legs and length, with blood for bone, all speed, no strength; --they should have set him on red berold with the red eye slow consuming in fire, and the thin stiff ear like an abbey-spire! vi well, such as he was, he must marry, we heard: and out of a convent, at the word, came the lady in time of spring. --oh, old thoughts they cling, they cling! that day, i know, with a dozen oaths i clad myself in thick hunting-clothes fit for the chase of urochs or buffle in winter-time when you need to muffle. but the duke had a mind we should cut a figure, and so we saw the lady arrive: my friend, i have seen a white crane bigger! she was the smallest lady alive, made in a piece of nature's madness, too small, almost, for the life and gladness that overfilled her, as some hive out of the bears' reach on the high trees is crowded with its safe, merry bees: in truth, she was not hard to please! up she looked, down she looked, round at the mead, straight at the castle, that's best indeed to look at from outside the walls; as for us, styled the "serfs and thralls," she as much thanked me as if she had said it, (with her eyes, do you understand?) because i patted her horse while i led it; and max, who rode on her other hand, said, no bird flew past but she inquired what its true name was, nor ever seemed tired-- if that was an eagle she saw hover, and the green and gray bird on the field was the plover. when suddenly appeared the duke: and as down she sprung, the small foot pointed on to my hand--as with a rebuke, and as if his backbone were not jointed, the duke stepped rather aside than forward, and welcomed her with his grandest smile; and, mind you, his mother all the while chilled in the rear, like a wind to nor'ward; and up, like a weary yawn, with its pulleys went, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis; and, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies, the lady's face stopped its play, as if her first hair had grown gray; for such things must begin some one day. vii in a day or two she was well again; as who should say, "you labor in vain! this is all a jest against god, who meant i should ever be, as i am, content and glad in his sight; therefore, glad i will be." so, smiling as at first, went she. viii she was active, stirring, all fire-- could not rest, could not tire-- to a stone she might have given life! (i myself loved once, in my day) --for a shepherd's, miner's, huntsman's wife, (i had a wife, i know what i say) never in all the world such an one! and here was plenty to be done, and she that could do it, great or small, she was to do nothing at all. there was already this man in his post, this in his station, and that in his office, and the duke's plan admitted a wife, at most, to meet his eye, with the other trophies, now outside the hall, now in it, to sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen, at the proper place in the proper minute, and die away the life between. and it was amusing enough, each infraction of rule--(but for after-sadness that came) to hear the consummate self-satisfaction with which the young duke and the old dame would let her advise, and criticize, and, being a fool, instruct the wise, and, child-like, parcel out praise or blame: they bore it all in complacent guise, as though an artificer, after contriving a wheel-work image as if it were living, should find with delight it could motion to strike him! so found the duke, and his mother like him: the lady hardly got a rebuff-- that had not been contemptuous enough, with his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause, and kept off the old mother-cat's claws. ix so, the little lady grew silent and thin, paling and ever paling, as the way is with a hid chagrin; and the duke perceived that she was ailing, and said in his heart, "'tis done to spite me, but i shall find in my power to right me!" don't swear, friend! the old one, many a year, is in hell, and the duke's self ... you shall hear. x well, early in autumn, at first winter-warning, when the stag had to break with his foot, of a morning, a drinking-hole out of the fresh tender ice that covered the pond till the sun, in a trice, loosening it, let out a ripple of gold, and another and another, and faster and faster, till, dimpling to blindness, the wide water rolled; then it so chanced that the duke our master asked himself what were the pleasures in season, and found, since the calendar bade him be hearty, he should do the middle age no treason in resolving on a hunting-party. always provided, old books showed the way of it! what meant old poets by their strictures? and when old poets had said their say of it, how taught old painters in their pictures? we must revert to the proper channels, workings in tapestry, paintings on panels, and gather up woodcraft's authentic traditions: here was food for our various ambitions, as on each case, exactly stated-- to encourage your dog, now, the properest chirrup, or best prayer to saint hubert on mounting your stirrup-- we of the household took thought and debated. blessed was he whose back ached with the jerkin his sire was wont to do forest-work in; blesseder he who nobly sunk "ohs" and "ahs" while he tugged on his grandsire's trunk-hose; what signified hats if they had no rims on, each slouching before and behind like the scallop, and able to serve at sea for a shallop, loaded with lacquer and looped with crimson? so that the deer now, to make a short rhyme on't, what with our venerers, prickers, and verderers, might hope for real hunters at length and not murderers, and, oh, the duke's tailor, he had a hot time on't! xi now you must know that when the first dizziness of flap-hats and buff-coats and jack-boots subsided, the duke put this question, "the duke's part provided, had not the duchess some share in the business?" for out of the mouth of two or three witnesses did he establish all fit-or-unfitnesses: and, after much laying of heads together, somebody's cap got a notable feather by the announcement with proper unction that he had discovered the lady's function; since ancient authors gave this tenet, "when horns wind a mort and the deer is at siege, let the dame of the castle prick forth on her jennet, and, with water to wash the hands of her liege in a clean ewer with a fair toweling, let her preside at the disemboweling." now, my friend, if you had so little religion as to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner, and thrust her broad wings like a banner into a coop for a vulgar pigeon; and if day by day and week by week you cut her claws, and sealed her eyes, and clipped her wings, and tied her beak, would it cause you any great surprise if, when you decided to give her an airing, you found she needed a little preparing? --i say, should you be such a curmudgeon, if she clung to the perch, as to take it in dudgeon? yet when the duke to his lady signified, just a day before, as he judged most dignified, in what a pleasure she was to participate-- and, instead of leaping wide in flashes, her eyes just lifted their long lashes, as if pressed by fatigue even he could not dissipate, and duly acknowledged the duke's forethought, but spoke of her health, if her health were worth aught, of the weight by day and the watch by night, and much wrong now that used to be right, so, thanking him, declined the hunting-- was conduct ever more affronting? with all the ceremony settled-- with the towel ready, and the sewer polishing up his oldest ewer, and the jennet pitched upon, a piebald, black-barred, cream-coated, and pink eye-balled-- no wonder if the duke was nettled! and when she persisted nevertheless-- well, i suppose here's the time to confess that there ran half round our lady's chamber a balcony none of the hardest to clamber; and that jacynth, the tire-woman, ready in waiting, stayed in call outside, what need of relating? and since jacynth was like a june rose, why, a fervent adorer of jacynth of course was your servant; and if she had the habit to peep through the casement, how could i keep at any vast distance? and so, as i say, on the lady's persistence, the duke, dumb-stricken with amazement, stood for a while in a sultry smother, and then, with a smile that partook of the awful, turned her over to his yellow mother to learn what was held decorous and lawful; and the mother smelt blood with a cat-like instinct, as her cheek quick whitened through all its quince-tinct. oh, but the lady heard the whole truth at once! what meant she?--who was she?--her duty and station, the wisdom of age and the folly of youth, at once, its decent regard and its fitting relation-- in brief, my friend, set all the devils in hell free and turn them out to carouse in a belfry and treat the priests to a fifty-part canon, and then you may guess how that tongue of hers ran on! well, somehow or other it ended at last and, licking her whiskers, out she passed; and after her--making (he hoped) a face like emperor nero or sultan saladin, stalked the duke's self with the austere grace of ancient hero or modern paladin, from door to staircase--oh, such a solemn unbending of the vertebral column! xii however, at sunrise our company mustered; and here was the huntsman bidding unkennel, and there 'neath his bonnet the pricker blustered, with feather dank as a bough of wet fennel; for the courtyard walls were filled with fog you might have cut as an ax chops a log-- like so much wool for color and bulkiness; and out rode the duke in a perfect sulkiness, since, before breakfast, a man feels but queasily, and a sinking at the lower abdomen begins the day with indifferent omen. and lo, as he looked around uneasily, the sun plowed the fog up and drove it asunder this way and that from the valley under; and, looking through the court-yard arch, down in the valley, what should meet him but a troop of gypsies on their march? no doubt with the annual gifts to greet him. xiii now, in your land, gypsies reach you only after reaching all lands beside; north they go, south they go, trooping or lonely, and still, as they travel far and wide, catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace there, that puts you in mind of a place here, a place there but with us, i believe they rise out of the ground, and nowhere else, i take it, are found with the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned: born, no doubt, like insects which breed on the very fruit they are meant to feed on. for the earth--not a use to which they don't turn it, the ore that grows in the mountain's womb, or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb, they sift and soften it, bake it and burn it-- whether they weld you, for instance, a snaffle with side-bars never a brute can baffle; or a lock that's a puzzle of wards within wards; or, if your colt's forefoot inclines to curve inwards, horseshoes they hammer which turn on a swivel and won't allow the hoof to shrivel. then they cast bells like the shell of the winkle that keep a stout heart in the ram with their tinkle; but the sand--they pinch and pound it like otters; commend me the gypsy glass-makers and potters! glasses they'll blow you, crystal-clear, where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear, as if in pure water you dropped and let die a bruised black-blooded mulberry; and that other sort, their crowning pride, with long white threads distinct inside, like the lake-flower's fibrous roots which dangle loose such a length and never tangle, where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters, and the cup-lily couches with all the white daughters: such are the works they put their hand to, the uses they turn and twist iron and sand to. and these made the troop, which our duke saw sally toward his castle from out of the valley, men and women, like new-hatched spiders, come out with the morning to greet our riders. and up they wound till they reached the ditch, whereat all stopped save one, a witch that i knew, as she hobbled from the group, by her gait directly and her stoop, i, whom jacynth was used to importune to let that same witch tell us our fortune. the oldest gypsy then above ground; and, sure as the autumn season came round, she paid us a visit for profit or pastime, and every time, as she swore, for the last time. and presently she was seen to sidle up to the duke till she touched his bridle, so that the horse of a sudden reared up as under its nose the old witch peered up with her worn-out eyes, or rather eye-holes of no use now but to gather brine, and began a kind of level whine such as they used to sing to their viols when their ditties they go grinding up and down with nobody minding; and then, as of old, at the end of the humming her usual presents were forthcoming --a dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles (just a seashore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles), or a porcelain mouthpiece to screw on a pipe-end-- and so she awaited her annual stipend. but this time the duke would scarcely vouchsafe a word in reply; and in vain she felt with twitching fingers at her belt for the purse of sleek pine-marten pelt, ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe-- till, either to quicken his apprehension, or possibly with an after-intention, she was come, she said, to pay her duty to the new duchess, the youthful beauty. no sooner had she named his lady than a shine lit up the face so shady, and its smirk returned with a novel meaning-- for it struck him, the babe just wanted weaning; if one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow, she, foolish today, would be wiser tomorrow; and who so fit a teacher of trouble as this sordid crone bent well-nigh double? so, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture, (if such it was, for they grow so hirsute that their own fleece serves for natural fur-suit) he was contrasting, 'twas plain from his gesture, the life of the lady so flower-like and delicate with the loathsome squalor of this helicat. i, in brief, was the man the duke beckoned from out of the throng, and while i drew near he told the crone--as i since have reckoned by the way he bent and spoke into her ear with circumspection and mystery-- the main of the lady's history, her frowardness and ingratitude: and for all the crone's submissive attitude i could see round her mouth the loose plaits tightening, and her brow with assenting intelligence brightening, as though she engaged with hearty goodwill whatever he now might enjoin to fulfill, and promised the lady a thorough frightening. and so, just giving her a glimpse of a purse, with the air of a man who imps the wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hernshaw, he bade me take the gypsy mother and set her telling some story or other of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw, to wile away a weary hour for the lady left alone in her bower, whose mind and body craved exertion and yet shrank from all better diversion. xiv then clapping heel to his horse, the mere curveter, out rode the duke, and after his hollo horses and hounds swept, huntsman and servitor, and back i turned and bade the crone follow. and what makes me confident what's to be told you had all along been of this crone's devising, is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you, there was a novelty quick as surprising: for first, she had shot up a full head in stature, and her step kept pace with mine nor faltered, as if age had foregone its usurpature, and the ignoble mien was wholly altered, and the face looked quite of another nature, and the change reached too, whatever the change meant, her shaggy wolf-skin cloak's arrangement: for where its tatters hung loose like sedges, gold coins were glittering on the edges, like the band-roll strung with tomans which proves the veil a persian woman's: and under her brow, like a snail's horns newly come out as after the rain he paces, two unmistakable eye-points duly live and aware looked out of their places. so, we went and found jacynth at the entry of the lady's chamber standing sentry; i told the command and produced my companion, and jacynth rejoiced to admit anyone, for since last night, by the same token, not a single word had the lady spoken: they went in both to the presence together, while i in the balcony watched the weather. xv and now, what took place at the very first of all, i cannot tell, as i never could learn it: jacynth constantly wished a curse to fall on that little head of hers and burn it, if she knew how she came to drop so soundly asleep of a sudden and there continue the whole time sleeping as profoundly as one of the boars my father would pin you 'twixt the eyes where life holds garrison, --jacynth forgive me the comparison! but where i begin my own narration is a little after i took my station to breathe the fresh air from the balcony, and, having in those days a falcon eye, to follow the hunt through the open country, from where the bushes thinlier crested the hillocks, to a plain where's not one tree. when, in a moment, my ear was arrested by--was it singing, or was it saying, or a strange musical instrument playing in the chamber?--and to be certain i pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain, and there lay jacynth asleep, yet as if a watch she tried to keep, in a rosy sleep along the floor with her head against the door; while in the midst, on the seat of state, was a queen--the gypsy woman late, with head and face downbent on the lady's head and face intent: for, coiled at her feet like a child at ease, the lady sat between her knees, and o'er them the lady's clasped hands met, and on those hands her chin was set, and her upturned face met the face of the crone wherein the eyes had grown and grown as if she could double and quadruple at pleasure the play of either pupil --very like, by her hands' slow fanning, as up and down like a gor-crow's flappers they moved to measure, or bell-clappers. i said, "is it blessing, is it banning, do they applaud you or burlesque you those hands and fingers with no flesh on?" but, just as i thought to spring in to the rescue, at once i was stopped by the lady's expression: for it was life her eyes were drinking from the crone's wide pair above unwinking, --life's pure fire received without shrinking, into the heart and breast whose heaving told you no single drop they were leaving --life, that filling her, passed redundant into her very hair, back swerving over each shoulder, loose and abundant, as her head thrown back showed the white throat curving; and the very tresses shared in the pleasure, moving to the mystic measure, bounding as the bosom bounded. i stopped short, more and more confounded, as still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened, as she listened and she listened: when all at once a hand detained me, the selfsame contagion gained me, and i kept time to the wondrous chime, making out words and prose and rhyme, till it seemed that the music furled its wings like a task fulfilled, and dropped from under the words it first had propped, and left them midway in the world: word took word as hand takes hand, i could hear at last, and understand, and when i held the unbroken thread, the gypsy said: "and so at last we find my tribe. and so i set thee in the midst, and to one and all of them describe what thou saidst and what thou didst, our long and terrible journey through, and all thou art ready to say and do in the trials that remain: i trace them the vein and the other vein that meet on thy brow and part again, making our rapid mystic mark; and i bid my people prove and probe each eye's profound and glorious globe till they detect the kindred spark in those depths so dear and dark, like the spots that snap and burst and flee, circling over the midnight sea. and on that round young cheek of thine i make them recognize the tinge, as when of the costly scarlet wine they drip so much as will impinge and spread in a thinnest scale afloat one thick gold drop from the olive's coat over a silver plate whose sheen still through the mixture shall be seen. for so i prove thee, to one and all, fit, when my people ope their breast, to see the sign, and hear the call, and take the vow, and stand the test which adds one more child to the rest-- when the breast is bare and the arms are wide, and the world is left outside. for there is probation to decree, and many and long must the trials be thou shalt victoriously endure, if that brow is true and those eyes are sure; like a jewel-finder's fierce assay of the prize he dug from its mountain-tomb-- let once the vindicating ray leap out amid the anxious gloom, and steel and fire have done their part and the prize falls on its finder's heart; so, trial after trial past, wilt thou fall at the very last breathless, half in trance with the thrill of the great deliverance, into our arms forevermore; and thou shalt know, those arms once curled about thee, what we knew before, how love is the only good in the world. henceforth be loved as heart can love, or brain devise, or hand approve! stand up, look below, it is our life at thy feet we throw to step with into light and joy; not a power of life but we employ to satisfy thy nature's want; art thou the tree that props the plant, or the climbing plant that seeks the tree-- canst thou help us, must we help thee? if any two creatures grew into one, they would do more than the world has done: though each apart were never so weak, ye vainly through the world should seek for the knowledge and the might which in such union grew their right: so, to approach at least that end, and blend--as much as may be, blend thee with us or us with thee-- as climbing plant or propping tree, shall someone deck thee, over and down, up and about, with blossoms and leaves? fix his heart's fruit for thy garland-crown, cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves, die on thy boughs and disappear while not a leaf of thine is sere? or is the other fate in store, and art thou fitted to adore, to give thy wondrous self away, and take a stronger nature's sway? i foresee and could foretell thy future portion, sure and well: but those passionate eyes speak true, speak true, let them say what thou shalt do! only be sure thy daily life, in its peace or in its strife, never shall be unobserved; we pursue thy whole career, and hope for it, or doubt, or fear-- lo, hast thou kept thy path or swerved, we are beside thee in all thy ways, with our blame, with our praise, our shame to feel, our pride to show, glad, angry--but indifferent, no! whether it be thy lot to go, for the good of us all, where the haters meet in the crowded city's horrible street; or thou step alone through the morass where never sound yet was save the dry quick clap of the stork's bill, for the air is still, and the water still, when the blue breast of the dipping coot dives under, and all is mute. so, at the last shall come old age, decrepit as befits that stage; how else wouldst thou retire apart with the hoarded memories of thy heart, and gather all to the very least of the fragments of life's earlier feast, let fall through eagerness to find the crowning dainties yet behind? ponder on the entire past laid together thus at last, when the twilight helps to fuse the first fresh with the faded hues, and the outline of the whole, as round eve's shades their framework roll, grandly fronts for once thy soul. and then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam of yet another morning breaks, and like the hand which ends a dream, death, with the might of his sunbeam, touches the flesh and the soul awakes, then"---- aye, then indeed something would happen! but what? for here her voice changed like a bird's; there grew more of the music and less of the words; had jacynth only been by me to clap pen to paper and put you down every syllable with those clever clerkly fingers, all i've forgotten as well as what lingers in this old brain of mine that's but ill able to give you even this poor version of the speech i spoil, as it were, with stammering --more fault of those who had the hammering of prosody into me and syntax, and did it, not with hobnails but tin-tacks! but to return from this excursion-- just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest, the peace most deep and the charm completest, there came, shall i say, a snap-- and the charm vanished! and my sense returned, so strangely banished, and, starting as from a nap, i knew the crone was bewitching my lady, with jacynth asleep; and but one spring made i down from the casement, round to the portal, another minute and i had entered-- when the door opened, and more than mortal stood, with a face where to my mind centered all beauties i ever saw or shall see, the duchess: i stopped as if struck by palsy. she was so different, happy and beautiful, i felt at once that all was best, and that i had nothing to do, for the rest, but wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. not that, in fact, there was any commanding; i saw the glory of her eye, and the brow's height and the breast's expanding, and i was hers to live or to die. as for finding what she wanted, you know god almighty granted such little signs should serve wild creatures to tell one another all their desires, so that each knows what his friend requires, and does its bidding without teachers. i preceded her: the crone followed silent and alone; i spoke to her, but she merely jabbered in the old style; both her eyes had slunk back to their pits; her stature shrunk; in short, the soul in its body sunk like a blade sent home to its scabbard. we descended, i preceding; crossed the court with nobody heeding; all the world was at the chase, the courtyard like a desert-place, the stable emptied of its small fry; i saddled myself the very palfrey i remember patting while it carried her, the day she arrived and the duke married her. and, do you know, though it's easy deceiving oneself in such matters, i can't help believing the lady had not forgotten it either, and knew the poor devil so much beneath her would have been only too glad for her service to dance on hot plowshares like a turk dervise, but, unable to pay proper duty where owing it, was reduced to that pitiful method of showing it: for though the moment i began setting his saddle on my own nag of berold's begetting, (not that i meant to be obtrusive) she stopped me, while his rug was shifting, by a single rapid finger's lifting, and, with a gesture kind but conclusive, and a little shake of the head, refused me-- i say, although she never used me, yet when she was mounted, the gypsy behind her, and i ventured to remind her, i suppose with a voice of less steadiness than usual, for my feeling exceeded me, --something to the effect that i was in readiness whenever god should please she needed me-- then, do you know, her face looked down on me with a look that placed a crown on me, and she felt in her bosom--mark, her bosom-- and, as a flower-tree drops its blossom, dropped me ... ah, had it been a purse of silver, my friend, or gold that's worse, why, you see, as soon as i found myself so understood--that a true heart so may gain such a reward--i should have gone home again, kissed jacynth, and soberly drowned myself! it was a little plait of hair such as friends in a convent make to wear, each for the other's sake-- this, see, which at my breast i wear, ever did (rather to jacynth's grudgment), and ever shall, till the day of judgment. and then--and then--to cut short--this is idle, these are feelings it is not good to foster-- i pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle, and the palfrey bounded--and so we lost her. xvi when the liquor's out why clink the cannikin? i did think to describe you the panic in the redoubtable breast of our master the mannikin, and what was the pitch of his mother's yellowness, how she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib clean off, sailors says, from a pearl-diving carib, when she heard, what she called the flight of the feloness --but it seems such child's play, what they said and did with the lady away! and to dance on, when we've lost the music, always made me--and no doubt makes you--sick. nay, to my mind, the world's face looked so stern as that sweet form disappeared through the postern, she that kept it in constant good humor, it ought to have stopped; there seemed nothing to do more. but the world thought otherwise and went on, and my head's one that its spite was spent on; thirty years are fled since that morning, and with them all my head's adorning. nor did the old duchess die outright, as you expect, of suppressed spite, the natural end of every adder not suffered to empty its poison-bladder; but she and her son agreed, i take it, that no one should touch on the story to wake it, for the wound in the duke's pride rankled fiery, so, they made no search and small inquiry-- and when fresh gypsies have paid us a visit, i've noticed the couple were never inquisitive, but told them they're folks the duke don't want here, and bade them make haste and cross the frontier. brief, the duchess was gone and the duke was glad of it, and the old one was in the young one's stead, and took, in her place, the household's head, and a blessed time the household had of it! and were i not, as a man may say, cautious how i trench, more than needs, on the nauseous, i could favor you with sundry touches of the paint-smutches with which the duchess heightened the mellowness of her cheek's yellowness (to get on faster) until at last her cheek grew to be one master-plaster of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse: in short, she grew from scalp to udder just the object to make you shudder. xvii you're my friend-- what a thing friendship is, world without end! how it gives the heart and soul a stir-up as if somebody broached you a glorious runlet, and poured out, all lovelily, sparklingly, sunlit, our green moldavia, the streaky syrup, cotnar as old as the time of the druids-- friendship may match with that monarch of fluids; each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs, gives your life's hourglass a shake when the thin sand doubts whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease. i have seen my little lady once more, jacynth, the gypsy, berold, and the rest of it, for to me spoke the duke, as i told you before; i always wanted to make a clean breast of it: and now it is made--why, my heart's blood, that went trickle, trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets, is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle. and genially floats me about the giblets. i'll tell you what i intend to do: i must see this fellow his sad life through-- he is our duke, after all, and i, as he says, but a serf and thrall. my father was born here, and i inherit his fame, a chain he bound his son with; could i pay in a lump i should prefer it, but there's no mine to blow up and get done with: so, i must stay till the end of the chapter. for, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter, be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on, some day or other, his head in a morion and breast in a hauberk, his heels he'll kick up, slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup. and then, when red doth the sword of our duke rust, and its leathern sheath lie o'ergrown with a blue crust, then i shall scrape together my earnings; for, you see, in the churchyard jacynth reposes, and our children all went the way of the roses. it's a long lane that knows no turnings. one needs but little tackle to travel in; so, just one stout cloak shall i indue: and for a staff, what beats the javelin with which his boars my father pinned you? and then, for a purpose you shall hear presently, taking some cotnar, a tight plump skinful, i shall go journeying, who but i, pleasantly! sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. what's a man's age? he must hurry more, that's all; cram in a day what his youth took a year to hold: when we mind labor, then only, we're too old-- what age had methusalem when he begat saul? and at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees, (come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil) i hope to get safely out of the turmoil and arrive one day at the land of the gypsies, and find my lady, or hear the last news of her from some old thief and son of lucifer, his forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop, sunburned all over like an Æthiop. and when my cotnar begins to operate and the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate, and our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent, i shall drop in with--as if by accident-- "you never knew, then, how it all ended, what fortune good or bad attended the little lady your queen befriended?" --and when that's told me, what's remaining? this world's too hard for my explaining. the same wise judge of matters equine who still preferred some slim four-year-old to the big-boned stock of mighty berold, and, for strong cotnar, drank french weak wine, he also must be such a lady's scorner! smooth jacob still robs homely esau: now up, now down, the world's one see-saw. --so, i shall find out some snug corner under a hedge, like orson the wood-knight, turn myself round and bid the world good night; and sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's blowing wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen) to a world where will be no further throwing pearls before swine that can't value them. amen! a grammarian's funeral shortly after the revival of learning in europe let us begin and carry up this corpse, singing together. leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes each in its tether sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, cared-for till cock-crow; look out if yonder be not day again rimming the rock-row! that's the appropriate country; there, man's thought, rarer, intenser, self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, chafes in the censer. leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; seek we sepulture on a tall mountain, citied to the top, crowded with culture! all the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; clouds overcome it; no! yonder sparkle is the citadel's circling its summit. thither our path lies; wind we up the heights; wait ye the warning? our low life was the level's and the night's; he's for the morning. step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 'ware the beholders! this is our master, famous, calm, and dead, borne on our shoulders. sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, safe from the weather! he, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, singing together, he was a man born with thy face and throat, lyric apollo! long he lived nameless; how should spring take note winter would follow? till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! cramped and diminished, moaned he, "new measures, other feet anon! my dance is finished"? no, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side, make for the city!) he knew the signal, and stepped on with pride over men's pity; left play for work, and grappled with the world bent on escaping: "what's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled? show me their shaping, theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage-- give!"--so, he gowned him, straight got by heart that book to its last page: learned, we found him. yea, but we found him bald, too, eyes like lead, accents uncertain: "time to taste life," another would have said, "up with the curtain!" this man said rather, "actual life comes next? patience a moment! grant i have mastered learning's crabbed text, still there's the comment. let me know all! prate not of most or least, painful or easy! even to the crumbs i'd fain eat up the feast, aye, nor feel queasy." oh, such a life as he resolved to live, when he had learned it, when he had gathered all books had to give! sooner, he spurned it. image the whole, then execute the parts-- fancy the fabric quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz. ere mortar dab brick! (here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place gaping before us.) yea, this in him was the peculiar grace (hearten our chorus!) that before living he'd learn how to live-- no end to learning: earn the means first--god surely will contrive use for our earning. others mistrust and say, "but time escapes: live now or never!" he said, "what's time? leave now for dogs and apes! man has forever." back to his book then: deeper drooped his head: _calculus_ racked him: leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: _tussis_ attacked him. "now, master, take a little rest!"--not he! (caution redoubled, step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) not a whit troubled, back to his studies, fresher than at first, fierce as a dragon he (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) sucked at the flagon. oh, if we draw a circle premature, heedless of far gain, greedy for quick returns of profit, sure bad is our bargain! was it not great? did not he throw on god, (he loves the burthen)-- god's task to make the heavenly period perfect the earthen? did not he magnify the mind, show clear just what it all meant? he would not discount life, as fools do here, paid by installment. he ventured neck or nothing--heaven's success found, or earth's failure: "wilt thou trust death or not?" he answered, "yes! hence with life's pale lure!" that low man seeks a little thing to do, sees it and does it: this high man, with a great thing to pursue, dies ere he knows it. that low man goes on adding one to one, his hundred's soon hit: this high man, aiming at a million, misses an unit. that, has the world here--should he need the next, let the world mind him! this, throws himself on god, and unperplexed seeking shall find him. so, with the throttling hands of death at strife, ground he at grammar; still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife: while he could stammer he settled _hoti's_ business--let it be!-- properly based _oun_-- gave us the doctrine of the enclitic _de_, dead from the waist down. well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: hail to your purlieus, all ye highfliers of the feathered race, swallows and curlews! here's the top-peak; the multitude below live, for they can, there: this man decided not to live but know-- bury this man there? here--here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, lightnings are loosened, stars come and go! let joy break with the storm, peace let the dew send! lofty designs must close in like effects: loftily lying, leave him--still loftier than the world suspects, living and dying. "childe roland to the dark tower came" (see edgar's song in _lear_) my first thought was, he lied in every word, that hoary cripple, with malicious eye askance to watch the working of his lie on mine, and mouth scarce able to afford suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. what else should he be set for, with his staff? what, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare all travelers who might find him posted there, and ask the road? i guessed what skull-like laugh would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph for pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, if at his counsel i should turn aside into the ominous tract which, all agree, hides the dark tower. yet acquiescingly i did turn as he pointed: neither pride nor hope rekindling at the end descried, so much as gladness that some end might be. for, what with my whole world-wide wandering, what with my search drawn out through years, my hope dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope with that obstreperous joy success would bring, i hardly tried now to rebuke the spring my heart made, finding failure in its scope. as when a sick man very near to death seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end the tears, and takes the farewell of each friend, and hears one bid the other go, draw breath freelier outside ("since all is o'er," he saith, "and the blow fallen no grieving can amend"); while some discuss if near the other graves be room enough for this, and when a day suits best for carrying the corpse away, with care about the banners, scarves, and staves; and still the man hears all, and only craves he may not shame such tender love and stay. thus, i had so long suffered in this quest, heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ so many times among "the band"--to wit, the knights who to the dark tower's search addressed their steps--that just to fail as they, seemed best, and all the doubt was now--should i be fit? so, quiet as despair, i turned from him, that hateful cripple, out of his highway into the path he pointed. all the day had been a dreary one at best, and dim was settling to its close, yet shot one grim red leer to see the plain catch its estray. for mark! no sooner was i fairly found pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, than, pausing to throw backward a last view o'er the safe road, 'twas gone; gray plain all round: nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. i might go on; naught else remained to do. so, on i went. i think i never saw such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve; for flowers--as well expect a cedar grove! but cockle, spurge, according to their law might propagate their kind, with none to awe, you'd think; a bur had been a treasure-trove. no! penury, inertness, and grimace, in some strange sort, were the land's portion. "see or shut your eyes," said nature peevishly, "it nothing skills; i cannot help my case; 'tis the last judgment's fire must cure this place, calcine its clods and set my prisoners free." if there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents were jealous else. what made those holes and rents in the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to balk all hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. as for the grass, it grew as scant as hair in leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. one stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, stood stupefied, however he came there; thrust out past service from the devil's stud! alive? he might be dead for aught i know, with that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, and shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; i never saw a brute i hated so; he must be wicked to deserve such pain. i shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. as a man calls for wine before he fights, i asked one draft of earlier, happier sights, ere fitly i could hope to play my part. think first, fight afterwards--the soldier's art; one taste of the old time sets all to rights. not it! i fancied cuthbert's reddening face beneath its garniture of curly gold, dear fellow, till i almost felt him fold an arm in mine to fix me to the place, that way he used. alas, one night's disgrace! out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. giles then, the soul of honor--there he stands frank as ten years ago when knighted first. what honest man should dare (he said) he durst. good--but the scene shifts--faugh! what hangman hands pin to his breast a parchment? his own bands read it. poor traitor, spit upon and cursed! better this present than a past like that; back therefore to my darkening path again! no sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. will the night send a howlet or a bat? i asked; when something on the dismal flat came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. a sudden little river crossed my path as unexpected as a serpent comes. no sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; this, as it frothed by, might have been a bath for the fiend's glowing hoof--to see the wrath of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. so petty yet so spiteful! all along, low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit of mute despair, a suicidal throng; the river which had done them all the wrong, whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. which, while i forded--good saints, how i feared to set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, each step, or feel the spear i thrust to seek for hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! it may have been a water-rat i speared, but, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek. glad was i when i reached the other bank. now for a better country. vain presage! who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, whose savage trample thus could pad the dank soil to a plash? toads in a poisoned tank, or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage-- the fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. what penned them there, with all the plain to choose? no footprint leading to that horrid mews, none out of it. mad brewage set to work their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the turk pits for his pastime, christians against jews. and more than that--a furlong on--why, there! what bad use was that engine for, that wheel, or brake, not wheel--that harrow fit to reel men's bodies out like silk? with all the air of tophet's tool, on earth left unaware, or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth desperate and done with--so a fool finds mirth, makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood changes and off he goes!--within a rood, bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth. now blotches rankling, colored gay and grim, now patches where some leanness of the soil's broke into moss or substances like boils; then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him like a distorted mouth that splits its rim gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. and just as far as ever from the end! naught in the distance but the evening, naught to point my footstep further! at the thought, a great black bird, apollyon's bosom-friend, sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned that brushed my cap--perchance the guide i sought. for, looking up, aware i somehow grew, 'spite of the dusk, the plain had given place all round to mountains--with such name to grace mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. how thus they had surprised me--solve it, you! how to get from them was no clearer case. yet half i seemed to recognize some trick of mischief happened to me, god knows when-- in a bad dream perhaps. here ended, then, progress this way. when, in the very nick of giving up, one time more, came a click as when a trap shuts--you're inside the den! burningly it came on me all at once, this was the place! those two hills on the right, crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; while to the left, a tall scalped mountain ... dunce, dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, after a life spent training for the sight! what in the midst lay but the tower itself? the round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, built of brown stone, without a counterpart in the whole world. the tempest's mocking elf points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf he strikes on, only when the timbers start. not see? because of night perhaps?--why, day came back again for that! before it left, the dying sunset kindled through a cleft; the hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, chin upon hand, to see the game at bay-- "now stab and end the creature--to the heft!" not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled increasing like a bell. names in my ears of all the lost adventurers my peers-- how such a one was strong, and such was bold, and such was fortunate, yet each of old lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. there they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met to view the last of me, a living frame for one more picture! in a sheet of flame i saw them and i knew them all. and yet dauntless the slug-horn to my lips i set, and blew. "_childe roland to the dark tower came._" how it strikes a contemporary i only knew one poet in my life: and this, or something like it, was his way. you saw go up and down valladolid, a man of mark, to know next time you saw. his very serviceable suit of black was courtly once and conscientious still, and many might have worn it, though none did; the cloak, that somewhat shone and showed the threads, had purpose, and the ruff, significance. he walked and tapped the pavement with his cane, scenting the world, looking it full in face, an old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels. they turned up, now, the alley by the church, that leads nowhither; now, they breathed themselves on the main promenade just at the wrong time; you'd come upon his scrutinizing hat, making a peaked shade blacker than itself against the single window spared some house intact yet with its moldered moorish work-- or else surprise the ferrel of his stick trying the mortar's temper 'tween the chinks of some new shop a-building, french and fine. he stood and watched the cobbler at his trade, the man who slices lemons into drink, the coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys that volunteer to help him turn its winch. he glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye, and fly-leaf ballads on the vender's string, and broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall. he took such cognizance of men and things, if any beat a horse, you felt he saw; if any cursed a woman, he took note; yet stared at nobody--you stared at him, and found, less to your pleasure than surprise, he seemed to know you and expect as much. so, next time that a neighbor's tongue was loosed, it marked the shameful and notorious fact, we had among us, not so much a spy, as a recording chief-inquisitor, the town's true master if the town but knew! we merely kept a governor for form, while this man walked about and took account of all thought, said and acted, then went home, and wrote it fully to our lord the king who has an itch to know things, he knows why, and reads them in his bedroom of a night. oh, you might smile! there wanted not a touch, a tang of ... well, it was not wholly ease as back into your mind the man's look came. stricken in years a little--such a brow his eyes had to live under!--clear as flint on either side the formidable nose curved, cut and colored like an eagle's claw. had he to do with a's surprising fate? when altogether old b disappeared and young c got his mistress--was't our friend, his letter to the king, that did it all? what paid the bloodless man for so much pains? our lord the king has favorites manifold, and shifts his ministry some once a month; our city gets new governors at whiles-- but never word or sign, that i could hear, notified to this man about the streets the king's approval of those letters conned the last thing duly at the dead of night. did the man love his office? frowned our lord, exhorting when none heard--"beseech me not! too far above my people--beneath me! i set the watch--how should the people know? forget them, keep me all the more in mind!" was some such understanding 'twixt the two? i found no truth in one report at least-- that if you tracked him to his home, down lanes beyond the jewry, and as clean to pace, you found he ate his supper in a room blazing with lights, four titians on the walls, and twenty naked girls to change his plate! poor man, he lived another kind of life in that new stuccoed third house by the bridge, fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise! the whole street might o'erlook him as he sat, leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back, playing a decent cribbage with his maid (jacynth, you're sure her name was) o'er the cheese and fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears, or treat of radishes in april. nine, ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he. my father, like the man of sense he was, would point him out to me a dozen times; "'st--'st," he'd whisper, "the corregidor!" i had been used to think that personage was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt, and feathers like a forest in his hat, who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news, announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn, and memorized the miracle in vogue! he had a great observance from us boys; we were in error; that was not the man. i'd like now, yet had haply been afraid, to have just looked, when this man came to die, and seen who lined the clean gay garret-sides and stood about the neat low truckle-bed, with the heavenly manner of relieving guard. here had been, mark, the general-in-chief, through a whole campaign of the world's life and death, doing the king's work all the dim day long, in his old coat and up to knees in mud, smoked like a herring, dining on a crust-- and, now the day was won, relieved at once! no further show or need for that old coat, you are sure, for one thing! bless us, all the while how sprucely we are dressed out, you and i! a second, and the angels alter that. well, i could never write a verse--could you? let's to the prado and make the most of time. fra lippo lippi i am poor brother lippo, by your leave! you need not clap your torches to my face. zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk! what, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, and here you catch me at an alley's end where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? the carmine's my cloister: hunt it up, do--harry out, if you must show your zeal, whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, and nip each softling of a wee white mouse, _weke, weke_, that's crept to keep him company! aha, you know your betters! then, you'll take your hand away that's fiddling on my throat, and please to know me likewise. who am i? why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend three streets off--he's a certain ... how d'ye call? master--a ... cosimo of the medici, i' the house that caps the corner. boh! you were best! remember and tell me, the day you're hanged, how you affected such a gullet's-gripe! but you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves pick up a manner nor discredit you: zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets and count fair prize what comes into their net? he's judas to a tittle, that man is! just such a face! why, sir, you make amends. lord, i'm not angry! bid your hangdogs go drink out this quarter-florin to the health of the munificent house that harbors me (and many more beside, lads! more beside!) and all's come square again. i'd like his face-- his, elbowing on his comrade in the door with the pike and lantern--for the slave that holds john baptist's head a-dangle by the hair with one hand ("look you, now," as who should say) and his weapon in the other, yet unwiped! it's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, a wood-coal, or the like? or you should see! yes, i'm the painter, since you style me so. what, brother lippo's doings, up and down, you know them and they take you? like enough! i saw the proper twinkle in your eye-- 'tell you, i liked your looks at very first. let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands to roam the town and sing out carnival, and i've been three weeks shut within my mew, a-painting for the great man, saints and saints and saints again. i could not paint all night-- ouf! i leaned out of window for fresh air. there came a hurry of feet and little feet, a sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song-- _flower o' the broom,_ _take away love, and our earth is a tomb!_ _flower o' the quince,_ _i let lisa go, and what good in life since?_ _flower o' the thyme_--and so on. round they went. scarce had they turned the corner when a titter like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight--three slim shapes, and a face that looked up ... zooks, sir, flesh and blood, that's all i'm made of! into shreds it went, curtain and counterpane and coverlet, all the bed-furniture--a dozen knots, there was a ladder! down i let myself, hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, and after them. i came up with the fun hard by saint laurence, hail fellow, well met-- _flower o' the rose,_ _if i've been merry, what matter who knows?_ and so i was stealing back again to get to bed and have a bit of sleep ere i rise up tomorrow and go work on jerome knocking at his poor old breast with his great round stone to subdue the flesh, you snap me of the sudden. ah, i see! though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head-- mine's shaved--a monk, you say--the sting's in that! if master cosimo announced himself, mum's the word naturally; but a monk! come, what am i a beast for? tell us, now! i was a baby when my mother died and father died and left me in the street. i starved there, god knows how, a year or two on fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, refuse and rubbish. one fine frosty day, my stomach being empty as your hat, the wind doubled me up and down i went. old aunt lapaccia trussed me with one hand (its fellow was a stinger as i knew), and so along the wall, over the bridge, by the straight cut to the convent. six words there, while i stood munching my first bread that month: "so, boy, you've minded," quoth the good fat father, wiping his own mouth--'twas refection-time-- "to quit this very miserable world? will you renounce" ... "the mouthful of bread?" thought i; by no means! brief, they made a monk of me; i did renounce the world, its pride and greed, palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house, trash, such as these poor devils of medici have given their hearts to--all at eight years old. well, sir, i found in time, you may be sure, 'twas not for nothing--the good bellyful, the warm serge and the rope that goes all round, and day-long blessed idleness beside! "let's see what the urchin's fit for"--that came next. not overmuch their way, i must confess. such a to-do! they tried me with their books; lord, they'd have taught me latin in pure waste! _flower o' the clove,_ _all the latin i construe is "amo," i love!_ but, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets eight years together, as my fortune was, watching folk's faces to know who will fling the bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, and who will curse or kick him for his pains-- which gentleman processional and fine, holding a candle to the sacrament, will wink and let him lift a plate and catch the droppings of the wax to sell again, or holla for the eight and have him whipped-- how say i?--nay, which dog bites, which lets drop his bone from the heap of offal in the street-- why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, he learns the look of things, and none the less for admonition from the hunger-pinch. i had a store of such remarks, be sure, which, after i found leisure, turned to use. i drew men's faces on my copy books, scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge, joined legs and arms to the long music-notes, found eyes and nose and chin for a's and b's, and made a string of pictures of the world betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, on the wall, the bench, the door. the monks looked black. "nay," quoth the prior, "turn him out, d'ye say? in no wise. lose a crow and catch a lark. what if at last we get our man of parts, we carmelites, like those camaldolese and preaching friars, to do our church up fine and put the front on it that ought to be!" and hereupon he bade me daub away. thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank, never was such prompt disemburdening. first, every sort of monk, the black and white, i drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church, from good old gossips waiting to confess their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends-- to the breathless fellow at the altar-foot, fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there with the little children round him in a row of admiration, half for his beard and half for that white anger of his victim's son shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, signing himself with the other because of christ (whose sad face on the cross sees only this after the passion of a thousand years) till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head, (which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve on tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers (the brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone. i painted all, then cried, "'tis ask and have; choose, for more's ready!"--laid the ladder flat, and showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. the monks closed in a circle and praised loud till checked, taught what to see and not to see, being simple bodies--"that's the very man! look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! that woman's like the prior's niece who comes to care about his asthma: it's the life!" but there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked; their betters took their turn to see and say: the prior and the learned pulled a face and stopped all that in no time. "how? what's here? quite from the mark of painting, bless us all! faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true as much as pea and pea! it's devil's-game! your business is not to catch men with show, with homage to the perishable clay, but lift them over it, ignore it all, make them forget there's such a thing as flesh. your business is to paint the souls of men--- man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke ... no, it's not ... it's vapor done up like a new-born babe-- (in that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) it's ... well, what matters talking, it's the soul! give us no more of body than shows soul! here's giotto, with his saint a-praising god, that sets us praising--why not stop with him? why put all thoughts of praise out of our head with wonder at lines, colors, and what not? paint the soul; never mind the legs and arms! rub all out; try at it a second time. oh, that white smallish female with the breasts, she's just my niece ... herodias, i would say-- who went and danced and got men's heads cut off! have it all out!" now, is this sense, i ask? 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! thus, yellow does for white when what you put for yellow's simply black, and any sort of meaning looks intense when all beside itself means and looks naught. why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, left foot and right foot, go a double step, make his flesh liker and his soul more like, both in their order? take the prettiest face, the prior's niece ... patron-saint--is it so pretty you can't discover if it means hope, fear, sorrow, or joy? won't beauty go with these? suppose i've made her eyes all right and blue, can't i take breath and try to add life's flash, and then add soul and heighten them three-fold? or say there's beauty with no soul at all-- (i never saw it--put the case the same--) if you get simple beauty and naught else, you get about the best thing god invents: that's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed, within yourself, when you return him thanks. "rub all out!" well, well, there's my life, in short, and so the thing has gone on ever since. i'm grown a man no doubt; i've broken bounds: you should not take a fellow eight years old and make him swear to never kiss the girls. i'm my own master, paint now as i please-- having a friend, you see, in the corner-house! lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front-- those great rings serve more purposes than just to plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! and yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes are peeping o'er my shoulder as i work, the heads shake still--"it's art's decline, my son! you're not of the true painters, great and old; brother angelico's the man, you'll find; brother lorenzo stands his single peer: fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!" _flower o' the pine,_ _you keep your mist ... manners, and i'll stick to mine!_ i'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know! don't you think they're the likeliest to know, they with their latin? so, i swallow my rage, clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint to please them--sometimes do and sometimes don't; for, doing most, there's pretty sure to come a turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints-- a laugh, a cry, the business of the world-- _(flower o' the peach,_ _death for us all, and his own life for each!)_ and my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, the world and life's too big to pass for a dream, and i do these wild things in sheer despite, and play the fooleries you catch me at, in pure rage! the old mill-horse, out at grass after hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, although the miller does not preach to him the only good of grass is to make chaff. what would men have? do they like grass or no-- may they or mayn't they? all i want's the thing settled forever one way. as it is, you tell too many lies and hurt yourself: you don't like what you only like too much, you do like what, if given you at your word, you find abundantly detestable. for me, i think i speak as i was taught; i always see the garden and god there a-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned, the value and significance of flesh, i can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards. you understand me: i'm a beast, i know. but see, now--why, i see as certainly as that the morning-star's about to shine, what will hap some day. we've a youngster here comes to our convent, studies what i do, slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: his name is guidi--he'll not mind the monks-- they call him hulking tom, he lets them talk-- he picks my practice up--he'll paint apace. i hope so--though i never live so long, i know what's sure to follow. you be judge! you speak no latin more than i, belike; however, you're my man, you've seen the world --the beauty and the wonder and the power, the shapes of things, their colors, lights, and shades changes, surprises--and god made it all! --for what? do you feel thankful, aye or no, for this fair town's face, yonder river's line, the mountain round it and the sky above, much more the figures of man, woman, child, these are the frame to? what's it all about? to be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon, wondered at? oh, this last of course!--you say. but why not do as well as say--paint these just as they are, careless what comes of it? god's works--paint any one, and count it crime to let a truth slip. don't object, "his works are here already; nature is complete: suppose you reproduce her--(which you can't) there's no advantage! you must beat her, then." for, don't you mark? we're made so that we love first when we see them painted, things we have passed perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; and so they are better, painted--better to us, which is the same thing. art was given for that; god uses us to help each other so, lending our minds out. have you noticed, now, your cullion's hanging face? a bit of chalk, and trust me but you should, though! how much more, if i drew higher things with the same truth! that were to take the prior's pulpit-place, interpret god to all of you! oh, oh, it makes me mad to see what men shall do and we in our graves! this world's no blot for us, nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: to find its meaning is my meat and drink. "aye, but you don't so instigate to prayer!" strikes in the prior: "when your meaning's plain it does not say to folk--remember matins, or, mind you fast next friday!" why, for this what need of art at all? a skull and bones, two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best, a bell to chime the hour with, does as well. i painted a saint laurence six months since at prato, splashed the fresco in fine style: "how looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?" i ask a brother: "hugely," he returns-- "already not one phiz of your three slaves who turn the deacon off his toasted side, but's scratched and prodded to our heart's content, the pious people have so eased their own with coming to say prayers there in a rage: we get on fast to see the bricks beneath. expect another job this time next year, for pity and religion grow i' the crowd-- your painting serves its purpose!" hang the fools! --that is--you'll not mistake an idle word spoke in a huff by a poor monk, god wot, tasting the air this spicy night which turns the unaccustomed head like chianti wine! oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now! it's natural a poor monk out of bounds should have his apt word to excuse himself: and hearken how i plot to make amends. i have bethought me: i shall paint a piece ... there's for you! give me six months, then go, see something in sant' ambrogio's! bless the nuns! they want a cast o' my office. i shall paint god in the midst, madonna and her babe, ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood, lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet as puff on puff of grated orris-root when ladies crowd to church at midsummer. and then i' the front, of course a saint or two-- saint john, because he saves the florentines, saint ambrose, who puts down in black and white the convent's friends and gives them a long day, and job, i must have him there past mistake, the man of uz (and us without the z, painters who need his patience). well, all these secured at their devotion, up shall come out of a corner when you least expect, as one by a dark stair into a great light, music and talking, who but lippo! i!-- mazed, motionless, and moonstruck--i'm the man! back i shrink--what is this i see and hear? i, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake, my old serge gown and rope that goes all round, i, in this presence, this pure company! where's a hole, where's a corner for escape? then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing forward, puts out a soft palm--"not so fast!" --addresses the celestial presence, "nay-- he made you and devised you, after all, though he's none of you! could saint john there draw-- his camel-hair make up a painting-brush? we come to brother lippo for all that, _iste perfecit opus!_" so, all smile-- i shuffle sideways with my blushing face under the cover of a hundred wings thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay and play hot cockles, all the doors being shut, till, wholly unexpected, in there pops the hothead husband! thus i scuttle off to some safe bench behind, not letting go the palm of her, the little lily thing that spoke the good word for me in the nick, like the prior's niece ... saint lucy, i would say. and so all's saved for me, and for the church a pretty picture gained. go, six months hence! your hand, sir, and good-by: no lights, no lights! the street's hushed, and i know my own way back, don't fear me! there's the gray beginning. zooks! andrea del sarto called "the faultless painter" but do not let us quarrel any more. no, my lucrezia; bear with me for once: sit down and all shall happen as you wish. you turn your face, but does it bring your heart? i'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear, treat his own subject after his own way, fix his own time, accept too his own price, and shut the money into this small hand when next it takes mine. will it? tenderly? oh, i'll content him--but tomorrow, love! i often am much wearier than you think, this evening more than usual, and it seems as if--forgive now--should you let me sit here by the window with your hand in mine and look a half-hour forth on fiesole, both of one mind, as married people use, quietly, quietly the evening through, i might get up tomorrow to my work cheerful and fresh as ever. let us try. tomorrow, how you shall be glad for this! your soft hand is a woman of itself, and mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve for each of the five pictures we require: it saves a model. so! keep looking so-- my serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! --how could you ever prick those perfect ears, even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet-- my face, my moon, my everybody's moon, which everybody looks on and calls his, and, i suppose, is looked on by in turn, while she looks--no one's: very dear, no less. you smile? why, there's my picture ready made, there's what we painters call our harmony! a common grayness silvers everything-- all in a twilight, you and i alike --you, at the point of your first pride in me (that's gone you know)--but i, at every point; my youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down to yonder sober, pleasant fiesole. there's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; that length of convent-wall across the way holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; the last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, and autumn grows, autumn in everything. eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape as if i saw alike my work and self and all that i was born to be and do, a twilight-piece. love, we are in god's hand. how strange now looks the life he makes us lead; so free we seem, so fettered fast we are! i feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! this chamber for example--turn your head-- all that's behind us! you don't understand nor care to understand about my art, but you can hear at least when people speak: and that cartoon, the second from the door --it is the thing, love! so such thing should be-- behold madonna!--i am bold to say. i can do with my pencil what i know, what i see, what at bottom of my heart i wish for, if i ever wish so deep-- do easily, too--when i say, perfectly, i do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, who listened to the legate's talk last week, and just as much they used to say in france. at any rate 'tis easy, all of it! no sketches first, no studies, that's long past: i do what many dream of, all their lives, --dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, and fail in doing. i could count twenty such on twice your fingers, and not leave this town, who strive--you don't know how the others strive to paint a little thing like that you smeared carelessly passing with your robes afloat-- yet do much less, so much less, someone says, (i know his name, no matter)--so much less! well, less is more, lucrezia: i am judged. there burns a truer light of god in them, in their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt this low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. their works drop groundward, but themselves, i know, reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, enter and take their place there sure enough, though they come back and cannot tell the world. my works are nearer heaven, but i sit here. the sudden blood of these men! at a word-- praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. i, painting from myself and to myself, know what i do, am unmoved by men's blame or their praise either. somebody remarks morello's outline there is wrongly traced, his hue mistaken; what of that? or else, rightly traced and well ordered; what of that? speak as they please, what does the mountain care? ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for? all is silver-gray placid and perfect with my art: the worse! i know both what i want and what might gain, and yet how profitless to know, to sigh "had i been two, another and myself, our head would have o'erlooked the world!" no doubt. yonder's a work now, of that famous youth the urbinate who died five years ago. ('tis copied, george vasari sent it me.) well, i can fancy how he did it all, pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, above and through his art--for it gives way; that arm is wrongly put--and there again-- a fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, its body, so to speak: its soul is right, he means right--that, a child may understand. still, what an arm! and i could alter it: but all the play, the insight and the stretch-- out of me, out of me! and wherefore out? had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, we might have risen to rafael, i and you! nay, love, you did give all i asked, i think-- more than i merit, yes, by many times. but had you--oh, with the same perfect brow, and perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, and the low voice my soul hears, as a bird the fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare-- had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! some women do so. had the mouth there urged "god and the glory! never care for gain. the present by the future, what is that? live for fame, side by side with agnolo! rafael is waiting: up to god, all three!" i might have done it for you. so it seems: perhaps not. all is as god overrules. beside, incentives come from the soul's self; the rest avail not. why do i need you? what wife had rafael, or has agnolo? in this world, who can do a thing, will not; and who would do it, cannot, i perceive: yet the will's somewhat--somewhat, too, the power-- and thus we half-men struggle. at the end, god, i conclude, compensates, punishes. 'tis safer for me, if the award be strict, that i am something underrated here, poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. i dared not, do you know, leave home all day, for fear of chancing on the paris lords. the best is when they pass and look aside; but they speak sometimes; i must bear it all. well may they speak! that francis, that first time, and that long festal year at fontainebleau! i surely then could sometimes leave the ground, put on the glory, rafael's daily wear, in that humane great monarch's golden look-- one finger in his beard or twisted curl over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, one arm about my shoulder, round my neck, the jingle of his gold chain in my ear, i, painting proudly with his breath on me, all his court round him, seeing with his eyes, such frank french eyes, and such a fire of souls profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts-- and, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, this in the background, waiting on my work, to crown the issue with a last reward! a good time, was it not, my kingly days? and load you not grown restless ... but i know-- 'tis done and past; 'twas right, my instinct said; too live the life grew, golden and not gray, and i'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt out of the grange whose four walls make his world. how could it end in any other way? you called me, and i came home to your heart. the triumph was--to reach and stay there; since i reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, you beautiful lucrezia that are mine! "rafael did this, andrea painted that; the roman's is the better when you pray, but still the other's virgin was his wife"-- men will excuse me. i am glad to judge both pictures in your presence; clearer grows my better fortune, i resolve to think. for, do you know, lucrezia, as god lives, said one day agnolo, his very self, to rafael ... i have known it all these years ... (when the young man was flaming out his thoughts upon a palace-wall for rome to see, too lifted up in heart because of it) "friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub goes up and down our florence, none cares how, who, were he set to plan and execute as you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!" to rafael's!--and indeed the arm is wrong. i hardly dare ... yet, only you to see, give the chalk here--quick, thus the line should go! aye, but the soul! he's rafael! rub it out! still, all i care for, if he spoke the truth, (what he? why, who but michel agnolo? do you forget already words like those?) if really there was such a chance, so lost-- is, whether you're--not grateful--but more pleased. well, let me think so. and you smile indeed! this hour has been an hour! another smile? if you would sit thus by me every night i should work better, do you comprehend? i mean that i should earn more, give you more. see, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, the cue-owls speak the name we call them by. come from the window, love--come in, at last, inside the melancholy little house we built to be so gay with. god is just. king francis may forgive me: oft at nights when i look up from painting, eyes tired out, the walls become illumined, brick from brick distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, that gold of his i did cement them with! let us but love each other. must you go? that cousin here again? he waits outside? must see you--you, and not with me? those loans? more gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? while hand and eye and something of a heart are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth? i'll pay my fancy. only let me sit the gray remainder of the evening out, idle, you call it, and muse perfectly how i could paint, were i but back in france, one picture, just one more--the virgin's face, not yours this time! i want you at my side to hear them--that is, michel agnolo-- judge all i do and tell you of its worth. will you? tomorrow, satisfy your friend. i take the subjects for his corridor, finish the portrait out of hand--there, there, and throw him in another thing or two if he demurs; the whole should prove enough to pay for this same cousin's freak. beside, what's better and what's all i care about, get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! love, does that please you? ah, but what does he, the cousin! what does he to please you more? i am grown peaceful as old age tonight. i regret little, i would change still less. since there my past life lies, why alter it? the very wrong to francis!--it is true i took his coin, was tempted and complied, and built this house and sinned, and all is said. my father and my mother died of want. well, had i riches of my own? you see how one gets rich! let each one bear his lot. they were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: and i have labored somewhat in my time and not been paid profusely. some good son paint my two hundred pictures--let him try! no doubt, there's something strikes a balance. yes, you loved me quite enough, it seems tonight. this must suffice me here. what would one have? in heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance-- four great walls in the new jerusalem, meted on each side by the angel's reed, for leonard, rafael, agnolo, and me to cover--the three first without a wife, while i have mine! so--still they overcome because there's still lucrezia--as i choose. again the cousin's whistle! go, my love. the bishop orders his tomb at saint praxed's church rome, -- vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! draw round my bed: is anselm keeping back? nephews--sons mine ... ah god, i know not! well-- she, men would have to be your mother once, old gandolf envied me, so fair she was! what's done is done, and she is dead beside, dead long ago, and i am bishop since, and as she died so must we die ourselves, and thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. life, how and what is it? as here i lie in this state-chamber, dying by degrees, hours and long hours in the dead night, i ask "do i live, am i dead?" peace, peace seems all. saint praxed's ever was the church for peace; and so, about this tomb of mine. i fought with tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: --old gandolf cozened me, despite my care; shrewd was that snatch from out the corner south he graced his carrion with, god curse the same! yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence one sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, and somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, and up into the aery dome where live the angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: and i shall fill my slab of basalt there, and 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, with those nine columns round me, two and two, the odd one at my feet where anselm stands: peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe as fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. --old gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, put me where i may look at him! true peach, rosy and flawless: how i earned the prize! draw close: that conflagration of my church --what then? so much was saved if aught were missed! my sons, ye would not be my death? go dig the white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, drop water gently till the surface sink, and if ye find ... ah god, i know not, i! ... bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, and corded up in a tight olive-frail, some lump, ah god, of _lapis lazuli_, big as a jew's head cut off at the nape, blue as a vein o'er the madonna's breast ... sons, all have i bequeathed you, villas, all, that brave frascati villa with its bath, so, let the blue lump poise between my knees, like god the father's globe on both his hands ye worship in the jesu church so gay, for gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: man goeth to the grave, and where is he? did i say basalt for my slab, sons? black-- 'twas ever antique-black i meant! how else shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? the bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, those pan and nymphs ye wot of, and perchance some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, the savior at his sermon on the mount, saint praxed in a glory, and one pan ready to twitch the nymph's last garment off, and moses with the tables ... but i know ye mark me not! what do they whisper thee, child of my bowels, anselm? ah, ye hope to revel down my villas while i gasp bricked o'er with beggar's moldy travertine which gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then! 'tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest i grieve my bath must needs be left behind, alas! one block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, there's plenty jasper somewhere in the world-- and have i not saint praxed's ear to pray horses for ye, and brown greek manuscripts, and mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? --that's if ye carve my epitaph aright, choice latin, picked phrase, tully's every word, no gaudy ware like gandolf's second line-- tully, my masters? ulpian serves his need! and then how i shall lie through centuries, and hear the blessed mutter of the mass, and see god made and eaten all day long, and feel the steady candle-flame, and taste good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! for as i lie here, hours of the dead night, dying in state and by such slow degrees, i fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, and stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, and let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work: and as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts grow, with a certain humming in my ears, about the life before i lived this life, and this life too, popes, cardinals, and priests, saint praxed at his sermon on the mount, your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, and new-found agate urns as fresh as day, and marble's language, latin pure, discreet, --aha, elucescebat quoth our friend? no tully, said i, ulpian at the best! evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. all _lapis_, all, sons! else i give the pope my villas! will ye ever eat my heart? ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, they glitter like your mother's for my soul, or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, piece out its starved design, and fill my vase with grapes, and add a visor and a term, and to the tripod ye would tie a lynx that in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, to comfort me on my entablature whereon i am to lie till i must ask, "do i live, am i dead?" there, leave me, there! for ye have stabbed me with ingratitude to death--ye wish it--god, ye wish it! stone-- gritstone, a-crumble! clammy squares which sweat as if the corpse they keep were oozing through-- and no more _lapis_ to delight the world! well, go! i bless ye. fewer tapers there, but in a row: and, going, turn your backs --aye, like departing altar-ministrants, and leave me in my church, the church for peace, that i may watch at leisure if he leers-- old gandolf--at me, from his onion-stone, as still he envied me, so fair she was! cleon "as certain also of your own poets have said"-- cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles, lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea, and laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "greece")-- to protus in his tyranny: much health! they give thy letter to me, even now; i read and seem as if i heard thee speak. the master of thy galley still unlades gift after gift; they block my court at last and pile themselves along its portico royal with sunset, like a thought of thee; and one white she-slave from the group dispersed of black and white slaves (like the checker-work pavement, at once my nation's work and gift, now covered with this settle-down of doves), one lyric woman, in her crocus vest woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands commends to me the strainer and the cup thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine. well-counseled, king, in thy munificence! for so shall men remark, in such an act of love for him whose song gives life its joy, thy recognition of the use of life; nor call thy spirit barely adequate to help on life in straight ways, broad enough for vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest. thou, in the daily building of thy tower-- whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil, or through dim lulls of unapparent growth, or when the general work 'mid good acclaim climbed with the eye to cheer the architect-- didst ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake-- hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope of some eventual rest a-top of it, whence, all the tumult of the building hushed, thou first of men mightst look out to the east. the vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun. for this, i promise on thy festival to pour libation, looking o'er the sea, making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak thy great words, and describe thy royal face-- wishing thee wholly where zeus lives the most, within the eventual element of calm. thy letter's first requirement meets me here. it is as thou hast heard: in one short life i, cleon, have effected all those things thou wonderingly dost enumerate. that epos on thy hundred plates of gold is mine--and also mine the little chant, so sure to rise from every fishing-bark when, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net. the image of the sun-god on the phare, men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine; the poecile, o'er-storied its whole length, as thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too. i know the true proportions of a man and woman also, not observed before; and i have written three books on the soul, proving absurd all written hitherto, and putting us to ignorance again. for music--why, i have combined the moods, inventing one. in brief, all arts are mine; thus much the people know and recognize, throughout our seventeen islands. marvel not. we of these latter days, with greater mind than our forerunners, since more composite, look not so great, beside their simple way, to a judge who only sees one way at once, one mind-point and no other at a time-- compares the small part of a man of us with some whole man of the heroic age, great in his way--not ours, nor meant for ours. and ours is greater, had we skill to know: for, what we call this life of men on earth, this sequence of the soul's achievements here being, as i find much reason to conceive, intended to be viewed eventually as a great whole, not analyzed to parts, but each part having reference to all-- how shall a certain part, pronounced complete, endure effacement by another part? was the thing done?--then, what's to do again? see, in the checkered pavement opposite, suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb, and next a lozenge, then a trapezoid-- he did not overlay them, superimpose the new upon the old and blot it out, but laid them on a level in his work, making at last a picture; there it lies. so, first the perfect separate forms were made, the portions of mankind; and after, so, occurred the combination of the same. for where had been a progress, otherwise? mankind, made up of all the single men-- in such a synthesis the labor ends. now mark me! those divine men of old time have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point the outside verge that rounds our faculty; and where they reached, who can do more than reach? it takes but little water just to touch at some one point the inside of a sphere, and, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest in due succession; but the finer air which not so palpably nor obviously, though no less universally, can touch the whole circumference of that emptied sphere, fills it more fully than the water did; holds thrice the weight of water in itself resolved into a subtler element. and yet the vulgar call the sphere first full up to the visible height--and after, void; not knowing air's more hidden properties. and thus our soul, misknown, cries out to zeus to vindicate his purpose in our life: why stay we on the earth unless to grow? long since, i imaged, wrote the fiction out, that he or other god descended here and, once for all, showed simultaneously what, in its nature, never can be shown, piecemeal or in succession--showed, i say, the worth both absolute and relative of all his children from the birth of time, his instruments for all appointed work. i now go on to image--might we hear the judgment which should give the due to each, show where the labor lay and where the ease, and prove zeus' self, the latent everywhere! this is a dream--but no dream, let us hope, that years and days, the summers and the springs, follow each other with unwaning powers. the grapes which dye thy wine are richer far, through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock; the suave plum than the savage-tasted drupe; the pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet; the flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers; that young and tender crescent-moon, thy slave, sleeping above her robe as buoyed by clouds, refines upon the women of my youth. what, and the soul alone deteriorates? i have not chanted verse like homer, no-- nor swept string like terpander, no--nor carved and painted men like phidias and his friend: i am not great as they are, point by point. but i have entered into sympathy with these four, running these into one soul, who, separate, ignored each other's art. say, is it nothing that i know them all? the wild flower was the larger; i have dashed rose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup's honey with wine, and driven its seed to fruit, and show a better flower if not so large: i stand myself. refer this to the gods whose gift alone it is! which, shall i dare (all pride apart) upon the absurd pretext that such a gift by chance lay in my hand, discourse of lightly or depreciate? it might have fallen to another's hand: what then? i pass too surely: let at least truth stay! and next, of what thou followest on to ask. this being with me as i declare, o king, my works, in all these varicolored kinds, so done by me, accepted so by men-- thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's hearts) i must not be accounted to attain the very crown and proper end of life? inquiring thence how, now life closeth up, i face death with success in my right hand: whether i fear death less than dost thyself the fortunate of men? "for" (writest thou) "thou leavest much behind, while i leave naught. thy life stays in the poems men shall sing, the pictures men shall study; while my life, complete and whole now in its power and joy, dies altogether with my brain and arm, is lost indeed; since, what survives myself? the brazen statue to o'erlook my grave, set on the promontory which i named. and that--some supple courtier of my heir shall use its robed and sceptered arm, perhaps, to fix the rope to, which best drags it down. i go then: triumph thou, who dost not go!" nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind. is this apparent, when thou turn'st to muse upon the scheme of earth and man in chief, that admiration grows as knowledge grows? that imperfection means perfection hid, reserved in part, to grace the after-time? if, in the morning of philosophy, ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived, thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have looked on all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird, ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage-- thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deduced the perfectness of others yet unseen. conceding which--had zeus then questioned thee, "shall i go on a step, improve on this, do more for visible creatures than is done?" thou wouldst have answered, "aye, by making each grow conscious in himself--by that alone. all's perfect else: the shell sucks fast the rock, the fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims and slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight, till life's mechanics can no further go-- and all this joy in natural life is put like fire from off thy finger into each, so exquisitely perfect is the same. but 'tis pure fire, and they mere matter are; it has them, not they it: and so i choose for man, thy last premeditated work (if i might add a glory to the scheme), that a third thing should stand apart from both, a quality arise within his soul, which, introactive, made to supervise and feel the force it has, may view itself, and so be happy." man might live at first the animal life: but is there nothing more? in due time, let him critically learn how he lives; and, the more he gets to know of his own life's adaptabilities, the more joy-giving will his life become. thus man, who hath this quality, is best. but thou, king, hadst more reasonably said: "let progress end at once--man make no step beyond the natural man, the better beast, using his senses, not the sense of sense." in man there's failure, only since he left the lower and inconscious forms of life. we called it an advance, the rendering plain man's spirit might grow conscious of man's life, and, by new lore so added to the old, take each step higher over the brute's head. this grew the only life, the pleasure-house, watch-tower, and treasure-fortress of the soul, which whole surrounding flats of natural life seemed only fit to yield subsistence to; a tower that crowns a country. but alas, the soul now climbs it just to perish there! for thence we have discovered ('tis no dream-- we know this, which we had not else perceived) that there's a world of capability for joy, spread round about us, meant for us, inviting us; and still the soul craves all, and still the flesh replies, "take no jot more than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad! nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought deduction to it." we struggle, fain to enlarge our bounded physical recipiency, increase our power, supply fresh oil to life, repair the waste of age and sickness: no, it skills not! life's inadequate to joy, as the soul sees joy, tempting life to take. they praise a fountain in my garden here wherein a naiad sends the water-bow thin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise. what if i told her, it is just a thread from that great river which the hills shut up, and mock her with my leave to take the same? the artificer has given her one small tube past power to widen or exchange--what boots to know she might spout oceans if she could? she cannot lift beyond her first thin thread: and so a man can use but a man's joy while he sees god's. is it for zeus to boast, "see, man, how happy i live, and despair-- that i may be still happier--for thy use!" if this were so, we could not thank our lord, as hearts beat on to doing; 'tis not so-- malice it is not. is it carelessness? still, no. if care--where is the sign? i ask, and get no answer, and agree in sum, o king, with thy profound discouragement, who seest the wider but to sigh the more. most progress is most failure: thou sayest well. the last point now:--thou dost except a case-- holding joy not impossible to one with artist-gifts--to such a man as i who leave behind me living works indeed; for, such a poem, such a painting lives. what? dost thou verily trip upon a word, confound the accurate view of what joy is (caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine) with feeling joy? confound the knowing how and showing how to live (my faculty) with actually living?--otherwise where is the artist's vantage o'er the king? because in my great epos i display how divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act-- is this as though i acted? if i paint, carve the young phoebus, am i therefore young? methinks i'm older that i bowed myself the many years of pain that taught me art! indeed, to know is something, and to prove how all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more: but, knowing naught, to enjoy is something, too. yon rower, with the molded muscles there, lowering the sail, is nearer it than i. i can write love-odes: thy fair slave's an ode. i get to sing of love, when grown too gray for being beloved: she turns to that young man, the muscles all a-ripple on his back. i know the joy of kingship: well, thou art king! "but," sayest thou--and i marvel, i repeat, to find thee trip on such a mere word--"what thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die: sappho survives, because we sing her songs, and Æschylus, because we read his plays!" why, if they live still, let them come and take thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup, speak in my place. thou diest while i survive? say rather that my fate is deadlier still, in this, that every day my sense of joy grows more acute, my soul (intensified by power and insight) more enlarged, more keen; while every day my hairs fall more and more, my hand shakes, and the heavy years increase-- the horror quickening still from year to year, the consummation coming past escape, when i shall know most, and yet least enjoy-- when all my works wherein i prove my worth, being present still to mock me in men's mouths, alive still, in the praise of such as thou, i, i the feeling, thinking, acting man, the man who loved his life so overmuch, sleep in my urn. it is so horrible, i dare at times imagine to my need some future state revealed to us by zeus, unlimited in capability for joy, as this is in desire for joy, --to seek which, the joy-hunger forces us: that, stung by straitness of our life, made strait on purpose to make prized the life at large-- freed, by the throbbing impulse we call death, we burst there as the worm into the fly, who, while a worm still, wants his wings. but no! zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas, he must have done so, were it possible! live long and happy, and in that thought die: glad for what was! farewell. and for the rest, i cannot tell thy messenger aright where to deliver what he bears of thine to one called paulus; we have heard his fame indeed, if christus be not one with him-- i know not, nor am troubled much to know. thou canst not think a mere barbarian jew, as paulus proves to be, one circumcised, hath access to a secret shut from us? thou wrongest our philosophy, o king, in stooping to inquire of such an one, as if his answer could impose at all! he writeth, doth he? well, and he may write. oh, the jew findeth scholars! certain slaves who touched on this same isle, preached him and christ; and (as i gathered from a bystander) their doctrine could be held by no sane man. one word more i there they are, my fifty men and women naming me the fifty poems finished! take them, love, the book and me together: where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. ii rafael made a century of sonnets, made and wrote them in a certain volume dinted with the silver-pointed pencil else he only used to draw madonnas: these, the world might view--but one, the volume. who that one, you ask? your heart instructs you. did she live and love it all her lifetime? did she drop, his lady of the sonnets, die, and let it drop beside her pillow where it lay in place of rafael's glory, rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving-- cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's? iii you and i would rather read that volume (taken to his beating bosom by it), lean and list the bosom-beats of rafael, would we not? than wonder at madonnas-- her, san sisto names, and her, foligno, her, that visits florence in a vision, her, that's left with lilies in the louvre-- seen by us and all the world in circle. iv you and i will never read that volume. guido reni, like his own eye's apple guarded long the treasure-book and loved it. guido reni dying, all bologna cried, and the world cried too, "ours, the treasure!" suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. v dante once prepared to paint an angel: whom to please? you whisper "beatrice." while he mused and traced it and retraced it (peradventure with a pen corroded still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, when, his left hand i' the hair o' the wicked, back he held the brow and pricked its stigma, bit into the live man's flesh for parchment, loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle, let the wretch go festering through florence)-- dante, who loved well because he hated, hated wickedness that hinders loving, dante standing, studying his angel-- in there broke the folk of his inferno. says he--"certain people of importance" (such he gave his daily, dreadful line to) "entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet." says the poet--"then i stopped my painting." vi you and i would rather see that angel, painted by the tenderness of dante-- would we not?--than read a fresh inferno. vii you and i will never see that picture. while he mused on love and beatrice, while he softened o'er his outlined angel, in they broke, those "people of importance": we and bice bear the loss forever. viii what of rafael's sonnets, dante's picture? this: no artist lives and loves, that longs not once, and only once, and for one only (ah, the prize!), to find his love a language fit and fair and simple and sufficient-- using nature that's an art to others, not, this one time, art that's turned his nature. aye, of all the artists living, loving, none but would forego his proper dowry-- does he paint? he fain would write a poem-- does he write? he fain would paint a picture, put to proof art alien to the artist's, once, and only once, and for one only, so to be the man and leave the artist, gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow. ix wherefore? heaven's gift takes earth's abatement! he who smites the rock and spreads the water, bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, even he, the minute makes immortal, proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute, desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. while he smites, how can he but remember, so he smote before, in such a peril, when they stood and mocked--"shall smiting help us?" when they drank and sneered--"a stroke is easy!" when they wiped their mouths and went their journey, throwing him for thanks--"but drought was pleasant." thus old memories mar the actual triumph; thus the doing savors of disrelish; thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat; o'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate, carelessness or consciousness--the gesture. for he bears an ancient wrong about him, sees and knows again those phalanxed faces, hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude-- "how shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us?" guesses what is like to prove the sequel-- "egypt's flesh-pots--nay, the drought was better." x oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant theirs, the sinai-forehead's cloven brilliance, right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat. never dares the man put off the prophet. xi did he love one face from out the thousands (were she jethro's daughter, white and wifely, were she but the ethiopian bondslave), he would envy yon dumb patient camel, keeping a reserve of scanty water meant to save his own life in the desert; ready in the desert to deliver (kneeling down to let his breast be opened) hoard and life together for his mistress. xii i shall never, in the years remaining, paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues, make you music that should all-express me; so it seems: i stand on my attainment. this of verse alone, one life allows me; verse and nothing else have i to give you. other heights in other lives, god willing: all the gifts from all the heights, your own, love! xiii yet a semblance of resource avails us-- shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. take these lines, look lovingly and nearly, lines i write the first time and the last time. he who works in fresco, steals a hair-brush, curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly, cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, makes a strange art of an art familiar, fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets. he who blows through bronze may breathe through silver, fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. he who writes may write for once as i do. xiv love, you saw me gather men and women, live or dead or fashioned by my fancy, enter each and all, and use their service. speak from every mouth--the speech, a poem. hardly shall i tell my joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, belief and disbelieving: i am mine and yours--the rest be all men's, karshish, cleon, norbert, and the fifty. let me speak this once in my true person, not as lippo, roland, or andrea, though the fruit of speech be just this sentence: pray you, look on these my men and women, take and keep my fifty poems finished; where my heart lies, let my brain lie also! poor the speech; be how i speak, for all things. xv not but that you know me! lo, the moon's self! here in london, yonder late in florence, still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured. curving on a sky imbrued with color, drifted over fiesole by twilight, came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth. full she flared it, lamping samminiato, rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder, perfect till the nightingales applauded. now, a piece of her old self, impoverished, hard to greet, she traverses the house-roofs, hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver, goes dispiritedly, glad to finish. xvi what, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy? nay: for if that moon could love a mortal, use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy), all her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos), she would turn a new side to her mortal, side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman-- blank to zoroaster on his terrace, blind to galileo on his turret, dumb to homer, dumb to keats--him, even! think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal-- when she turns round, comes again in heaven, opens out anew for worse or better! proves she like some portent of an iceberg swimming full upon the ship it founders, hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals? proves she as the paved work of a sapphire seen by moses when he climbed the mountain? moses, aaron, nadab, and abihu climbed and saw the very god, the highest, stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. like the bodied heaven in his clearness shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved work, when they ate and drank and saw god also! xvii what were seen? none knows, none ever shall know. only this is sure--the sight were other, not the moon's same side, born late in florence, dying now impoverished here in london. god be thanked, the meanest of his creatures boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, one to show a woman when he loves her! xviii this i say of me, but think of you, love! this to you--yourself my moon of poets! ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder, thus they see you, praise you, think they know you! there, in turn i stand with them and praise you-- out of my own self, i dare to phrase it. but the best is when i glide from out them, cross a step or two of dubious twilight, come out on the other side, the novel silent silver lights and darks undreamed of, where i hush and bless myself with silence. xix oh, their rafael of the dear madonnas, oh, their dante of the dread inferno, wrote one song--and in my brain i sing it, drew one angel--borne, see, on my bosom. abt vogler (after he has been extemporizing upon the musical instrument of his invention) would that the structure brave, the manifold music i build, bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when solomon willed armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, man, brute, reptile, fly--alien of end and of aim, adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed-- should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable name, and pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved! would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine, this which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise! ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine, zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise! and one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell, burrow awhile and build broad on the roots of things, then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well, founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. and another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was, aye, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass, eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest: for higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire, when a great illumination surprises a festal night-- outlining round and round rome's dome from space to spire) up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight. in sight? not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's birth, nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as i; and the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth, as the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky: novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine, not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star; meteor-moons, balls of blaze; and they did not pale nor pine, for earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far. nay more; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow, presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the protoplast, furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow, lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last; or else the wonderful dead who have passed through the body and gone, but were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new: what never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon; and what is--shall i say, matched both? for i was made perfect, too. all through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, all through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth, all through music and me! for think, had i painted the whole, why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth: had i written the same, made verse--still, effect proceeds from cause, ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told; it is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled: but here is the finger of god, a flash of the will that can, existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they are! and i know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man, that out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is naught; it is everywhere in the world--loud, soft, and all is said: give it to me to use! i mix it with two in my thought: and there! ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head! well, it is gone at last, the palace of music i reared; gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow; for one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared, that he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. never to be again! but many more of the kind as good, nay, better perchance: is this your comfort to me? to me, who must be saved because i cling with my mind to the same, same self, same love, same god: aye, what was, shall be. therefore to whom turn i but to thee, the ineffable name? builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands! what, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same? doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands? there shall never be one lost good! what was, shall live as before; the evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound; what was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; on the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round. all we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist; not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist when eternity affirms the conception of an hour. the high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, the passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, are music sent up to god by the lover and the bard; enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by-and-by. and what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence for the fullness of the days? have we withered or agonized? why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? why rushed the discords in but that harmony should be prized? sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe: but god has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; the rest may reason and welcome: 'tis we musicians know. well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign: i will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. give me the keys. i feel for the common chord again, sliding by semitones, till i sink to the minor--yes, and i blunt it into a ninth, and i stand on alien ground, surveying awhile the heights i rolled from into the deep; which, hark, i have dared and done, for my resting-place is found, the c major of this life: so, now i will try to sleep. rabbi ben ezra grow old along with me! the best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made: our times are in his hand who saith, "a whole i planned, youth shows but half; trust god: see all nor be afraid!" not that, amassing flowers, youth sighed, "which rose make ours, which lily leave and then as best recall?" not that, admiring stars, it yearned, "nor jove, nor mars; mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" not for such hopes and fears annulling youth's brief years, do i remonstrate: folly wide the mark! rather i prize the doubt low kinds exist without, finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. poor vaunt of life indeed, were man but formed to feed on joy, to solely seek and find and feast: such feasting ended, then as sure an end to men; irks care the crop-full bird? frets doubt the maw-crammed beast? rejoice we are allied to that which doth provide and not partake, effect and not receive! a spark disturbs our clod; nearer we hold of god who gives, than of his tribes that take, i must believe. then, welcome each rebuff that turns earth's smoothness rough, each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! be our joys three-parts pain! strive, and hold cheap the strain; learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! for thence--a paradox which comforts while it mocks-- shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: what i aspired to be, and was not, comforts me; a brute i might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. what is he but a brute whose flesh has soul to suit, whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? to man, propose this test-- thy body at its best, how far can that project thy soul on its lone way? yet gifts should prove their use: i own the past profuse of power each side, perfection every turn: eyes, ears took in their dole, brain treasured up the whole; should not the heart beat once, "how good to live and learn"? not once beat, "praise be thine! i see the whole design, i, who saw power, see now love perfect too: perfect i call thy plan: thanks that i was a man! maker, remake, complete--i trust what thou shalt do!" for pleasant is this flesh; our soul, in its rose-mesh pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: would we some prize might hold to match those manifold possessions of the brute--gain most, as we did best! let us not always say, "spite of this flesh today i strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" as the bird wings and sings, let us cry, "all good things are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" therefore i summon age to grant youth's heritage, life's struggle having so far reached its term: thence shall i pass, approved a man, for aye removed from the developed brute; a god though in the germ. and i shall thereupon take rest, ere i be gone once more on my adventure brave and new: fearless and unperplexed, when i wage battle next, what weapons to select, what armor to indue. youth ended, i shall try my gain or loss thereby; leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: and i shall weigh the same, give life its praise or blame: young, all lay in dispute; i shall know, being old. for note, when evening shuts, a certain moment cuts the deed off, calls the glory from the gray: a whisper from the west shoots--"add this to the rest, take it and try its worth: here dies another day." so, still within this life, though lifted o'er its strife, let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, "this rage was right i' the main, that acquiescence vain: the future i may face now i have proved the past." for more is not reserved to man, with soul just nerved to act tomorrow what he learns today: here, work enough to watch the master work, and catch hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. as it was better, youth should strive, through acts uncouth, toward making, than repose on aught found made; so, better, age, exempt from strife, should know, than tempt further. thou waitedst age; wait death nor be afraid! enough now, if the right and good and infinite be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, with knowledge absolute, subject to no dispute from fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. be there, for once and all, severed great minds from small, announced to each his station in the past! was i, the world arraigned, were they, my soul disdained, right? let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! now, who shall arbitrate? ten men love what i hate, shun what i follow, slight what i receive; ten, who in ears and eyes match me: we all surmise, they this thing and i that; whom shall my soul believe? not on the vulgar mass called "work," must sentence pass, things done, that took the eye and had the price; o'er which, from level stand, the low world laid its hand, found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: but all, the world's coarse thumb and finger failed to plumb, so passed in making up the main account; all instincts immature, all purposes unsure, that weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount; thoughts hardly to be packed into a narrow act, fancies that broke through language and escaped; all i could never be, all, men ignored in me, this, i was worth to god, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. aye, note that potter's wheel, that metaphor! and feel why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay thou, to whom fools propound, when the wine makes its round, "since life fleets, all is change; the past gone, seize today!" fool! all that is, at all, lasts ever, past recall; earth changes, but thy soul and god stand sure: what entered into thee, _that_ was, is, and shall be: time's wheel runs back or stops; potter and clay endure. he fixed thee, mid this dance of plastic circumstance, this present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest: machinery just meant to give thy soul its bent, try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. what though the earlier grooves which ran the laughing loves around thy base, no longer pause and press? what though, about thy rim, skull-things in order grim grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? look not thou down but up! to uses of a cup, the festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, the new wine's foaming flow, the master's lips aglow! thou, heaven's consummate cup, what need'st thou with earth's wheel? but i need, now as then, thee, god, who moldest men; and since, not even while the whirl was worst, did i--to the wheel of life with shapes and colors rife, bound dizzily--mistake my end, to slake thy thirst: so, take and use thy work: amend what flaws may lurk, what strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! my times be in thy hand! perfect the cup as planned! let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! caliban upon setebos; or natural theology in the island "thou thoughtest that i was altogether such an one as thyself." ['will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, flat on his belly in the pit's much mire, with elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin. and, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, and feels about his spine small eft-things course, run in and out each arm, and make him laugh; and while above his head a pompion-plant, coating the cave-top as a brow its eye, creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard, and now a flower drops with a bee inside, and now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch-- he looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross and recross till they weave a spider web (meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times) and talks to his own self, howe'er he please, touching that other, whom his dam called god. because to talk about him, vexes--ha, could he but know! and time to vex is now, when talk is safer than in wintertime. moreover prosper and miranda sleep in confidence he drudges at their task, and it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe, letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.] setebos, setebos, and setebos! 'thinketh, he dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon. thinketh he made it, with the sun to match, but not the stars; the stars came otherwise; only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that; also this isle, what lives and grows thereon, and snaky sea which rounds and ends the same. 'thinketh, it came of being ill at ease: he hated that he cannot change his cold, nor cure its ache. 'hath spied an icy fish that longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived, and thaw herself within the lukewarm brine o' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid, a crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave; only, she ever sickened, found repulse at the other kind of water, not her life, (green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun) flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe, and in her old bounds buried her despair, hating and loving warmth alike: so he. 'thinketh, he made thereat the sun, this isle, trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, that floats and feeds; a certain badger brown he hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye by moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue that pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm, and says a plain word when she finds her prize, but will not eat the ants; the ants themselves that build a wall of seeds and settled stalks about their hole--he made all these and more, made all we see, and us, in spite: how else? he could not, himself, make a second self to be his mate; as well have made himself: he would not make what he mislikes or slights, an eyesore to him, or not worth his pains: but did, in envy, listlessness or sport, make what himself would fain, in a manner, be-- weaker in most points, stronger in a few, worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while, things he admires and mocks too--that is it. because; so brave, so better though they be, it nothing skills if he begin to plague. look now, i melt a gourd-fruit into mash, add honeycomb and pods, i have perceived, which bite like finches when they bill and kiss-- then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all, quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain; last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme, and wanton, wishing i were born a bird. put case, unable to be what i wish, i yet could make a live bird out of clay: would not i take clay, pinch my caliban able to fly?--for, there, see, he hath wings, and great comb like the hoopoe's to admire, and there, a sting to do his foes offense, there, and i will that he begin to live, fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns of grigs high up that make the merry din, saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not. in which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay, and he lay stupid-like--why, i should laugh; and if he, spying me, should fall to weep, beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, bid his poor leg smart less or grow again-- well, as the chance were, this might take or else not take my fancy: i might hear his cry, and give the manikin three sound legs for one, or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg, and lessoned he was mine and merely clay. were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme, drinking the mash, with brain become alive, making and marring clay at will? so he. 'thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in him, nor kind, nor cruel: he is strong and lord. 'am strong myself compared to yonder crabs that march now from the mountain to the sea; 'let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first, loving not, hating not, just choosing so. 'say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots shall join the file, one pincer twisted off; 'say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm, and two worms he whose nippers end in red; as it likes me each time, i do: so he. well then, 'supposeth he is good i' the main, placable if his mind and ways were guessed, but rougher than his handiwork, be sure! oh, he hath made things worthier than himself, and envieth that, so helped, such things do more than he who made them! what consoles but this? that they, unless through him, do naught at all, and must submit: what other use in things? 'hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint that, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay when from her wing you twitch the feathers blue: sound this, and little birds that hate the jay flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt: put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth, "i catch the birds, i am the crafty thing, i make the cry my maker cannot make with his great round mouth; he must blow through mine!" would not i smash it with my foot? so he. but wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease? aha, that is a question! ask, for that, what knows--the something over setebos that made him, or he, may be, found and fought, worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance. there may be something quiet o'er his head, out of his reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, since both derive from weakness in some way. i joy because the quails come; would not joy could i bring quails here when i have a mind: this quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. 'esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch, but never spends much thought nor care that way. it may look up, work up--the worse for those it works on! 'careth but for setebos the many-handed as a cuttlefish, who, making himself feared through what he does, looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar to what is quiet and hath happy life; next looks down here, and out of very spite makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real, these good things to match those as hips do grapes. 'tis solace making baubles, aye, and sport. himself peeped late, eyed prosper at his books careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped, wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words; has peeled a wand and called it by a name; weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe the eyed skin of a supple oncelot; and hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, a four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch, now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, and saith she is miranda and my wife: 'keeps for his ariel, a tall pouch-bill crane he bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge; also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared, blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, and split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge in a hole o' the rock and calls him caliban; a bitter heart that bides its time and bites. 'plays thus at being prosper in a way, taketh his mirth with make-believes: so he. his dam held that the quiet made all things which setebos vexed only: 'holds not so. who made them weak, meant weakness he might vex. had he meant other, while his hand was in, why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick, or plate my scalp with bone against the snow, or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint, like an orc's armor? aye--so spoil his sport! he is the one now: only he doth all. 'saith, he may like, perchance, what profits him. aye, himself loves what does him good; but why? 'gets good no otherwise. this blinded beast loves whoso places fleshmeat on his nose, but, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate or love, just as it liked him: he hath eyes. also it pleaseth setebos to work, use all his hands, and exercise much craft, by no means for the love of what is worked. 'tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world when all goes right, in this safe summertime, and he wants little, hungers, aches not much, than trying what to do with wit and strength. 'falls to make something: 'piled yon pile of turfs, and squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk, and, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each, and set up endwise certain spikes of tree, and crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top, found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill. no use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake; 'shall some day knock it down again: so he. 'saith he is terrible: watch his feats in proof! one hurricane will spoil six good months' hope. he hath a spite against me, that i know, just as he favors prosper, who knows why? so it is, all the same, as well i find. 'wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm with stone and stake to stop she-tortoises crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave, feeling the foot of him upon its neck, gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue, and licked the whole labor flat: so much for spite. 'saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies) where, half an hour before, i slept i' the shade: often they scatter sparkles: there is force! 'dug up a newt he may have envied once and turned to stone, shut up inside a stone. please him and hinder this?--what prosper does? aha, if he would tell me how! not he! there is the sport: discover how or die! all need not die, for of the things o' the isle some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees; those at his mercy--why, they please him most when ... when ... well, never try the same way twice! repeat what act has pleased, he may grow wroth. you must not know, his ways, and play him off, sure of the issue. 'doth the like himself: 'spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears but steals the nut from underneath my thumb, and when i threat, bites stoutly in defense: 'spareth an urchin that contrariwise, curls up into a ball, pretending death for fright at my approach: the two ways please. but what would move my choler more than this, that either creature counted on its life tomorrow and next day and all days to come, saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart, "because he did so yesterday with me, and otherwise with such another brute, so must he do henceforth and always."--aye? would teach the reasoning couple what "must" means! 'doth as he likes, or wherefore lord? so he. 'conceiveth all things will continue thus, and we shall have to live in fear of him so long as he lives, keeps his strength: no change, if he have done his best, make no new world to please him more, so leave off watching this-- if he surprise not even the quiet's self some strange day--or, suppose, grow into it as grubs grow butterflies: else, here are we, and there is he, and nowhere help at all. 'believeth with the life, the pain shall stop. his dam held different, that after death he both plagued enemies and feasted friends: idly! he doth his worst in this our life, giving just respite lest we die through pain, saving last pain for worst--with which, an end. meanwhile, the best way to escape his ire is not to seem too happy. 'sees, himself, yonder two flies, with purple films and pink, bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both. 'sees two black painful beetles roll their ball on head and tail as if to save their lives: moves them the stick away they strive to clear. even so, 'would have him misconceive, suppose this caliban strives hard and ails no less, and always, above all else, envies him; wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights, moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh, and never speaks his mind save housed as now: outside, 'groans, curses. if he caught me here, o'erheard this speech, and asked, "what chucklest at?" 'would, to appease him, cut a finger off, or of my three kid yearlings burn the best, or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, or push my tame beast for the orc to taste: while myself lit a fire, and made a song and sung it, "_what i hate, be consecrate to celebrate thee and thy state, no mate for thee; what see for envy in poor me?_" hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend, warts rub away, and sores are cured with slime, that some strange day, will either the quiet catch and conquer setebos, or likelier he decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die. * * * * * [what, what? a curtain o'er the world at once! crickets stop hissing; not a bird--or, yes, there scuds his raven that has told him all! it was fool's play, this prattling! ha! the wind shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move, and fast invading fires begin! white blaze-- a tree's head snaps--and there, there, there, there, there, his thunder follows! fool to gibe at him! lo! 'lieth flat and loveth setebos! 'maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip, will let those quails fly, will not eat this month one little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape!] may and death i wish that when you died last may, charles, there had died along with you three parts of spring's delightful things; aye, and, for me, the fourth part, too. a foolish thought, and worse, perhaps! there must be many a pair of friends who, arm in arm, deserve the warm moon-births and the long evening-ends. so, for their sake, be may still may! let their new time, as mine of old, do all it did for me: i bid sweet sights and sounds throng manifold. only, one little sight, one plant, woods have in may, that starts up green save a sole streak which, so to speak, is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between-- that, they might spare; a certain wood might miss the plant; their loss were small: but i--whene'er the leaf grows there, its drop comes from my heart, that's all. prospice fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, the mist in my face, when the snows begin, and the blasts denote i am nearing the place, the power of the night, the press of the storm, the post of the foe; where he stands, the arch fear in a visible form, yet the strong man must go; for the journey is done and the summit attained, and the barriers fall, though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, the reward of it all. i was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, the best and the last! i would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, and bade me creep past. no! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers the heroes of old, bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears of pain, darkness, and cold. for sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, the black minute's at end, and the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, shall dwindle, shall blend, shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, then a light, then thy breast, o thou soul of my soul! i shall clasp thee again, and with god be the rest! a face if one could have that little head of hers painted upon a background of pale gold, such as the tuscan's early art prefers! no shade encroaching on the matchless mold of those two lips, which should be opening soft in the pure profile; not as when she laughs, for that spoils all; but rather as if aloft yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's burthen of honey-colored buds to kiss and capture 'twixt the lips apart for this. then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround, how it should waver on the pale gold ground up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! i know, correggio loves to mass, in rifts of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb breaking its outline, burning shades absorb; but these are only massed there, i should think, waiting to see some wonder momently grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky (that's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), all heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink. o lyric love o lyric love, half angel and half bird, and all a wonder and a wild desire-- boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun, took sanctuary within the holier blue, and sang a kindred soul out to his face-- yet human at the red-ripe of the heart-- when the first summons from the darkling earth reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue, and bared them of the glory--to drop down, to toil for man, to suffer or to die-- this is the same voice; can thy soul know change? hail then, and hearken from the realms of help! never may i commence my song, my due to god who best taught song by gift of thee, except with bent head and beseeching hand-- that still, despite the distance and the dark, what was, again may be; some interchange of grace, some splendor once thy very thought, some benediction anciently thy smile: --never conclude, but raising hand and head. thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn for all hope, all sustainment, all reward, their utmost up and on--so blessing back in those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home, some whiteness which, i judge, thy face makes proud, some wanness where, i think, thy foot may fall! prologue to pacchiarotto oh, the old wall here! how i could pass life in a long midsummer day, my feet confined to a plot of grass, my eyes from a wall not once away! and lush and lithe do the creepers clothe yon wall i watch, with a wealth of green: its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth, in lappets of tangle they laugh between. now, what is it makes pulsate the robe? why tremble the sprays? what life o'erbrims the body--the house, no eye can probe-- divined as, beneath a robe, the limbs? and there again! but my heart may guess who tripped behind; and she sang perhaps; so, the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess died out and away in the leafy wraps! wall upon wall are between us; life and song should away from heart to heart! i--prison-bird, with a ruddy strife at breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start-- hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing that's spirit: though cloistered fast, soar free; account as wood, brick, stone, this ring of the rueful neighbors, and--forth to thee! house shall i sonnet-sing you about myself? do i live in a house you would like to see? is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf? "unlock my heart with a sonnet-key"? invite the world, as my betters have done? "take notice: this building remains on view, its suites of reception every one, its private apartment and bedroom too; "for a ticket, apply to the publisher." no: thanking the public, i must decline. a peep through my window, if folk prefer; but, please you, no foot over threshold of mine! i have mixed with a crowd and heard free talk in a foreign land where an earthquake chanced and a house stood gaping, naught to balk man's eye wherever he gazed or glanced. the whole of the frontage shaven sheer, the inside gaped; exposed to day, right and wrong and common and queer, bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay. the owner? oh, he had been crushed, no doubt! "odd tables and chairs for a man of wealth! what a parcel of musty old books about! he smoked--no wonder he lost his health! "i doubt if he bathed before he dressed. a brasier?--the pagan, he burned perfumes! you see it is proved, what the neighbors guessed: his wife and himself had separate rooms." friends, the goodman of the house at least kept house to himself till an earthquake came; 'tis the fall of its frontage permits you feast on the inside arrangement you praise or blame. outside should suffice for evidence; and whoso desires to penetrate deeper, must dive by the spirit-sense-- no optics like yours, at any rate! "hoity-toity! a street to explore, your house the exception! '_with this same key shakespeare unlocked his heart_,' once more!" did shakespeare? if so, the less shakespeare he! shop so, friend, your shop was all your house! its front, astonishing the street, invited view from man and mouse to what diversity of treat behind its glass--the single sheet! what gimcracks, genuine japanese: gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog; dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese; some crush-nosed human-hearted dog: queer names, too, such a catalogue! i thought, "and he who owns the wealth which blocks the window's vastitude, --ah, could i peep at him by stealth behind his ware, pass shop, intrude on house itself, what scenes were viewed! "if wide and showy thus the shop, what must the habitation prove? the true house with no name a-top-- the mansion, distant one remove, once get him off his traffic-groove! "pictures he likes, or books perhaps; and as for buying most and best, commend me to these city chaps! or else he's social, takes his rest on sundays, with a lord for guest. "some suburb-palace, parked about and gated grandly, built last year; the four-mile walk to keep off gout; or big seat sold by bankrupt peer-- but then he takes the rail, that's clear. "or, stop! i wager, taste selects some out o' the way, some all-unknown retreat; the neighborhood suspects little that he who rambles lone makes rothschild tremble on his throne!" nowise! nor mayfair residence fit to receive and entertain-- nor hampstead villa's kind defense from noise and crowd, from dust and drain-- nor country-box was soul's domain! nowise! at back of all that spread of merchandise, woe's me, i find a hole i' the wall where, heels by head, the owner couched, his ware behind --in cupboard suited to his mind. for why? he saw no use of life but, while he drove a roaring trade, to chuckle, "customers are rife!" to chafe, "so much hard cash outlaid yet zero in my profits made! "this novelty costs pains, but--takes? cumbers my counter! stock no more! this article, no such great shakes, fizzes like wildfire? underscore the cheap thing--thousands to the fore!" 'twas lodging best to live most nigh (cramp, coffinlike as crib might be) receipt of custom; ear and eye wanted no outworld: "hear and see the bustle in the shop!" quoth he my fancy of a merchant-prince was different. through his wares we groped our darkling way to--not to mince the matter--no black den where moped the master if we interloped! shop was shop only: household-stuff? what did he want with comforts there? "walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough, so goods on sale show rich and rare! '_sell and scud home_' be shop's affair!" what might he deal in? gems, suppose! since somehow business must be done at cost of trouble--see, he throws you choice of jewels, everyone, good, better, best, star, moon, and sun! which lies within your power of purse? this ruby that would tip aright solomon's scepter? oh, your nurse wants simply coral, the delight of teething baby--stuff to bite! howe'er your choice fell, straight you took your purchase, prompt your money rang on counter--scarce the man forsook his study of the "times," just swang till-ward his hand that stopped the clang-- then off made buyer with a prize, then seller to his "times" returned; and so did day wear, wear, till eyes brightened apace, for rest was earned; he locked door long ere candle burned. and whither went he? ask himself, not me! to change of scene, i think. once sold the ware and pursed the pelf, chaffer was scarce his meat and drink, nor all his music--money-chink. because a man has shop to mind in time and place, since flesh must live, needs spirit lack all life behind, all stray thoughts, fancies fugitive, all loves except what trade can give? i want to know a butcher paints, a baker rhymes for his pursuit, candlestick-maker much acquaints his soul with song, or, haply mute, blows out his brains upon the flute! but--shop each day and all day long! friend, your good angel slept, your star suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong! from where these sorts of treasures are, there should our hearts be--christ, how far! hervÉ riel i on the sea and at the hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, did the english fight the french--woe to france! and, the thirty-first of may, helter-skelter through the blue, like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, came crowding ship on ship to saint malo on the rance, with the english fleet in view. ii 'twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; first and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, damfreville; close on him fled, great and small, twenty-two good ships in all; and they signaled to the place, "help the winners of a race! get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still, here's the english can and will!" iii then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they; "rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, shall the _formidable_ here, with her twelve and eighty guns, think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, trust to enter--where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, and with flow at full beside? now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. reach the mooring? rather say, while rock stands or water runs, not a ship will leave the bay!" iv then was called a council straight. brief and bitter the debate: "here's the english at our heels; would you have them take in tow all that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, for a prize to plymouth sound? better run the ships aground!" (ended damfreville his speech). "not a minute more to wait! let the captains all and each shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! france must undergo her fate. v "give the word!" but no such word was ever spoke or heard; for up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these --a captain? a lieutenant? a mate--first, second, third? no such man of mark, and meet with his betters to compete! but a simple breton sailor pressed by tourville for the fleet, a poor coasting-pilot he, hervé riel the croisickese. vi and "what mockery or malice have we here?" cries hervé riel; "are you mad, you malouins? are you cowards, fools, or rogues? talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell on my fingers every bank, every shallow, every smell 'twixt the offing here and grève where the river disembogues? are you bought by english gold? is it love the lying's for? morn and eve, night and day, have i piloted your bay, entered free and anchored fast at the foot of solidor. burn the fleet and ruin france? that were worse than fifty hogues! sirs, they know i speak the truth! sirs, believe me there's a way! only let me lead the line, have the biggest ship to steer, get this _formidable_ clear, make the others follow mine, and i lead them, most and least, by a passage i know well, right to solidor past grève, and there lay them safe and sound; and if one ship misbehave --keel so much as grate the ground, why, i've nothing but my life;--here's my head!" cries hervé riel. vii not a minute more to wait. "steer us in, then, small and great! take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. captains, give the sailor place! he is admiral, in brief. still the north-wind, by god's grace! see the noble fellow's face as the big ship, with a bound, clears the entry like a hound, keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! see, safe through shoal and rock, how they follow in a flock; not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, not a spar that comes to grief! the peril, see, is past. all are harbored to the last, and just as hervé riel hollas, "anchor!"--sure as fate up the english come--too late! viii so, the storm subsides to calm: they see the green trees wave on the heights o'erlooking grève. hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "just our rapture to enhance; let the english rake the bay, gnash their teeth, and glare askance as they cannonade away! 'neath rampired solidor pleasant riding on the rance!" how hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! out burst all with one accord, "this is paradise for hell! let france, let france's king thank the man that did the thing!" what a shout, and all one word, "hervé riel!" as he stepped in front once more, not a symptom of surprise in the frank blue breton eyes, just the same man as before. ix then said damfreville, "my friend, i must speak out at the end, though i find the speaking hard. praise is deeper than the lips; you have saved the king his ships, you must name your own reward. 'faith, our sun was near eclipse! demand whate'er you will, france remains your debtor still. ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not damfreville." x then a beam of fun outbroke on the bearded mouth that spoke, as the honest heart laughed through those frank eyes of breton blue: "since i needs must say my say, since on board the duty's done, and from malo roads to croisic point, what is it but a run?-- since 'tis ask and have, i may-- since the others go ashore-- come! a good whole holiday! leave to go and see my wife, whom i call the belle aurore!" that he asked and that he got--nothing more. xi name and deed alike are lost. not a pillar nor a post in his croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; not a head in white and black on a single fishing smack, in memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack all that france saved from the fight whence england bore the bell. go to paris: rank on rank search the heroes flung pell-mell on the louvre, face and flank! you shall look long enough ere you come to hervé riel. so, for better and for worse, hervé riel, accept my verse! in my verse, hervé riel, do thou once more save the squadron, honor france, love thy wife, the belle aurore! "good, to forgive" good, to forgive; best, to forget! living, we fret; dying, we live. fretless and free, soul, clap thy pinion! earth have dominion, body, o'er thee! wander at will, day after day-- wander away, wandering still-- soul that canst soar! body may slumber: body shall cumber soul-flight no more. waft of soul's wing! what lies above? sunshine and love, skyblue and spring! body hides--where? ferns of all feather, mosses and heather. yours be the care! "such a starved bank of moss" such a starved bank of moss till, that may-morn, blue ran the flash across: violets were born! sky--what a scowl of cloud till, near and far, ray on ray split the shroud: splendid, a star! world--how it walled about life with disgrace till god's own smile came out: that was thy face! epilogue to the two poets of croisic what a pretty tale you told me once upon a time --said you found it somewhere (scold me!) was it prose or was it rhyme, greek or latin? greek, you said, while your shoulder propped my head. anyhow there's no forgetting this much if no more, that a poet (pray, no petting!) yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, went where suchlike used to go, singing for a prize, you know. well, he had to sing, nor merely sing but play the lyre; playing was important clearly quite as singing--i desire, sir, you keep the fact in mind for a purpose that's behind. there stood he, while deep attention held the judges round, --judges able, i should mention, to detect the slightest sound sung or played amiss--such ears had old judges, it appears! none the less he sang out boldly, played in time and tune, till the judges, weighing coldly each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, sure to smile, "in vain one tries picking faults out; take the prize!" when, a mischief! were they seven strings the lyre possessed? oh, and afterwards eleven, thank you! well, sir--who had guessed such ill luck in store?--it happed one of those same seven strings snapped. all was lost, then! no! a cricket (what "cicada"? pooh!) --some mad thing that left its thicket for mere love of music--flew with its little heart on fire, lighted on the crippled lyre. so that when (ah, joy!) our singer for his truant string feels with disconcerted finger, what does cricket else but fling fiery heart forth, sound the note wanted by the throbbing throat? aye and, ever to the ending, cricket chirps at need, executes the hand's intending, promptly, perfectly--indeed saves the singer from defeat with her chirrup low and sweet. till, at ending, all the judges cry with one assent, "take the prize--a prize who grudges such a voice and instrument? why, we took your lyre for harp, so it shrilled us forth f sharp!" did the conqueror spurn the creature, once its service done? that's no such uncommon feature in the case when music's son finds his lotte's power too spent for aiding soul-development. no! this other, on returning homeward, prize in hand, satisfied his bosom's yearning (sir, i hope you understand!) --said, "some record there must be of this cricket's help to me!" so, he made himself a statue: marble stood, life-size; on the lyre he pointed at you perched his partner in the prize; never more apart you found her, he throned, from him, she crowned. that's the tale--its application? somebody i know hopes one day for reputation through his poetry that's--oh, all so learned and so wise and deserving of a prize! if he gains one, will some ticket, when his statue's built, tell the gazer, "'twas a cricket helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt sweet and low, when strength usurped softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? "for as victory was nighest, while i sang and played-- with my lyre at lowest, highest, right alike--one string that made 'love' sound soft was snapped in twain, never to be heard again-- "had not a kind cricket fluttered, perched upon the place vacant left, and duly uttered, 'love, love, love,' whene'er the bass asked the treble to atone for its somewhat somber drone." but you don't know music! wherefore keep on casting pearls to a--poet? all i care for is--to tell him that a girl's "love" comes aptly in when gruff grows his singing. (there, enough!) pheidippides [greek: chairete, nikômen.] first i salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock! gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honor to all! then i name thee, claim thee for our patron, coequal in praise --aye, with zeus the defender, with her of the ægis and spear! also ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer, now, henceforth and forever--o latest to whom i upraise hand and heart and voice! for athens, leave pasture and flock! present to help, potent to save, pan--patron i call! archons of athens, topped by the tettix, see, i return! see, 'tis myself here standing alive, no specter that speaks! crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, athens and you, "run, pheidippides, run and race, reach sparta for aid! persia has come, we are here, where is she?" your command i obeyed, ran and raced; like stubble, some field which a fire runs through, was the space between city and city. two days, two nights did i burn over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. into their midst i broke; breath served but for "persia has come! persia bids athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth; razed to the ground is eretria--but athens, shall athens sink, drop into dust and die--the flower of hellas utterly die, die, with the wide world spitting at sparta, the stupid, the stander-by? answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er destruction's brink? how--when? no care for my limbs!--there's lightning in all and some-- fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth!" o my athens--sparta love thee? did sparta respond? every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust, malice--each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate! gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. i stood quivering--the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry wood-- "persia has come, athens asks aid, and still they debate? thunder, thou zeus! athené, are spartans a quarry beyond swing of thy spear? phoibos and artemis, clang them 'ye must'!" no bolt launched from olumpos! lo, their answer at last! "has persia come--does athens ask aid--may sparta befriend? nowise precipitate judgment--too weighty the issue at stake! count we no time lost time which lags through respect to the gods! ponder that precept of old, 'no warfare, whatever the odds in your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to take full circle her state in the sky!' already she rounds to it fast: athens must wait, patient as we--who judgment suspend." athens--except for that sparkle--thy name, i had moldered to ash! that sent a blaze through my blood; off, off and away was i back, --not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile! yet "o gods of my land!" i cried, as each hillock and plain, wood and stream, i knew, i named, rushing past them again, "have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you erewhile? vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! too rash love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack! "oak and olive and bay--i bid you cease to enwreathe brows made bold by your leaf! fade at the persian's foot, you that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave! rather i hail thee, parnes--trust to thy wild waste tract! treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! what matter if slacked my speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave no deity deigns to drape with verdure? at least i can breathe, fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute!" such my cry as, rapid, i ran over parnes' ridge; gully and gap i clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. right! for i minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across: "where i could enter, there i depart by! night in the fosse? athens to aid? though the dive were through erebos, thus i obey-- out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! no bridge better!"--when--ha! what was it i came on, of wonders that are? there, in the cool of a cleft, sat he--majestical pan! ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof; all the great god was good in the eyes grave-kindly--the curl carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe, as, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand i saw. "halt, pheidippides!"--halt i did, my brain of a whirl. "hither to me! why pale in my presence?" he gracious began; "how is it--athens, only in hellas, holds me aloof? "athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast! wherefore? than i what godship to athens more helpful of old? aye, and still, and forever her friend! test pan, trust me! go, bid athens take heart, laugh persia to scorn, have faith in the temples and tombs! go, say to athens, 'the goat-god saith: when persia--so much as strews not the soil--is cast in the sea, then praise pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least, goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!' "say pan saith: 'let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!'" (gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage i bear --fennel--i grasped it a-tremble with dew--whatever it bode) "while, as for thee" ... but enough! he was gone. if i ran hitherto-- be sure that, the rest of my journey, i ran no longer, but flew. parnes to athens--earth no more, the air was my road; here am i back. praise pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge! pan for athens, pan for me! i too have a guerdon rare! * * * * * then spoke miltiades. "and thee, best runner of greece, whose limbs did duty indeed--what gift is promised thyself? tell it us straightway--athens the mother demands of her son!" rosily blushed the youth; he paused; but, lifting at length his eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strength into the utterance--"pan spoke thus: 'for what thou hast done count on a worthy reward! henceforth be allowed thee release from the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!' "i am bold to believe, pan means reward the most to my mind! fight i shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow-- pound--pan helping us--persia to dust, and, under the deep, whelm her away forever; and then--no athens to save-- marry a certain maid, i know keeps faith to the brave-- hie to my house and home; and, when my children shall creep close to my knees--recount how the god was awful yet kind, promised their sire reward to the full--rewarding him--so!" * * * * * unforeseeing one! yes, he fought on the marathon day; so, when persia was dust, all cried, "to akropolis! run, pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! 'athens is saved, thank pan,' go shout!" he flung down his shield, ran like fire once more; and the space 'twixt the fennel-field and athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, till in he broke: "rejoice, we conquer!" like wine through clay, joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died--the bliss! so, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute is still "rejoice!"--his word which brought rejoicing indeed. so is pheidippides happy forever--the noble strong man who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved so well; he saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, so to end gloriously--once to shout, thereafter be mute: "athens is saved!"--pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed. mulÉykeh if a stranger passed the tent of hóseyn, he cried, "a churl's!" or haply, "god help the man who has neither salt nor bread!" --"nay," would a friend exclaim, "he needs nor pity nor scorn more than who spends small thought on the shore-sand, picking pearls, --holds but in light esteem the seed-sort, bears instead on his breast a moon-like prize, some orb which of night makes morn. "what if no flocks and herds enrich the son of sinán? they went when his tribe was mulct, ten thousand camels the due, blood-value paid perforce for a murder done of old. 'god gave them, let them go! but never since time began, muléykeh, peerless mare, owned master the match of you, and you are my prize, my pearl; i laugh at men's land and gold!' "so in the pride of his soul laughs hóseyn--and right, i say. do the ten steeds run a race of glory? outstripping all, ever muléykeh stands first steed at the victor's staff. who started, the owner's hope, gets shamed and named, that day. 'silence,' or, last but one, is 'the cuffed,' as we use to call whom the paddock's lord thrusts forth. right, hóseyn, i say, to laugh!" "boasts he muléykeh the pearl?" the stranger replies: "be sure on him i waste nor scorn nor pity, but lavish both on duhl the son of sheybán, who withers away in heart for envy of hóseyn's luck. such sickness admits no cure. a certain poet has sung, and sealed the same with an oath, 'for the vulgar--flocks and herds! the pearl is a prize apart.'" lo, duhl the son of sheybán comes riding to hóseyn's tent, and he casts his saddle down, and enters and "peace!" bids he. "you are poor, i know the cause: my plenty shall mend the wrong. 'tis said of your pearl--the price of a hundred camels spent in her purchase were scarce ill paid; such prudence is far from me who proffer a thousand. speak! long parley may last too long." said hóseyn, "you feed young beasts a many, of famous breed, slit-eared, unblemished, fat, true offspring of múzennem: there stumbles no weak-eyed she in the line as it climbs the hill. but i love muléykeh's face; her forefront whitens indeed like a yellowish wave's cream-crest. your camels--go gaze on them! her fetlock is foam-splashed too. myself am the richer still." a year goes by; lo, back to the tent again rides duhl. "you are open-hearted, aye--moist-handed, a very prince. why should i speak of sale? be the mare your simple gift! my son is pined to death for her beauty; my wife prompts, 'fool, beg for his sake the pearl! be god the rewarder, since god pays debts seven for one; who squanders on him shows thrift.'" said hóseyn, "god gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives that lamp due measure of oil; lamp lighted--hold high, wave wide its comfort for others to share! once quench it, what help is left? the oil of your lamp is your son, i shine while muléykeh lives. would i beg your son to cheer my dark if muléykeh died? it is life against life--what good avails to the life-bereft?" another year, and--hist! what craft is it duhl designs? he alights not at the door of the tent as he did last time, but, creeping behind, he gropes his stealthy way by the trench half-round till he finds the flap in the folding, for night combines with the robber--and such is he: duhl, covetous up to crime, must wring from hóseyn's grasp the pearl, by whatever the wrench. "he was hunger-bitten, i heard; i tempted with half my store, and a gibe was all my thanks. is he generous like spring dew? account the fault to me who chaffered with such an one! he has killed, to feast chance comers, the creature he rode; nay, more-- for a couple of singing-girls his robe has he torn in two-- i will beg! yet i nowise gained by the tale of my wife and son. "i swear by the holy house, my head will i never wash till i filch his pearl away. fair dealing i tried, then guile, and now i resort to force. he said we must live or die; let him die, then--let me live! be bold--but not too rash! i have found me a peeping-place; breast, bury your breathing while i explore for myself! now, breathe! he deceived me not, the spy! "as he said--there lies in peace hóseyn--how happy! beside stands tethered the pearl; thrice winds her headstall about his wrist; 'tis therefore he sleeps so sound--the moon through the roof reveals. and, loose on his left, stands too that other, known far and wide, buhéyseh, her sister born; fleet is she yet ever missed the winning tail's fire-flash a-stream past the thunderous heels. "no less she stands saddled and bridled, this second, in case some thief should enter and seize and fly with the first, as i mean to do. what then? the pearl is the pearl--once mount her we both escape." through the skirt-fold in glides duhl--so a serpent disturbs no leaf in a bush as he parts the twigs entwining a nest; clean through, he is noiselessly at his work; as he planned, he performs the rape. he has set the tent-door wide, has buckled the girth, has clipped the headstall away from the wrist he leaves thrice bound as before, he springs on the pearl, is launched on the desert like bolt from bow. up starts our plundered man; from his breast though the heart be ripped, yet his mind has the mastery. behold, in a minute more, he is out and off and away on buhéyseh, whose worth we know! and hóseyn--his blood turns flame, he has learned long since to ride, and buhéyseh does her part--they gain--they are gaining fast on the fugitive pair, and duhl has ed-dárraj to cross and quit, and to reach the ridge el-sabán--no safety till that be spied! and buhéyseh is, bound by bound, but a horse-length off at last, for the pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of the bit. she shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and queer: buhéyseh is mad with hope--beat sister she shall and must, though duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank. she is near now, nose by tail--they are neck by croup--joy! fear! what folly makes hóseyn shout, "dog duhl, damned son of the dust, touch the right ear and press with your foot my pearl's left flank!" and duhl was wise at the word, and muléykeh as prompt perceived who was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey, and a leap indeed gave she, and evanished for evermore. and hóseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved, looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may; then he turned buhéyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping sore. and, lo, in the sunrise, still sat hóseyn upon the ground weeping; and neighbors came, the tribesmen of bénu-asád in the vale of green er-rass, and they questioned him of his grief; and he told from first to last how, serpent-like, duhl had wound his way to the nest, and how duhl rode like an ape, so bad! and how buhéyseh did wonders, yet pearl remained with the thief. and they jeered him, one and all: "poor hóseyn is crazed past hope! how else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune's spite? to have simply held the tongue were a task for boy or girl, and here were muléykeh again, the eyed like an antelope, the child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night!"-- "and the beaten in speed!" wept hóseyn. "you never have loved my pearl." wanting is--what? wanting is--what? summer redundant, blueness abundant, --where is the blot? beamy the world, yet a blank all the same --framework which waits for a picture to frame; what of the leafage, what of the flower? roses embowering with naught they embower! come then, complete incompletion, o comer, pant through the blueness, perfect the summer! breathe but one breath rose-beauty above, and all that was death grows life, grows love, grows love! never the time and the place never the time and the place and the loved one all together! this path--how soft to pace! this may--what magic weather! where is the loved one's face? in a dream that loved one's face meets mine, but the house is narrow, the place is bleak where, outside, rain and wind combine with a furtive ear, if i strive to speak, with a hostile eye at my flushing cheek, with a malice that marks each word, each sign! o enemy sly and serpentine, uncoil thee from the waking man! do i hold the past thus firm and fast yet doubt if the future hold i can? this path so soft to pace shall lead through the magic of may to herself indeed! or narrow if needs the house must be, outside are the storms and strangers; we-- oh, close, safe, warm sleep i and she --i and she! the patriot it was roses, roses, all the way, with myrtle mixed in my path like mad; the house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, the church-spires flamed, such flags they had, a year ago on this very day. the air broke into a mist with bells, the old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. had i said, "good folk, mere noise repels-- but give me your sun from yonder skies!" they had answered, "and afterward, what else?" alack, it was i who leaped at the sun to give it my loving friends to keep! naught man could do, have i left undone; and you see my harvest, what i reap this very day, now a year is run. there's nobody on the housetops now-- just a palsied few at the windows set; for the best of the sight is, all allow, at the shambles' gate--or, better yet, by the very scaffold's foot, i trow. i go in the rain, and, more than needs, a rope cuts both my wrists behind; and i think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, for they fling, whoever has a mind, stones at me for my year's misdeeds. thus i entered, and thus i go! in triumphs, people have dropped down dead. "paid by the world, what dost thou owe me?"--god might question; now instead, 'tis god shall repay; i am safer so. instans tyrannus i of the million or two, more or less, i rule and possess, one man, for some cause undefined, was least to my mind. ii i struck him; he groveled, of course-- for what was his force? i pinned him to earth with my weight and persistence of hate; and he lay, would not moan, would not curse, as his lot might be worse. iii "were the object less mean, would he stand at the swing of my hand! for obscurity helps him and blots the hole where he squats." so i set my five wits on the stretch to inveigle the wretch. all in vain! gold and jewels i threw; still he couched there perdue; i tempted his blood and his flesh, hid in roses my mesh, choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth; still he kept to his filth. iv had he kith now or kin, were access to his heart, did i press; just a son or a mother to seize! no such booty as these. were it simply a friend to pursue 'mid my million or two, who could pay me in person or pelf what he owes me himself! no; i could not but smile through my chafe; for the fellow lay safe as his mates do, the midge and the nit --through minuteness, to wit. v then a humor more great took its place at the thought of his face, the droop, the low cares of the mouth, the trouble uncouth 'twixt the brows, all that air one is fain to put out of its pain. and, "no!" i admonished myself, "is one mocked by an elf, is one baffled by toad or by rat? the gravamen's in that! how the lion, who crouches to suit his back to my foot, would admire that i stand in debate! but the small turns the great if it vexes you--that is the thing! toad or rat vex the king? though i waste half my realm to unearth toad or rat, 'tis well worth!" vi so i soberly laid my last plan to extinguish the man. round his creep-hole, with never a break, ran my fires for his sake; overhead, did my thunder combine with my underground mine: till i looked from my labor content to enjoy the event. vii when sudden ... how think ye, the end? did i say "without friend"? say, rather, from marge to blue marge the whole sky grew his targe with the sun's self for visible boss, while an arm ran across which the earth heaved beneath like a breast where the wretch was safe pressed! do you see? just my vengeance complete, the man sprang to his feet, stood erect, caught at god's skirts, and prayed! --so, _i_ was afraid! the italian in england that second time they hunted me from hill to plain, from shore to sea, and austria, hounding far and wide her bloodhounds through the countryside. breathed hot and instant on my trace-- i made six days a hiding-place of that dry green old aqueduct where i and charles, when boys, have plucked the fireflies from the roof above, bright creeping through the moss they love: --how long it seems since charles was lost! six days the soldiers crossed and crossed the country in my very sight; and when that peril ceased at night, the sky broke out in red dismay with signal fires; well, there i lay close covered o'er in my recess, up to the neck in ferns and cress, thinking of metternich our friend, and charles's miserable end, and much beside, two days; the third, hunger o'ercame me when i heard the peasants from the village go to work among the maize; you know, with us in lombardy, they bring provisions packed on mules, a string with little bells that cheer their task, and casks, and boughs on every cask to keep the sun's heat from the wine; these i let pass in jingling line, and, close on them, dear noisy crew, the peasants from the village, too; for at the very rear would troop their wives and sisters in a group to help, i knew. when these had passed, i threw my glove to strike the last, taking the chance; she did not start, much less cry out, but stooped apart, one instant rapidly glanced round, and saw me beckon from the ground; a wild bush grows and hides my crypt; she picked my glove up while she stripped a branch off, then rejoined the rest with that; my glove lay in her breast. then i drew breath; they disappeared; it was for italy i feared. an hour, and she returned alone exactly where my glove was thrown. meanwhile came many thoughts; on me rested the hopes of italy; i had devised a certain tale which, when 'twas told her, could not fail persuade a peasant of its truth; i meant to call a freak of youth this hiding, and give hopes of pay, and no temptation to betray. but when i saw that woman's face, its calm simplicity of grace, our italy's own attitude in which she walked thus far, and stood, planting each naked foot so firm, to crush the snake and spare the worm-- at first sight of her eyes, i said, "i am that man upon whose head they fix the price, because i hate the austrians over us; the state will give you gold--oh, gold so much!-- if you betray me to their clutch, and be your death, for aught i know, if once they find you saved their foe. now you must bring me food and drink, and also paper, pen, and ink, and carry safe what i shall write to padua, which you'll reach at night before the duomo shuts; go in, and wait till tenebræ begin; walk to the third confessional, between the pillar and the wall, and kneeling whisper, _whence comes peace?_ say it a second time, then cease; and if the voice inside returns, _from christ and freedom; what concerns_ _the cause of peace?_--for answer, slip my letter where you placed your lip; then come back happy we have done our mother service--i, the son, as you the daughter of our land!" three mornings more, she took her stand in the same place, with the same eyes; i was no surer of sunrise than of her coming. we conferred of her own prospects, and i heard she had a lover--stout and tall, she said--then let her eyelids fall, "he could do much"--as if some doubt entered her heart--then, passing out, "she could not speak for others, who had other thoughts; herself she knew"; and so she brought me drink and food. after four days the scouts pursued another path; at last arrived the help my paduan friends contrived to furnish me; she brought the news. for the first time i could not choose but kiss her hand, and lay my own upon her head--"this faith was shown to italy, our mother; she uses my hand and blesses thee." she followed down to the seashore; i left and never saw her more. how very long since i have thought concerning--much less wished for--aught beside the good of italy, for which i live and mean to die! i never was in love; and since charles proved false, what shall now convince my inmost heart i have a friend? however, if i pleased to spend real wishes on myself--say, three-- i know at least what one should be. i would grasp metternich until i felt his red wet throat distill in blood through these two hands. and next --nor much for that am i perplexed-- charles, perjured traitor, for his part, should die slow of a broken heart under his new employers. last --ah, there, what should i wish? for fast do i grow old and out of strength. if i resolved to seek at length my father's house again, how scared they all would look, and unprepared! my brothers live in austria's pay --disowned me long ago, men say; and all my early mates who used to praise me so--perhaps induced more than one early step of mine-- are turning wise; while some opine, "freedom grows license," some suspect, "haste breeds delay," and recollect they always said, such premature beginnings never could endure! so, with a sullen "all's for best," the land seems settling to its rest. i think then, i should wish to stand this evening in that dear, lost land, over the sea the thousand miles, and know if yet that woman smiles with the calm smile; some little farm she lives in there, no doubt; what harm if i sat on the door-side bench, and, while her spindle made a trench fantastically in the dust, inquired of all her fortunes--just her children's ages and their names, and what may be the husband's aims for each of them. i'd talk this out, and sit there, for an hour about, then kiss her hand once more, and lay mine on her head, and go my way. so much for idle wishing--how it steals the time! to business now. "round us the wild creatures" round us the wild creatures, overhead the trees, underfoot the moss-tracks--life and love with these! i to wear a fawn-skin, thou to dress in flowers; all the long lone summer day, that greenwood life of ours! rich-pavilioned, rather--still the world without-- inside--gold-roofed, silk-walled silence round about! queen it thou on purple--i, at watch and ward, couched beneath the columns, gaze, thy slave, love's guard! so, for us no world? let throngs press thee to me! up and down amid men, heart by heart fare we! welcome squalid vesture, harsh voice, hateful face! god is soul, souls i and thou; with souls should souls have place. prologue to asolando "the poet's age is sad: for why? in youth, the natural world could show no common object but his eye at once involved with alien glow-- his own soul's iris-bow. "and now a flower is just a flower; man, bird, beast are but beast, bird, man simply themselves, uncinct by dower of dyes which, when life's day began, round each in glory ran." friend, did you need an optic glass, which were your choice? a lens to drape in ruby, emerald, chrysopras, each object--or reveal its shape clear outlined, past escape, the naked very thing?--so clear that, when you had the chance to gaze, you found its inmost self appear through outer seeming--truth ablaze, not falsehood's fancy-haze? how many a year, my asolo, since--one step just from sea to land-- i found you, loved yet feared you so-- for natural objects seemed to stand palpably fire-clothed! no-- no mastery of mine o'er these! terror with beauty, like the bush burning but unconsumed. bend knees, drop eyes to earthward! language? tush! silence 'tis awe decrees. and now? the lambent flame is--where? lost from the naked world; earth, sky, hill, vale, tree, flower--italia's rare o'errunning beauty crowds the eye-- but flame? the bush is bare. hill, vale, tree, flower--they stand distinct, nature to know and name. what then? a voice spoke thence which straight unlinked fancy from fact; see, all's in ken: has once my eyelid winked? no, for the purged ear apprehends earth's import, not the eye late dazed. the voice said, "call my works thy friends! at nature dost thou shrink amazed? god is it who transcends." summum bonum all the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee; all the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem; in the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea; breath and bloom, shade and shine--wonder, wealth, and--how far above them-- truth, that's brighter than gem, trust, that's purer than pearl-- brightest truth, purest trust in the universe--all were for me in the kiss of one girl. epilogue to asolando at the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, when you set your fancies free, will they pass to where--by death, fools think, imprisoned-- low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, --pity me? oh, to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! what had i on earth to do with the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did i drivel --being--who? one who never turned his back, but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake. no, at noonday in the bustle of man's work time greet the unseen with a cheer! bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, "strive and thrive!" cry "speed--fight on, fare ever there as here!" pippa passes a drama _persons_ pippa. ottima. sebald. foreign students. gottlieb. schramm. jules. phene. austrian police. bluphocks. luigi and his mother. poor girls. monsignor and his attendants. introduction new year's day at asolo in the trevisan scene.--_a large, mean, airy chamber. a girl_, pippa, _from the silk-mills, springing out of bed_. day! faster and more fast, o'er night's brim, day boils at last; boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim where spurting and suppressed it lay, for not a froth-flake touched the rim of yonder gap in the solid gray of the eastern cloud, an hour away; but forth one wavelet, then another, curled, till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, rose, reddened, and its seething breast flickered in bounds, grew gold, than overflowed the world. oh, day, if i squander a wavelet of thee, a mite of my twelve hours' treasure, the least of thy gazes or glances (be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure), one of thy choices or one of thy chances, (be they tasks god imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure) --my day, if i squander such labor or leisure, then shame fall on asolo, mischief on me! thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing, whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good-- thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going, as if earth turned from work in gamesome mood-- all shall be mine! but thou must treat me not as prosperous ones are treated, those who live at hand here, and enjoy the higher lot, in readiness to take what thou wilt give, and free to let alone what thou refusest; for, day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest me, who am only pippa--old-year's sorrow, cast off last night, will come again tomorrow; whereas, if thou prove gentle, i shall borrow sufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow. all other men and women that this earth belongs to, who all days alike possess, make general plenty cure particular dearth, get more joy one way, if another, less; thou art my single day, god lends to leaven what were all earth else, with a feel of heaven-- sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's! try now! take asolo's four happiest ones-- and let thy morning rain on that superb great haughty ottima; can rain disturb her sebald's homage? all the while thy rain beats fiercest on her shrub-house windowpane, he will but press the closer, breathe more warm against her cheek; how should she mind the storm? and, morning past, if midday shed a gloom o'er jules and phene--what care bride and groom save for their dear selves? 'tis their marriage-day; and while they leave church and go home their way, hand clasping hand, within each breast would be sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee. then, for another trial, obscure thy eve with mist--will luigi and his mother grieve-- the lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth, she in her age, as luigi in his youth, for true content? the cheerful town, warm, close, and safe, the sooner that thou art morose, receives them. and yet once again, outbreak in storm at night on monsignor, they make such stir about--whom they expect from rome to visit asolo, his brothers' home, and say here masses proper to release a soul from pain--what storm dares hurt his peace? calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward thy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard. but pippa--just one such mischance would spoil her day that lightens the next twelve-month's toil at wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil! and here i let time slip for naught! aha, you foolhardy sunbeam, caught with a single splash from my ewer! you that would mock the best pursuer, was my basin over-deep? one splash of water ruins you asleep, and up, up, fleet your brilliant bits wheeling and counterwheeling, reeling, broken beyond healing-- now grow together on the ceiling! that will task your wits. whoever it was quenched fire first, hoped to see morsel after morsel flee as merrily, as giddily ... meantime, what lights my sunbeam on, where settles by degrees the radiant cripple? oh, is it surely blown, my martagon? new-blown and ruddy as st. agnes' nipple, plump as the flesh-bunch on some turk bird's poll! be sure if corals, branching 'neath the ripple of ocean, bud there, fairies watch unroll such turban-flowers; i say, such lamps disperse thick red flame through that dusk green universe! i am queen of thee, floweret! and each fleshy blossom preserve i not--safer than leaves that embower it, or shells that embosom-- from weevil and chafer? laugh through my pane then; solicit the bee; gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee, love thy queen, worship me! --worship whom else? for am i not, this day, whate'er i please? what shall i please today? my morn, noon, eve, and night--how spend my day? tomorrow i must be pippa who winds silk, the whole year round, to earn just bread and milk. but, this one day, i have leave to go, and play out my fancy's fullest games; i may fancy all day--and it shall be so-- that i taste of the pleasures, am called by the names of the happiest four in our asolo! see! up the hillside yonder, through the morning, someone shall love me, as the world calls love; i am no less than ottima, take warning! the gardens, and the great stone house above, and other house for shrubs, all glass in front, are mine; where sebald steals, as he is wont, to court me, while old luca yet reposes; and therefore, till the shrub-house door uncloses, i--what now?--give abundant cause for prate about me--ottima, i mean--of late, too bold, too confident she'll still face down the spitefullest of talkers in our town. how we talk in the little town below! but love, love, love--there's better love, i know! this foolish love was only day's first offer; i choose my next love to defy the scoffer; for do not our bride and bridegroom sally out of possagno church at noon? their house looks over orcana valley-- why should not i be the bride as soon as ottima? for i saw, beside, arrive last night that little bride-- saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash of the pale snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses, blacker than all except the black eyelash; i wonder she contrives those lids no dresses! so strict was she, the veil should cover close her pale pure cheeks--a bride to look at and scarce touch, scarce touch, remember, jules! for are not such used to be tended, flower-like, every feature, as if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature? a soft and easy life these ladies lead! whiteness in us were wonderful indeed. oh, save that brow its virgin dimness, keep that foot its lady primness, let those ankles never swerve from their exquisite reserve, yet have to trip along the streets like me, all but naked to the knee! how will she ever grant her jules a bliss so startling as her real first infant kiss? oh, no--not envy, this! --not envy, sure!--for if you gave me leave to take or to refuse, in earnest, do you think i'd choose that sort of new love to enslave me? mine should have lapped me round from the beginning; as little fear of losing it as winning; lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives, and only parents' love can last our lives. at eve the son and mother, gentle pair, commune inside our turret; what prevents my being luigi? while that mossy lair of lizards through the wintertime is stirred with each to each imparting sweet intents for this new-year, as brooding bird to bird (for i observe of late, the evening walk of luigi and his mother, always ends inside our ruined turret, where they talk, calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends), let me be cared about, kept out of harm, and schemed for, safe in love as with a charm; let me be luigi! if i only knew what was my mother's face--my father, too! nay, if you come to that, best love of all is god's; then why not have god's love befall myself as, in the palace by the dome, monsignor?--who tonight will bless the home of his dead brother; and god bless in turn that heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burn with love for all men! i tonight at least, would be that holy and beloved priest. now wait!--even i already seem to share in god's love: what does new-year's hymn declare? what other meaning do these verses bear? _all service ranks the same with god:_ _if now, as formerly he trod_ _paradise, his presence fills_ _our earth, each only as god wills_ _can work--god's puppets, best and worst,_ _are we; there is no last nor first._ _say not "a small event!" why "small"?_ _costs it more pain that this, ye call_ _a "great event," should come to pass,_ _than that? untwine me from the mass_ _of deeds which make up life, one deed_ _power shall fall short in or exceed!_ and more of it, and more of it!--oh yes-- i will pass each, and see their happiness, and envy none--being just as great, no doubt, useful to men, and dear to god, as they! a pretty thing to care about so mightily, this single holiday! but let the sun shine! wherefore repine? --with thee to lead me, o day of mine, down the grass path gray with dew, under the pine-wood, blind with boughs, where the swallow never flew nor yet cicala dared carouse-- no, dared carouse! [_she enters the street_ i. morning scene.--_up the hillside, inside the shrub-house._ luca's _wife,_ ottima, _and her paramour, the german_ sebald. _sebald_ [_sings_]. _let the watching lids wink! day's ablaze with eyes, think! deep into the night, drink!_ _ottima._ night? such may be your rhineland nights, perhaps; but this blood-red beam through the shutter's chink --we call such light the morning: let us see! mind how you grope your way, though! how these tall naked geraniums straggle! push the lattice behind that frame!--nay, do i bid you?--sebald, it shakes the dust down on me! why, of course the slide-bolt catches. well, are you content, or must i find you something else to spoil? kiss and be friends, my sebald! is 't full morning? oh, don't speak then! _sebald._ aye, thus it used to be. ever your house was, i remember, shut till midday; i observed that, as i strolled on mornings through the vale here; country girls were noisy, washing garments in the brook, hinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills; but no, your house was mute, would ope no eye. and wisely; you were plotting one thing there, nature, another outside. i looked up-- rough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars, silent as death, blind in a flood of light, oh, i remember!--and the peasants laughed and said, "the old man sleeps with the young wife." this house was his, this chair, this window--his! _ottima._ ah, the clear morning! i can see st. mark's; that black streak is the belfry. stop: vicenza should lie--there's padua, plain enough, that blue! look o'er my shoulder, follow my finger! _sebald._ morning? it seems to me a night with a sun added. where's dew, where's freshness? that bruised plant, i bruised in getting through the lattice yestereve, droops as it did. see, here's my elbow's mark i' the dust o' the sill. _ottima._ oh, shut the lattice, pray! _sebald._ let me lean out. i cannot scent blood here, foul as the morn may be. there, shut the world out! how do you feel now, ottima? there, curse the world and all outside! let us throw off this mask: how do you bear yourself? let's out with all of it. _ottima._ best never speak of it. _sebald._ best speak again and yet again of it. till words cease to be more than words. "his blood," for instance--let those two words mean "his blood" and nothing more. notice, i'll say them now, "his blood." _ottima._ assuredly if i repented the deed-- _sebald._ repent? who should repent, or why? what puts that in your head? did i once say that i repented? _ottima._ no; i said the deed-- _sebald._ "the deed" and "the event"--just now it was "our passion's fruit"--the devil take such cant! say, once and always, luca was a wittol, i am his cutthroat, you are-- _ottima._ here's the wine; i brought it when we left the house above, and glasses too--wine of both sorts. black? white then? _sebald._ but am not i his cutthroat? what are you? _ottima._ there trudges on his business from the duomo benet the capuchin, with his brown hood and bare feet; always in one place at church, close under the stone wall by the south entry. i used to take him for a brown cold piece of the wall's self, as out of it he rose to let me pass--at first, i say, i used-- now, so has that dumb figure fastened on me, i rather should account the plastered wall a piece of him, so chilly does it strike. this, sebald? _sebald._ no, the white wine--the white wine! well, ottima, i promised no new year should rise on us the ancient shameful way; nor does it rise. pour on! to your black eyes! do you remember last damned new year's day? _ottima._ you brought those foreign prints. we looked at them over the wine and fruit. i had to scheme to get him from the fire. nothing but saying his own set wants the proof-mark, roused him up to hunt them out. _sebald._ 'faith, he is not alive to fondle you before my face. _ottima._ do you fondle me then! who means to take your life for that, my sebald? _sebald._ hark you, ottima! one thing to guard against. we'll not make much one of the other--that is, not make more parade of warmth, childish officious coil, than yesterday--as if, sweet, i supposed proof upon proof were needed now, now first, to show i love you--yes, still love you--love you in spite of luca and what's come to him-- sure sign we had him ever in our thoughts, white sneering old reproachful face and all! we'll even quarrel, love, at times, as if we still could lose each other, were not tied by this--conceive you? _ottima._ love! _sebald._ not tied so sure! because though i was wrought upon, have struck his insolence back into him--am i so surely yours?--therefore forever yours? _ottima._ love, to be wise (one counsel pays another), should we have--months ago, when first we loved, for instance that may morning we two stole under the green ascent of sycamores--if we had come upon a thing like that suddenly-- _sebald._ "a thing"--there again--"a thing!" _ottima._ then, venus' body, had we come upon my husband luca gaddi's murdered corpse within there, at his couch-foot, covered close-- would you have pored upon it? why persist in poring now upon it? for 'tis here as much as there in the deserted house; you cannot rid your eyes of it. for me, now he is dead i hate him worse; i hate-- dare you stay here? i would go back and hold his two dead hands, and say, "i hate you worse, luca, than"-- _sebald._ off, off--take your hands off mine, 'tis the hot evening--off! oh, morning, is it? _ottima._ there's one thing must be done--you know what thing. come in and help to carry. we may sleep anywhere in the whole wide house tonight. _sebald._ what would come, think you, if we let him lie just as he is? let him lie there until the angels take him! he is turned by this off from his face beside, as you will see. _ottima._ this dusty pane might serve for looking-glass. three, four--four gray hairs! is it so you said a plait of hair should wave across my neck? no--this way. _sebald._ ottima, i would give your neck, each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours, that this were undone! killing! kill the world, so luca lives again!--aye, lives to sputter his fulsome dotage on you--yes, and feign surprise that i return at eve to sup, when all the morning i was loitering here-- bid me dispatch my business and begone. i would-- _ottima._ see! _sebald._ no, i'll finish. do you think i fear to speak the bare truth once for all? all we have talked of, is at bottom, fine to suffer; there's a recompense in guilt; one must be venturous and fortunate-- what is one young for, else? in age we'll sigh o'er the wild, reckless, wicked days flown over; still, we have lived; the vice was in its place. but to have eaten luca's bread, have worn his clothes, have felt his money swell my purse-- do lovers in romances sin that way? why, i was starving when i used to call and teach you music, starving while you plucked me these flowers to smell! _ottima._ my poor lost friend! _sebald._ he gave me life, nothing else; what if he did reproach my perfidy, and threaten, and do more-- had he no right? what was to wonder at? he sat by us at table quietly-- why must you lean across till our cheeks touched? could he do less than make pretense to strike? 'tis not the crime's sake--i'd commit ten crimes greater, to have this crime wiped out, undone! and you--oh, how feel you? feel you for me? _ottima._ well then, i love you better now than ever, and best (look at me while i speak to you)-- best for the crime; nor do i grieve, in truth, this mask, this simulated ignorance, this affectation of simplicity, falls off our crime; this naked crime of ours may not now be looked over--look it down! great? let it be great; but the joys it brought, pay they or no its price? come: they or it speak not! the past, would you give up the past such as it is, pleasure and crime together? give up that noon i owned my love for you? the garden's silence! even the single bee persisting in his toil, suddenly stopped, and where he hid you only could surmise by some campanula chalice set a-swing. who stammered--"yes, i love you?" _sebald._ and i drew back; put far back your face with both my hands lest you should grow too full of me--your face so seemed athirst for my whole soul and body! _ottima._ and when i ventured to receive you here, made you steal hither in the mornings-- _sebald._ when i used to look up 'neath the shrub-house here, till the red fire on its glazed windows spread to a yellow haze? _ottima._ ah--my sign was, the sun inflamed the sear side of yon chestnut-tree nipped by the first frost. _sebald._ you would always laugh at my wet boots: i had to stride through grass over my ankles. _ottima._ then our crowning night! _sebald._ the july night? _ottima._ the day of it too, sebald! when heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed with heat, its black-blue canopy suffered descend close on us both, to weigh down each to each, and smother up all life except our life. so lay we till the storm came. _sebald._ how it came! _ottima._ buried in woods we lay, you recollect; swift ran the searching tempest overhead; and ever and anon some bright white shaft burned through the pine-tree roof, here burned and there, as if god's messenger through the close wood screen plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture, feeling for guilty thee and me; then broke the thunder like a whole sea overhead-- * * * * * _sebald._ slower, ottima! do not lean on me! _ottima._ sebald, as we lay, who said, "let death come now! 'tis right to die! right to be punished! naught completes such bliss but woe!" who said that? _sebald._ how did we ever rise? was't that we slept? why did it end? _ottima._ i felt you taper into a point the ruffled ends of my loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips. my hair is fallen now: knot it again! _sebald._ i kiss you now, dear ottima, now and now! this way? will you forgive me--be once more my great queen? _ottima._ bind it thrice about my brow; crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress, magnificent in sin. say that! _sebald._ i crown you my great white queen, my spirit's arbitress, magnificent-- [_from without is heard the voice of_ pippa _singing_-- _the year's at the spring_ _and day's at the morn;_ _morning's at seven;_ _the hillside's dew-pearled;_ _the lark's on the wing;_ _the snail's on the thorn:_ _god's in his heaven--_ _all's right with the world!_ [pippa _passes_. _sebald._ god's in his heaven! do you hear that? who spoke? you, you spoke! _ottima._ oh--that little ragged girl! she must have rested on the step: we give them but this one holiday the whole year round. did you ever see our silk-mills--their inside? there are ten silk-mills now belong to you. she stoops to pick my double heartsease--sh! she does not hear: call you out louder! _sebald._ leave me! go, get your clothes on--dress, those shoulders! _ottima._ sebald? _sebald._ wipe off that paint! i hate you. _ottima._ miserable! _sebald._ my god, and she is emptied of it now! outright now!--how miraculously gone all of the grace--had she not strange grace once? why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes, no purpose holds the features up together, only the cloven brow and puckered chin stay in their places; and the very hair, that seemed to have a sort of life in it, drops, a dead web! _ottima._ speak to me--not of me. _sebald._ that round great full-orbed face, where not an angle broke the delicious indolence--all broken! _ottima._ to me--not of me! ungrateful, perjured cheat! a coward, too: but ingrate's worse than all! beggar--my slave--a fawning, cringing lie! leave me! betray me! i can see your drift! a lie that walks and eats and drinks! _sebald._ my god! those morbid, olive, faultless shoulder-blades-- i should have known there was no blood beneath! _ottima._ you hate me then? you hate me then? _sebald._ to think she would succeed in her absurd attempt, and fascinate by sinning, show herself superior--guilt from its excess superior to innocence! that little peasant's voice has righted all again. though i be lost, i know which is the better, never fear, of vice or virtue, purity or lust, nature or trick! i see what i have done, entirely now! oh, i am proud to feel such torments--let the world take credit thence-- i, having done my deed, pay too its price! i hate, hate--curse you! god's in his heaven! _ottima._ --me! me! no, no, sebald, not yourself--kill me! mine is the whole crime. do but kill me--then yourself--then--presently--first hear me speak i always meant to kill myself--wait, you! lean on my breast--not as a breast; don't love me the more because you lean on me, my own heart's sebald! there, there, both deaths presently! _sebald._ my brain is drowned now--quite drowned: all i feel is ... is, at swift-recurring intervals, a hurry-down within me, as of waters loosened to smother up some ghastly pit: there they go--whirls from a black, fiery sea! _ottima._ not me--to him, o god, be merciful! _talk by the way, while_ pippa _is passing from the hillside to orcana. foreign students of painting and sculpture, from venice, assembled opposite the house of_ jules, _a young french statuary, at possagno_. _ st student._ attention! my own post is beneath this window, but the pomegranate clump yonder will hide three or four of you with a little squeezing, and schramm and his pipe must lie flat in the balcony. four, five--who's a defaulter? we want everybody, for jules must not be suffered to hurt his bride when the jest's found out. _ nd student._ all here! only our poet's away--never having much meant to be present, moonstrike him! the airs of that fellow, that giovacchino! he was in violent love with himself, and had a fair prospect of thriving in his suit, so unmolested was it--when suddenly a woman falls in love with him, too; and out of pure jealousy he takes himself off to trieste, immortal poem and all--whereto is this prophetical epitaph appended already, as bluphocks assures me--"_here a mammoth-poem lies, fouled to death by butterflies._" his own fault, the simpleton! instead of cramp couplets, each like a knife in your entrails, he should write, says bluphocks, both classically and intelligibly.--_Æsculapius, an epic. catalogue of the drugs: hebe's plaister--one strip cools_ _your lip. phoebus's emulsion--one bottle clears your throttle. mercury's bolus--one box cures--_ _ rd student._ subside, my fine fellow! if the marriage was over by ten o'clock, jules will certainly be here in a minute with his bride. _ nd student._ good!--only, so should the poet's muse have been universally acceptable, says bluphocks, _et canibus nostris_--and delia not better known to our literary dogs than the boy giovacchino! _ st student._ to the point now. where's gottlieb, the new-comer? oh--listen, gottlieb, to what has called down this piece of friendly vengeance on jules, of which we now assemble to witness the winding-up. we are all agreed, all in a tale, observe, when jules shall burst out on us in a fury by and by: i am spokesman--the verses that are to undeceive jules bear my name of lutwyche--but each professes himself alike insulted by this strutting stone-squarer, who came alone from paris to munich, and thence with a crowd of us to venice and possagno here, but proceeds in a day or two alone again--oh, alone indubitably!--to rome and florence. he, forsooth, take up his portion with these dissolute, brutalized, heartless bunglers!--so he was heard to call us all: now, is schramm brutalized, i should like to know? am i heartless? _gottlieb._ why, somewhat heartless; for, suppose jules a coxcomb as much as you choose, still, for this mere coxcombry, you will have brushed off--what do folks style it?--the bloom of his life. is it too late to alter? these love-letters now, you call his--i can't laugh at them. _ th student._ because you never read the sham letters of our inditing which drew forth these. _gottlieb._ his discovery of the truth will be frightful. _ th student._ that's the joke. but you should have joined us at the beginning; there's no doubt he loves the girl--loves a model he might hire by the hour! _gottlieb._ see here! "he has been accustomed," he writes, "to have canova's women about him, in stone, and the world's women beside him, in flesh; these being as much below, as those above, his soul's aspiration; but now he is to have the reality." there you laugh again! i say, you wipe off the very dew of his youth. _ st student._ schramm! (take the pipe out of his mouth, somebody!) will jules lose the bloom of his youth? _schramm._ nothing worth keeping is ever lost in this world: look at a blossom--it drops presently, having done its service and lasted its time; but fruits succeed, and where would be the blossom's place could it continue? as well affirm that your eye is no longer in your body, because its earliest favorite, whatever it may have first loved to look on, is dead and done with--as that any affection is lost to the soul when its first object, whatever happened first to satisfy it, is superseded in due course. keep but ever looking, whether with the body's eye or the mind's, and you will soon find something to look on! has a man done wondering at women?--there follow men, dead and alive, to wonder at. has he done wondering at men?--there's god to wonder at; and the faculty of wonder may be, at the same time, old and tired enough with respect to its first object, and yet young and fresh sufficiently, so far as concerns its novel one. thus-- _ st student._ put schramm's pipe into his mouth again! there you see! well, this jules--a wretched fribble --oh, i watched his disportings at possagno, the other day! canova's gallery--you know: there he marches first resolvedly past great works by the dozen without vouchsafing an eye; all at once he stops full at the _psiche-fanciulla_--cannot pass that old acquaintance without a nod of encouragement--"in your new place, beauty? then behave yourself as well here as at munich--i see you!" next he posts himself deliberately before the unfinished _pietà_ for half an hour without moving, till up he starts of a sudden, and thrusts his very nose into--i say, into--the group; by which gesture you are informed that precisely the sole point he had not fully mastered in canova's practice was a certain method of using the drill in the articulation of the knee-joint--and that, likewise, has he mastered at length! good-by, therefore, to poor canova--whose gallery no longer needs detain his successor jules, the predestinated novel thinker in marble! _ th student._ tell him about the women; go on to the women! _ st student._ why, on that matter he could never be supercilious enough. how should we be other (he said) than the poor devils you see, with those debasing habits we cherish? he was not to wallow in that mire, at least; he would wait, and love only at the proper time, and meanwhile put up with the _psiche-fanciulla_. now, i happened to hear of a young greek--real greek girl at malamocco; a true islander, do you see, with alciphron's "hair like sea-moss"--schramm knows!--white and quiet as an apparition, and fourteen years old at farthest--a daughter of natalia, so she swears--that hag natalia, who helps us to models at three _lire_ an hour. we selected this girl for the heroine of our jest. so first, jules received a scented letter--somebody had seen his tydeus at the academy, and my picture was nothing to it: a profound admirer bade him persevere--would make herself known to him ere long. (paolina, my little friend of the _fenice_, transcribes divinely.) and in due time, the mysterious correspondent gave certain hints of her peculiar charms--the pale cheeks, the black hair--whatever, in short, had struck us in our malamocco model: we retained her name, too--phene, which is, by interpretation, sea-eagle. now, think of jules finding himself distinguished from the herd of us by such a creature! in his very first answer he proposed marrying his monitress: and fancy us over these letters, two, three times a day, to receive and dispatch! i concocted the main of it: relations were in the way--secrecy must be observed--in fine, would he wed her on trust, and only speak to her when they were indissolubly united? st--st--here they come! _ th student._ both of them! heaven's love, speak softly, speak within yourselves! _ th student._ look at the bridegroom! half his hair in storm and half in calm--patted down over the left temple--like a frothy cup one blows on to cool it! and the same old blouse that he murders the marble in! _ nd student._ not a rich vest like yours, hannibal scratchy!--rich, that your face may the better set it off. _ th student._ and the bride! yes, sure enough, our phene! should you have known her in her clothes? how magnificently pale! _gottlieb._ she does not also take it for earnest, i hope? _ st student._ oh, natalia's concern, that is! we settle with natalia. _ th student._ she does not speak--has evidently let out no word. the only thing is, will she equally remember the rest of her lesson, and repeat correctly all those verses which are to break the secret to jules? _gottlieb._ how he gazes on her! pity--pity! _ st student._ they go in; now, silence! you three--not nearer the window, mind, than that pomegranate--just where the little girl, who a few minutes ago passed us singing, is seated! ii.--noon scene--_over orcana. the house of_ jules, _who crosses its threshold with_ phene: _she is silent, on which_ jules _begins--_ do not die, phene! i am yours now, you are mine now; let fate reach me how she likes, if you'll not die: so, never die! sit here-- my workroom's single seat. i over-lean this length of hair and lustrous front; they turn like an entire flower upward: eyes, lips, last your chin--no, last your throat turns: 'tis their scent pulls down my face upon you. nay, look ever this one way till i change, grow you--i could change into you, beloved! you by me, and i by you; this is your hand in mine, and side by side we sit: all's true. thank god! i have spoken: speak you! o my life to come! my tydeus must be carved that's there in clay; yet how be carved, with you about the room? where must i place you? when i think that once this roomfull of rough block-work seemed my heaven without you! shall i ever work again, get fairly into my old ways again, bid each conception stand while, trait by trait, my hand transfers its lineaments to stone? will my mere fancies live near you, their truth-- the live truth, passing and repassing me, sitting beside me? now speak! only first, see, all your letters! was't not well contrived? their hiding-place is psyche's robe; she keeps your letters next her skin: which drops out foremost? ah--this that swam down like a first moonbeam into my world! again those eyes complete their melancholy survey, sweet and slow, of beauty--to the human archetype. on me, with pity, yet some wonder too: as if god bade some spirit plague a world, and this were the one moment of surprise and sorrow while she took her station, pausing o'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy! what gaze you at? those? books, i told you of; let your first word to me rejoice them, too: this minion, a coluthus, writ in red bister and azure by bessarion's scribe-- read this line--no, shame--homer's be the greek first breathed me from the lips of my greek girl! this odyssey in coarse black vivid type with faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page, to mark great places with due gratitude; _"he said, and on antinous directed_ _a bitter shaft"_--a flower blots out the rest! again upon your search? my statues, then! --ah, do not mind that--better that will look when cast in bronze--an almaign kaiser, that, swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip. this, rather, turn to! what, unrecognized? i thought you would have seen that here you sit as i imagined you--hippolyta, naked upon her bright numidian horse. recall you this, then? "carve in bold relief"-- so you commanded--"carve, against i come, a greek, in athens, as our fashion was, feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free, who rises 'neath the lifted myrtle-branch. 'praise those who slew hipparchus!' cry the guests, 'while o'er thy head the singer's myrtle waves as erst above our champion: stand up all!'" see, i have labored to express your thought. quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms, (thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides, only consenting at the branch's end they strain toward) serves for frame to a sole face, the praiser's, in the center: who with eyes sightless, so bend they back to light inside his brain where visionary forms throng up, sings, minding not that palpitating arch of hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wine from the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor crowns cast off, violet and parsley crowns to trample on-- sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve, devoutly their unconquerable hymn. but you must say a "well" to that--say "well!" because you gaze--am i fantastic, sweet? gaze like my very life's-stuff, marble--marbly even to the silence! why, before i found the real flesh phene, i inured myself to see, throughout all nature, varied stuff for better nature's birth by means of art: with me, each substance tended to one form of beauty--to the human archetype. on every side occurred suggestive germs of that--the tree, the flower--or take the fruit-- some rosy shape, continuing the peach, curved beewise o'er its bough; as rosy limbs, depending, nestled in the leaves; and just from a cleft rose-peach the whole dryad sprang. but of the stuffs one can be master of, how i divined their capabilities! from the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk that yields your outline to the air's embrace, half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom; down to the crisp imperious steel, so sure to cut its one confided thought clean out of all the world. but marble!--'neath my tools more pliable than jelly--as it were some clear primordial creature dug from depths in the earth's heart, where itself breeds itself, and whence all baser substance may be worked; refine it off to air, you may--condense it down to the diamond--is not metal there, when o'er the sudden speck my chisel trips? --not flesh, as flake off flake i scale, approach, lay bare those bluish veins of blood asleep? lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised by the swift implement sent home at once, flushes and glowings radiate and hover about its track? phene? what--why is this? that whitening cheek, those still dilating eyes! ah, you will die--i knew that you would die! phene _begins, on his having long remained silent._ now the end's coming; to be sure, it must have ended sometime! tush, why need i speak their foolish speech? i cannot bring to mind one half of it, beside; and do not care for old natalia now, nor any of them. oh, you--what are you?--if i do not try to say the words natalia made me learn; to please your friends--it is to keep myself where your voice lifted me, by letting that proceed; but can it? even you, perhaps, cannot take up, now you have once let fall, the music's life, and me along with that-- no, or you would! we'll stay, then, as we are-- above the world. you creature with the eyes! if i could look forever up to them, as now you let me--i believe all sin, all memory of wrong done, suffering borne, would drop down, low and lower, to the earth whence all that's low comes, and there touch and stay --never to overtake the rest of me, all that, unspotted, reaches up to you, drawn by those eyes! what rises is myself, not me the shame and suffering; but they sink, are left, i rise above them. keep me so, above the world! but you sink, for your eyes are altering--altered! stay--"i love you, love"-- i could prevent it if i understood: more of your words to me; was 't in the tone or the words, your power? or stay--i will repeat their speech, if that contents you! only change no more, and i shall find it presently far back here, in the brain yourself filled up. natalia threatened me that harm should follow unless i spoke their lesson to the end, but harm to me, i thought she meant, not you. your friends--natalia said they were your friends and meant you well--because, i doubted it, observing (what was very strange to see) on every face, so different in all else, the same smile girls like me are used to bear, but never men, men cannot stoop so low; yet your friends, speaking of you, used that smile, that hateful smirk of boundless self-conceit which seems to take possession of the world and make of god a tame confederate, purveyor to their appetites--you know! but still natalia said they were your friends, and they assented though they smiled the more, and all came round me--that thin englishman with light lank hair seemed leader of the rest; he held a paper--"what we want," said he, ending some explanation to his friends, "is something slow, involved, and mystical, to hold jules long in doubt, yet take his taste and lure him on until, at innermost where he seeks sweetness' soul, he may find--this! --as in the apple's core, the noisome fly; for insects on the rind are seen at once, and brushed aside as soon, but this is found only when on the lips or loathing tongue." and so he read what i have got by heart: i'll speak it--"do not die, love! i am yours"-- no--is not that, or like that, part of words yourself began by speaking? strange to lose what cost such pains to learn! is this more right? _i am a painter who cannot paint;_ _in my life, a devil rather than saint;_ _in my brain, as poor a creature too:_ _no end to all i cannot do!_ _yet do one thing at least i can--_ _love a man or hate a man_ _supremely: thus my lore began._ _through the valley of love i went,_ _in the lovingest spot to abide,_ _and just on the verge where i pitched my tent,_ _i found hate dwelling beside._ _(let the bridegroom ask what the painter meant,_ _of his bride, of the peerless bride!)_ _and further, i traversed hate's grove,_ _in the hatefullest nook to dwell;_ _but lo, where i flung myself prone, couched love_ _where the shadow threefold fell._ _(the meaning--those black bride's-eyes above,_ _not a painter's lip should tell!)_ "and here," said he, "jules probably will ask, 'you have black eyes, love--you are, sure enough, my peerless bride--then do you tell indeed what needs some explanation! what means this?'" --and i am to go on, without a word-- _so i grew wise in love and hate,_ _from simple that i was of late._ _once when i loved, i would enlace_ _breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form, and face_ _of her i loved, in one embrace--_ _as if by mere love i could love immensely!_ _once, when i hated, i would plunge_ _my sword, and wipe with the first lunge_ _my foe's whole life out like a sponge--_ _as if by mere hate i could hate intensely!_ _but now i am wiser, know better the fashion_ _how passion seeks aid from its opposite passion;_ _and if i see cause to love more, hate more_ _than ever man loved, ever hated before--_ _and seek in the valley of love,_ _the nest, or the nook in hate's grove,_ _where my soul may surely reach_ _the essence, naught less, of each,_ _the hate of all hates, the love_ _of all loves, in the valley or grove--_ _i find them the very warders_ _each of the other's borders._ _when i love most, love is disguised_ _in hate; and when hate is surprised_ _in love, then i hate most: ask_ _how love smiles through hate's iron casque,_ _hate grins through love's rose-braided mask--_ _and how, having hated thee,_ _i sought long and painfully_ _to reach thy heart, nor prick_ _the skin but pierce to the quick--_ _ask this, my jules, and be answered straight_ _by thy bride--how the painter lutwyche can hate!_ jules _interposes_ lutwyche! who else? but all of them, no doubt, hated me: they at venice--presently their turn, however! you i shall not meet: if i dreamed, saying this would wake me. keep what's here, the gold--we cannot meet again, consider! and the money was but meant for two years' travel, which is over now, all chance or hope or care or need of it. this--and what comes from selling these, my casts and books and medals, except--let them go together, so the produce keeps you safe out of natalia's clutches! if by chance (for all's chance here) i should survive the gang at venice, root out all fifteen of them, we might meet somewhere, since the world is wide. [_from without is heard the voice of_ pippa, _singing_-- _give her but a least excuse to love me!_ _when--where--_ _how--can this arm establish her above me,_ _if fortune fixed her as my lady there,_ _there already, to eternally reprove me?_ _("hist!"--said kate the queen;_ _but "oh!" cried the maiden, binding her tresses,_ _"'tis only a page that carols unseen,_ _crumbling your hounds their messes!")_ _is she wronged?--to the rescue of her honor,_ _my heart!_ _is she poor?--what costs it to be styled a donor?_ _merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part_. _but that fortune should have thrust all this upon her!_ _("nay, list!"--bade kate the queen;_ _and still cried the maiden, binding her tresses,_ _"'tis only a page that carols unseen_ _fitting your hawks their jesses!")_ [pippa _passes._ jules _resumes_ what name was that the little girl sang forth? kate? the cornaro, doubtless, who renounced the crown of cyprus to be lady here at asolo, where still her memory stays, and peasants sing how once a certain page pined for the grace of her so far above his power of doing good to, "kate the queen-- she never could be wronged, be poor," he sighed, "need him to help her!" yes, a bitter thing to see our lady above all need of us; yet so we look ere we will love; not i, but the world looks so. if whoever loves must be, in some sort, god or worshiper, the blessing or the blest-one, queen or page, why should we always choose the page's part? here is a woman with utter need of me-- i find myself queen here, it seems! how strange! look at the woman here with the new soul, like my own psyche--fresh upon her lips alit the visionary butterfly, waiting my word to enter and make bright, or flutter off and leave all blank as first. this body had no soul before, but slept or stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, free from taint or foul with stain, as outward things fastened their image on its passiveness; now, it will wake, feel, live--or die again! shall to produce form out of unshaped stuff be art--and further, to evoke a soul from form be nothing? this new soul is mine! now, to kill lutwyche, what would that do?--save a wretched dauber, men will hoot to death without me, from their hooting. oh, to hear god's voice plain as i heard it first, before they broke in with their laughter! i heard them henceforth, not god. to ancona--greece--some isle! i wanted silence only; there is clay everywhere. one may do whate'er one likes in art; the only thing is, to make sure that one does like it--which takes pains to know. scatter all this, my phene--this mad dream! who, what is lutwyche, what natalia's friends, what the whole world except our love--my own, own phene? but i told you, did i not, ere night we travel for your land--some isle with the sea's silence on it? stand aside-- i do but break these paltry models up to begin art afresh. meet lutwyche, i-- and save him from my statue meeting him? some unsuspected isle in the far seas! like a god going through his world, there stands one mountain for a moment in the dusk, whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow; and you are ever by me while i gaze --are in my arms as now--as now--as now! some unsuspected isle in the far seas! some unsuspected isle in far-off seas! _talk by the way, while_ pippa _is passing from orcana to the turret. two or three of the austrian police loitering with_ bluphocks, _an english vagabond, just in view of the turret._ _bluphocks._ so, that is your pippa, the little girl who passed us singing? well, your bishop's intendant's money shall be honestly earned:--now, don't make me that sour face because i bring the bishop's name into the business; we know he can have nothing to do with such horrors; we know that he is a saint and all that a bishop should be, who is a great man beside. _oh, were but every worm a maggot, every fly a grig, every bough a christmas faggot, every tune a jig!_ in fact, i have abjured all religions; but the last i inclined to was the armenian: for i have traveled, do you see, and at koenigsberg, prussia improper (so styled because there's a sort of bleak hungry sun there), you might remark over a venerable house-porch a certain chaldee inscription; and brief as it is, a mere glance at it used absolutely to change the mood of every bearded passenger. in they turned, one and all; the young and lightsome, with no irreverent pause, the aged and decrepit, with a sensible alacrity: 'twas the grand rabbi's abode, in short. struck with curiosity, i lost no time in learning syriac--(these are vowels, you dogs--follow my stick's end in the mud--_celarent, darii, ferio!_) and one morning presented myself, spelling-book in hand, a, b, c--i picked it out letter by letter, and what was the purport of this miraculous posy? some cherished legend of the past, you'll say--"_how moses hocus-pocussed_ _egypt's land with fly and locust_"--or, "_how to jonah sounded harshish, get thee up and go to tarshish_"--or, "_how the angel meeting balaam, straight his ass returned a salaam._" in no wise! "_shackabrack--boach--somebody or other--isaach, re-cei-ver, pur-cha-ser, and_ _ex-chan-ger of--stolen goods!_" so, talk to me of the religion of a bishop! i have renounced all bishops save bishop beveridge--mean to live so--and die--_as some greek dog-sage, dead and merry, hellward bound in charon's wherry with food for both worlds, under and_ _upper, lupine-seed and hecate's supper, and never an obolus._ (though thanks to you, or this intendant through you, or this bishop through his intendant--i possess a burning pocketful of _zwanzigers_) _to pay stygian ferry!_ _ st policeman._ there is the girl, then; go and deserve them the moment you have pointed out to us signor luigi and his mother. [_to the rest._] i have been noticing a house yonder, this long while--not a shutter unclosed since morning! _ nd policeman._ old luca gaddi's, that owns the silk-mills here: he dozes by the hour, wakes up, sighs deeply, says he should like to be prince metternich, and then dozes again, after having bidden young sebald, the foreigner, set his wife to playing draughts. never molest such a household; they mean well. _bluphocks._ only, cannot you tell me something of this little pippa i must have to do with? one could make something of that name. pippa--that is, short for felippa--rhyming to _panurge consults hertrippa--believest thou, king agrippa?_ something might be done with that name. _ nd policeman._ put into rhyme that your head and a ripe muskmelon would not be dear at half a _zwanziger_! leave this fooling, and look out; the afternoon 's over or nearly so. _ rd policeman._ where in this passport of signor luigi does our principal instruct you to watch him so narrowly? there? what's there beside a simple signature? (that english fool's busy watching.) _ nd policeman._ flourish all round--"put all possible obstacles in his way"; oblong dot at the end--"detain him till further advices reach you"; scratch at bottom--"send him back on pretense of some informality in the above"; ink-spirt on right-hand side (which is the case here)--"arrest him at once." why and wherefore, i don't concern myself, but my instructions amount to this: if signor luigi leaves home tonight for vienna--well and good, the passport deposed with us for our visa is really for his own use, they have misinformed the office, and he means well; but let him stay over tonight--there has been the pretense we suspect, the accounts of his corresponding and holding intelligence with the carbonari are correct, we arrest him at once, tomorrow comes venice, and presently spielberg. bluphocks makes the signal, sure enough! that is he, entering the turret with his mother, no doubt. iii.--evening scene.--_inside the turret on the hill above asolo._ luigi _and his_ mother _entering._ _mother._ if there blew wind, you'd hear a long sigh, easing the utmost heaviness of music's heart. _luigi._ here in the archway? _mother._ oh, no, no--in farther, where the echo is made, on the ridge. _luigi._ here surely, then. how plain the tap of my heel as i leaped up! hark--"lucius junius!" the very ghost of a voice whose body is caught and kept by--what are those? mere withered wall flowers, waving overhead? they seem an elvish group with thin bleached hair that lean out of their topmost fortress--look and listen, mountain men, to what we say, hand under chin of each grave earthy face. up and show faces all of you!--"all of you!" that's the king dwarf with the scarlet comb; old franz, come down and meet your fate? hark--"meet your fate!" _mother._ let him not meet it, my luigi--do not go to his city! putting crime aside, half of these ills of italy are feigned: your pellicos and writers for effect, write for effect. _luigi._ hush! say a writes, and b. _mother._ these a's and b's write for effect, i say. then, evil is in its nature loud, while good is silent; you hear each petty injury, none of his virtues; he is old beside, quiet and kind, and densely stupid. why do a and b not kill him themselves? _luigi._ they teach others to kill him--me--and, if i fail, others to succeed; now, if a tried and failed, i could not teach that: mine's the lesser task. mother, they visit night by night-- _mother._ --you, luigi? ah, will you let me tell you what you are? _luigi._ why not? oh, the one thing you fear to hint, you may assure yourself i say and say ever to myself! at times--nay, even as now we sit--i think my mind is touched, suspect all is not sound; but is not knowing that what constitutes one sane or otherwise? i know i am thus--so, all is right again. i laugh at myself as through the town i walk, and see men merry as if no italy were suffering; then i ponder--"i am rich, young, healthy; why should this fact trouble me, more than it troubles these?" but it does trouble. no, trouble's a bad word; for as i walk there's springing and melody and giddiness, and old quaint turns and passages of my youth, dreams long forgotten, little in themselves, return to me--whatever may amuse me, and earth seems in a truce with me, and heaven accords with me, all things suspend their strife, the very cicala laughs, "there goes he, and there! feast him, the time is short; he is on his way for the world's sake: feast him this once, our friend!" and in return for all this, i can trip cheerfully up the scaffold-steps. i go this evening, mother! _mother._ but mistrust yourself-- mistrust the judgment you pronounce on him! _luigi._ oh, there i feel--am sure that i am right! _mother._ mistrust your judgment, then, of the mere means to this wild enterprise. say you are right-- how should one in your state e'er bring to pass what would require a cool head, a cold heart, and a calm hand? you never will escape. _luigi._ escape? to even wish that would spoil all. the dying is best part of it. too much have i enjoyed these fifteen years of mine, to leave myself excuse for longer life: was not life pressed down, running o'er with joy, that i might finish with it ere my fellows who, sparelier feasted, make a longer stay? i was put at the board-head, helped to all at first; i rise up happy and content. god must be glad one loves his world so much. i can give news of earth to all the dead who ask me:--last year's sunsets, and great stars which had a right to come first and see ebb the crimson wave that drifts the sun away-- those crescent moons with notched and burning rims that strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood, impatient of the azure--and that day in march, a double rainbow stopped the storm-- may's warm, slow, yellow moonlit summer nights-- gone are they, but i have them in my soul! _mother._ (he will not go!) _luigi._ you smile at me? 'tis true-- voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastliness, environ my devotedness as quaintly as round about some antique altar wreathe the rose festoons, goats' horns, and oxen's skulls. _mother._ see now: you reach the city, you must cross his threshold--how? _luigi._ oh, that's if we conspired! then would come pains in plenty, as you guess-- but guess not how the qualities most fit for such an office, qualities i have, would little stead me, otherwise employed, yet prove of rarest merit only here. everyone knows for what his excellence will serve, but no one ever will consider for what his worst defect might serve; and yet have you not seen me range our coppice yonder in search of a distorted ash?--i find the wry spoilt branch a natural perfect bow. fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precautioned man arriving at the palace on my errand! no, no! i have a handsome dress packed up-- white satin here, to set off my black hair; in i shall march--for you may watch your life out behind thick walls, make friends there to betray you; more than one man spoils everything. march straight-- only, no clumsy knife to fumble for. take the great gate, and walk (not saunter) on through guards and guards--i have rehearsed it all inside the turret here a hundred times don't ask the way of whom you meet, observe! but where they cluster thickliest is the door of doors; they'll let you pass--they'll never blab each to the other, he knows not the favorite, whence he is bound and what's his business now. walk in--straight up to him; you have no knife: be prompt, how should he scream? then, out with you! italy, italy, my italy! you're free, you're free! oh, mother, i could dream they got about me--andrea from his exile, pier from his dungeon, gualtier from his grave! _mother._ well, you shall go. yet seems this patriotism the easiest virtue for a selfish man to acquire: he loves himself--and next, the world-- if he must love beyond--but naught between: as a short-sighted man sees naught midway his body and the sun above. but you are my adored luigi, ever obedient to my least wish, and running o'er with love; i could not call you cruel or unkind. once more, your ground for killing him!--then go! _luigi._ now do you try me, or make sport of me? how first the austrians got these provinces-- (if that is all, i'll satisfy you soon) --never by conquest but by cunning, for that treaty whereby-- _mother._ well? _luigi._ (sure, he's arrived, the telltale cuckoo; spring's his confidant, and he lets out her april purposes!) or--better go at once to modern time, he has--they have--in fact, i understand but can't restate the matter; that's my boast: others could reason it out to you, and prove things they have made me feel. _mother._ why go tonight? morn's for adventure. jupiter is now a morning-star. i cannot hear you, luigi! _luigi._ "i am the bright and morning-star," saith god-- and, "to such an one i give the morning-star." the gift of the morning-star! have i god's gift of the morning-star? _mother._ chiara will love to see that jupiter an evening-star next june. _luigi._ true, mother. well for those who live through june! great noontides, thunder-storms, all glaring pomps that triumph at the heels of june the god leading his revel through our leafy world. yes, chiara will be here. _mother._ in june: remember, yourself appointed that month for her coming. _luigi._ was that low noise the echo? _mother._ the night-wind. she must be grown--with her blue eyes upturned as if life were one long and sweet surprise: in june she comes. _luigi._ we were to see together the titian at treviso. there, again! [_from without is heard the voice of_ pippa, _singing_-- _a king lived long ago,_ _in the morning of the world,_ _when earth was nigher heaven than now._ _and the king's locks curled,_ _disparting o'er a forehead full_ _as the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn_ _of some sacrificial bull--_ _only calm as a babe new-born:_ _for he was got to a sleepy mood,_ _so safe from all decrepitude,_ _age with its bane, so sure gone by,_ _(the gods so loved him while he dreamed)_ _that, having lived thus long, there seemed_ _no need the king should ever die._ _luigi._ no need that sort of king should ever die! _among the rocks his city was:_ _before his palace, in the sun,_ _he sat to see his people pass,_ _and judge them every one_ _from its threshold of smooth stone._ _they haled him many a valley-thief_ _caught in the sheep-pens, robber-chief_ _swarthy and shameless, beggar-cheat,_ _spy-prowler, or rough pirate found_ _on the sea-sand left aground;_ _and sometimes clung about his feet,_ _with bleeding lid and burning cheek,_ _a woman, bitterest wrong to speak_ _of one with sullen thickset brows:_ _and sometimes from the prison-house_ _the angry priests a pale wretch brought,_ _who through some chink had pushed and pressed_ _on knees and elbows, belly and breast,_ _worm-like into the temple--caught_ _he was by the very god,_ _whoever in the darkness strode_ _backward and forward, keeping watch_ _o'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to catch!_ _these, all and everyone,_ _the king judged, sitting in the sun._ _luigi._ that king should still judge sitting in the sun! _his councilors, on left and right,_ _looked anxious up--but no surprise_ _disturbed the king's old smiling eyes,_ _where the very blue had turned to white._ _'tis said, a python scared one day_ _the breathless city, till he came,_ _with forky tongue and eyes on flame,_ _where the old king sat to judge alway;_ _but when he saw the sweepy hair_ _girt with a crown of berries rare_ _which the god will hardly give to wear_ _to the maiden who singeth, dancing bare_ _in the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights,_ _at his wondrous forest rites--_ _seeing this, he did not dare_ _approach that threshold in the sun,_ _assault the old king smiling there._ _such grace had kings when the world begun!_ [pippa _passes_. _luigi._ and such grace have they, now that the world ends! the python at the city, on the throne, and brave men, god would crown for slaying him, lurk in by-corners lest they fall his prey. are crowns yet to be won in this late time, which weakness makes me hesitate to reach? tis god's voice calls; how could i stay? farewell! _talk by the way, while_ pippa _is passing from the turret to the bishop's brother's house, close to the duomo s. maria. poor_ girls _sitting on the steps._ _ st girl._ there goes a swallow to venice--the stout seafarer! seeing those birds fly makes one wish for wings. let us all wish; you wish first! _ nd girl._ i? this sunset to finish. _ rd girl._ that old--somebody i know, grayer and older than my grandfather, to give me the same treat he gave last week-- feeding me on his knee with fig-peckers, lampreys and red breganze-wine, and mumbling the while some folly about how well i fare, let sit and eat my supper quietly: since had he not himself been late this morning, detained at--never mind where--had he not-- "eh, baggage, had i not!"-- _ nd girl._ how she can lie! _ rd girl._ look there--by the nails! _ nd girl._ what makes your fingers red? _ rd girl._ dipping them into wine to write bad words with on the bright table: how he laughed! _ st girl._ my turn. spring's come and summer's coming. i would wear a long loose gown, down to the feet and hands, with plaits here, close about the throat, all day; and all night lie, the cool long nights, in bed; and have new milk to drink, apples to eat, deuzans and junetings, leather-coats--ah, i should say, this is away in the fields--miles! _ rd girl._ say at once you'd be at home--she'd always be at home! now comes the story of the farm among the cherry orchards, and how april snowed white blossoms on her as she ran. why, fool, they've rubbed the chalk-mark out, how tall you were, twisted your starling's neck, broken his cage, made a dunghill of your garden! _ st girl._ they destroy my garden since i left them? well--perhaps i would have done so--so i hope they have! a fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall; they called it mine, i have forgotten why, it must have been there long ere i was born: _cric_--_cric_--i think i hear the wasps o'erhead pricking the papers strung to flutter there and keep off birds in fruit-time--coarse long papers, and the wasps eat them, prick them through and through. _ rd girl._ how her mouth twitches! where was i?--before she broke in with her wishes and long gowns and wasps--would i be such a fool!--oh, here! this is my way: i answer everyone who asks me why i make so much of him-- (if you say, "you love him"--straight "he'll not be gulled!") "he that seduced me when i was a girl thus high--had eyes like yours, or hair like yours, brown, red, white"--as the case may be; that pleases! see how that beetle burnishes in the path! there sparkles he along the dust; and, there-- your journey to that maize-tuft spoiled at least! _ st girl._ when i was young, they said if you killed one of those sunshiny beetles, that his friend up there would shine no more that day nor next. _ nd girl._ when you were young? nor are you young, that's true. how your plump arms, that were, have dropped away! why, i can span them. cecco beats you still? no matter, so you keep your curious hair. i wish they'd find a way to dye our hair your color--any lighter tint, indeed, than black--the men say they are sick of black, black eyes, black hair! _ th girl._ sick of yours, like enough. do you pretend you ever tasted lampreys and ortolans? giovita, of the palace, engaged (but there 's no trusting him) to slice me polenta with a knife that had cut up an ortolan. _ nd girl._ why, there! is not that pippa we are to talk to, under the window--quick!-- where the lights are? _ st girl._ that she? no, or she would sing, for the intendant said-- _ rd girl._ oh, you sing first! then, if she listens and comes close--i'll tell you-- sing that song the young english noble made, who took you for the purest of the pure, and meant to leave the world for you--what fun! _ nd girl_ [_sings_]. _you'll love me yet!--and i can tarry_ _your love's protracted growing:_ _june reared that bunch of flowers you carry,_ _from seeds of april's sowing._ _i plant a heartful now: some seed_ _at least is sure to strike_ _and yield--what you'll not pluck indeed,_ _not love, but, may be, like._ _you'll look at least on love's remains,_ _a grave's one violet:_ _your look?--that pays a thousand pains._ _what's death? you'll love me yet!_ _ rd girl_ [_to_ pippa, _who approaches._] oh, you may come closer--we shall not eat you! why, you seem the very person that the great rich handsome englishman has fallen so violently in love with. i'll tell you all about it. iv.--night scene.--_inside the palace by the duomo._ monsignor, _dismissing his_ attendants. _monsignor._ thanks, friends, many thanks! i chiefly desire life now, that i may recompense every one of you. most i know something of already. what, a repast prepared? _benedicto benedicatur_--ugh, ugh! where was i? oh, as you were remarking, ugo, the weather is mild, very unlike winter weather; but i am a sicilian, you know, and shiver in your julys here. to be sure, when 'twas full summer at messina, as we priests used to cross in procession the great square on assumption day, you might see our thickest yellow tapers twist suddenly in two, each like a falling star, or sink down on themselves in a gore of wax. but go, my friends, but go! [_to the_ intendant.] not you, ugo! [_the others leave the apartment._] i have long wanted to converse with you, ugo. _intendant._ uguccio-- _monsignor._ ... 'guccio stefani, man! of ascoli, fermo and fossombruno--what i do need instructing about are these accounts of your administration of my poor brother's affairs. ugh! i shall never get through a third part of your accounts; take some of these dainties before we attempt it, however. are you bashful to that degree? for me, a crust and water suffice. _intendant._ do you choose this especial night to question me? _monsignor._ this night, ugo. you have managed my late brother's affairs since the death of our elder brother --fourteen years and a month, all but three days. on the third of december, i find him-- _intendant._ if you have so intimate an acquaintance with your brother's affairs, you will be tender of turning so far back: they will hardly bear looking into, so far back. _monsignor._ aye, aye, ugh, ugh--nothing but disappointments here below! i remark a considerable payment made to yourself on this third of december. talk of disappointments! there was a young fellow here, jules, a foreign sculptor i did my utmost to advance, that the church might be a gainer by us both; he was going on hopefully enough, and of a sudden he notifies to me some marvelous change that has happened in his notions of art. here's his letter: "he never had a clearly conceived ideal within his brain till today. yet since his hand could manage a chisel, he has practiced expressing other men's ideals; and, in the very perfection he has attained to, he foresees an ultimate failure: his unconscious hand will pursue its prescribed course of old years, and will reproduce with a fatal expertness the ancient types, let the novel one appear never so palpably to his spirit. there is but one method of escape: confiding the virgin type to as chaste a hand, he will turn painter instead of sculptor, and paint, not carve, its characteristics"--strike out, i dare say, a school like correggio: how think you, ugo? _intendant._ is correggio a painter? _monsignor._ foolish jules! and yet, after all, why foolish? he may--probably will--fail egregiously; but if there should arise a new painter, will it not be in some such way, by a poet now, or a musician (spirits who have conceived and perfected an ideal through some other channel), transferring it to this, and escaping our conventional roads by pure ignorance of them; eh, ugo? if you have no appetite, talk at least, ugo! _intendant._ sir, i can submit no longer to this course of yours. first, you select the group of which i formed one--next you thin it gradually--always retaining me with your smile--and so do you proceed till you have fairly got me alone with you between four stone walls. and now then? let this farce, this chatter, end now; what is it you want with me? _monsignor._ ugo! _intendant._ from the instant you arrived, i felt your smile on me as you questioned me about this and the other article in those papers--why your brother should have given me this villa, that _podere_--and your nod at the end meant--what? _monsignor._ possibly that i wished for no loud talk here. if once you set me coughing, ugo!-- _intendant._ i have your brother's hand and seal to all i possess: now ask me what for! what service i did him--ask me! _monsignor._ i would better not: i should rip up old disgraces, let out my poor brother's weaknesses. by the way, maffeo of forli (which, i forgot to observe, is your true name), was the interdict ever taken off you, for robbing that church at cesena? _intendant._ no, nor needs be; for when i murdered your brother's friend, pasquale, for him-- _monsignor._ ah, he employed you in that business, did he? well, i must let you keep, as you say, this villa and that _podere_, for fear the world should find out my relations were of so indifferent a stamp? maffeo, my family is the oldest in messina, and century after century have my progenitors gone on polluting themselves with every wickedness under heaven: my own father--rest his soul!--i have, i know, a chapel to support that it may rest; my dear two dead brothers were--what you know tolerably well; i, the youngest, might have rivaled them in vice, if not in wealth: but from my boyhood i came out from among them, and so am not partaker of their plagues. my glory springs from another source; or if from this, by contrast only--for i, the bishop, am the brother of your employers, ugo. i hope to repair some of their wrong, however; so far as my brother's ill-gotten treasure reverts to me, i can stop the consequences of his crime--and not one _soldo_ shall escape me. maffeo, the sword we quiet men spurn away, you shrewd knaves pick up and commit murders with; what opportunities the virtuous forego, the villainous seize. because, to pleasure myself, apart from other considerations, my food would be millet-cake, my dress sackcloth, and my couch straw--am i therefore to let you, the offscouring of the earth, seduce the poor and ignorant by appropriating a pomp these will be sure to think lessens the abominations so unaccountably and exclusively associated with it? must i let villas and _poderi_ go to you, a murderer and thief, that you may beget by means of them other murderers and thieves? no--if my cough would but allow me to speak! _intendant._ what am i to expect? you are going to punish me? _monsignor._ must punish you, maffeo. i cannot afford to cast away a chance. i have whole centuries of sin to redeem, and only a month or two of life to do it in. how should i dare to say-- _intendant._ "forgive us our trespasses"? _monsignor._ my friend, it is because i avow myself a very worm, sinful beyond measure, that i reject a line of conduct you would applaud perhaps. shall i proceed, as it were, a-pardoning?--i?--who have no symptom of reason to assume that aught less than my strenuousest efforts will keep myself out of mortal sin, much less keep others out. no: i do trespass, but will not double that by allowing you to trespass. _intendant._ and suppose the villas are not your brother's to give, nor yours to take? oh, you are hasty enough just now! _monsignor._ , --no. !--aye, can you read the substance of a letter, no. , i have received from rome? it is precisely on the ground there mentioned, of the suspicion i have that a certain child of my late elder brother, who would have succeeded to his estates, was murdered in infancy by you, maffeo, at the instigation of my late younger brother--that the pontiff enjoins on me not merely the bringing that maffeo to condign punishment, but the taking all pains, as guardian of the infant's heritage for the church, to recover it parcel by parcel, howsoever, whensoever, and wheresoever. while you are now gnawing those fingers, the police are engaged in sealing up your papers, maffeo, and the mere raising my voice brings my people from the next room to dispose of yourself. but i want you to confess quietly, and save me raising my voice. why, man, do i not know the old story? the heir between the succeeding heir, and this heir's ruffianly instrument, and their complot's effect, and the life of fear and bribes and ominous smiling silence? did you throttle or stab my brother's infant? come now! _intendant._ so old a story, and tell it no better? when did such an instrument ever produce such an effect? either the child smiles in his face, or, most likely, he is not fool enough to put himself in the employer's power so thoroughly; the child is always ready to produce--as you say--howsoever, wheresoever, and whensoever. _monsignor._ liar! _intendant._ strike me? ah, so might a father chastise! i shall sleep soundly tonight at least, though the gallows await me tomorrow; for what a life did i lead! carlo of cesena reminds me of his connivance, every time i pay his annuity; which happens commonly thrice a year. if i remonstrate, he will confess all to the good bishop--you! _monsignor._ i see through the trick, caitiff! i would you spoke truth for once. all shall be sifted, however--seven times sifted. _intendant._ and how my absurd riches encumbered me! i dared not lay claim to above half my possessions. let me but once unbosom myself, glorify heaven, and die! sir, you are no brutal, dastardly idiot like your brother i frightened to death: let us understand one another. sir, i will make away with her for you--the girl--here close at hand; not the stupid obvious kind of killing; do not speak--know nothing of her nor of me! i see her every day--saw her this morning. of course there is to be no killing; but at rome the courtesans perish off every three years, and i can entice her thither--have indeed begun operations already. there's a certain lusty, blue-eyed, florid-complexioned english knave i and the police employ occasionally. you assent, i perceive--no, that's not it--assent i do not say--but you will let me convert my present havings and holdings into cash, and give me time to cross the alps? tis but a little black-eyed, pretty singing felippa, gay, silk-winding girl. i have kept her out of harm's way up to this present; for i always intended to make your life a plague to you with her. 'tis as well settled once and forever. some women i have procured will pass bluphocks, my handsome scoundrel, off for somebody; and once pippa entangled!--you conceive? through her singing? is it a bargain? [_from without is heard the voice of_ pippa, _singing._ _overhead the tree-tops meet,_ _flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet;_ _there was naught above me, naught below,_ _my childhood had not learned to know:_ _for, what are the voices of birds_ _--aye, and of beasts--but words, our words,_ _only so much more sweet?_ _the knowledge of that with my life begun._ _but i had so near made out the sun,_ _and counted your stars, the seven and one;_ _like the fingers of my hand:_ _nay, i could all but understand_ _wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges;_ _and just when out of her soft fifty changes_ _no unfamiliar face might overlook me--_ _suddenly god took me._ [pippa _passes._ _monsignor_ [_springing up_]. my people--one and all--all-within there! gag this villain--tie him hand and foot! he dares--i know not half he dares--but remove him--quick! _miserere mei, domine!_ quick, i say! scene.--pippa's _chamber again. she enters it._ the bee with his comb, the mouse at her dray, the grub in his tomb, while winter away; but the firefly and hedge-shrew and lobworm, i pray, how fare they? ha, ha, thanks for your counsel, my zanze! "feast upon lampreys, quaff breganze"-- the summer of life so easy to spend, and care for tomorrow so soon put away! but winter hastens at summer's end, and firefly, hedge-shrew, lobworm, pray, how fare they? no bidding me then to--what did zanze say? "pare your nails pearlwise, get your small feet shoes more like"--what said she?--"and less like canoes!" how pert that girl was!--would i be those pert, impudent, staring women! it had done me, however, surely no such mighty hurt to learn his name who passed that jest upon me: no foreigner, that i can recollect, came, as she says, a month since, to inspect our silk-mills--none with blue eyes and thick rings of raw-silk-colored hair, at all events. well, if old luca keep his good intents, we shall do better, see what next year brings! i may buy shoes, my zanze, not appear more destitute than you perhaps next year! bluph--something! i had caught the uncouth name but for monsignor's people's sudden clatter above us--bound to spoil such idle chatter as ours; it were indeed a serious matter if silly talk like ours should put to shame the pious man, the man devoid of blame, the--ah, but--ah, but, all the same, no mere mortal has a right to carry that exalted air; best people are not angels quite: while--not the worst of people's doings scare the devil; so there's that proud look to spare! which is mere counsel to myself, mind! for i have just been the holy monsignor: and i was you too, luigi's gentle mother, and you too, luigi!--how that luigi started out of the turret--doubtlessly departed on some good errand or another, for he passed just now in a traveler's trim, and the sullen company that prowled about his path, i noticed, scowled as if they had lost a prey in him. and i was jules the sculptor's bride, and i was ottima beside, and now what am i?--tired of fooling. day for folly, night for schooling! new year's day is over and spent, ill or well, i must be content. even my lily's asleep, i vow: wake up--here's a friend i've plucked you! call this flower a heart's-ease now! something rare, let me instruct you, is this, with petals triply swollen, three times spotted, thrice the pollen; while the leaves and parts that witness old proportions and their fitness, here remain unchanged, unmoved now; call this pampered thing improved now! suppose there's a king of the flowers and a girl-show held in his bowers-- "look ye, buds, this growth of ours," says he, "zanze from the brenta, i have made her gorge polenta till both cheeks are near as bouncing as her--name there's no pronouncing! see this heightened color too, for she swilled breganze wine till her nose turned deep carmine; 'twas but white when wild she grew. and only by this zanze's eyes of which we could not change the size, the magnitude of all achieved otherwise, may be perceived." oh, what a drear, dark close to my poor day! how could that red sun drop in that black cloud? ah, pippa, morning's rule is moved away, dispensed with, never more to be allowed! day's turn is over, now arrives the night's. o lark, be day's apostle to mavis, merle, and throstle, bid them their betters jostle from day and its delights! but at night, brother owlet; over the woods, toll the world to thy chantry; sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoods full complines with gallantry: then, owls and bats, cowls and twats, monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods, adjourn to the oak-stump pantry! [_after she has began to undress herself._ now, one thing i should like to really know: how near i ever might approach all these i only fancied being, this long day-- approach, i mean, so as to touch them, so as to--in some way ... move them--if you please, do good or evil to them some slight way. for instance, if i wind silk tomorrow, my silk may bind [_sitting on the bedside._ and border ottima's cloak's hem. ah me, and my important part with them, this morning's hymn half promised when i rose! true in some sense or other, i suppose. [_as she lies down._ god bless me! i can pray no more tonight. no doubt, some way or other, hymns say right. _all service ranks the same with god--_ _with god, whose puppets, best and worst,_ _are we; there is no last nor first._ [_she sleeps._ notes songs from paracelsus the poem _paracelsus_ is divided into five parts, each of which describes an important period in the experience of paracelsus, the celebrated german-swiss physician, alchemist, and philosopher of the sixteenth century. book i tells of the eagerness and pride with which he set out in his youth to compass all knowledge; he believed himself commissioned of god to learn truth and to give it to mankind. books ii and iii show him followed and idolized by multitudes to whom he imparts the fragments of knowledge he has gained. but though these fragments seem to his disciples the sum and substance of wisdom, his own mind is preoccupied with a desolating certainty that he has hardly touched on the outer confines of truth. in book iv, after experiencing the ingratitude of his fickle adherents, he is represented as abjuring the dreams of his youth. at this point comes the first of the three songs given in the text. he builds an imaginary altar on which he offers up the aspirations, the hopes, the plans, with which he had begun his career. song i - . _cassia_ is an unidentified fragrant plant; the wood of the _sandal_ tree is also fragrant; _labdanum_ or _ladanum_, is a resinous gum of dark color and pungent odor, exuding from various species of the cistus, a plant found around the mediterranean; _aloe-balls_ are made from a bitter resinous juice extracted from the leaves of aloe-plants; _nard_ is an ointment made from an aromatic plant and used in the east indies. these substances have long been traditionally associated in literature. in _psalms_ xlv, we read: "all thy garments smell of myrrh, and aloes, and cassia, out of the ivory palaces, whereby they have made thee glad." milton in _paradise lost_, v, , speaks of "flowering odors, cassia, nard, and balms." . _such balsam_. the meaning of ii. - is obscure. "sea-side mountain pedestals" are presumably cliffs. in the tops of the trees on these cliffs the wind, weary of its rough work on the ocean, has gently dropped the fragrant things it has swept up from the island. - . in this stanza the faint sweetness from the spices used in embalming, and the perfume still clinging to the tapestry in an ancient royal room carry suggestions of vanished power and beauty that add an appropriate pathos to the richly piled altar on which paracelsus is to offer up the "lovely fancies" of his youth. "shredded" is a transferred epithet, referring really to "arras," but transferred to the perfume of the arras. song ii. (book iv) when paracelsus confesses the failure of his pursuit of absolute knowledge, his friend festus urges him to redeem the past by making new use of what he has gained; but paracelsus has no courage to attempt a reorganization of his life in accordance with a new ideal. his answer to festus is the second of the three songs. he afterwards calls it, "the sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung to their first fault and withered in their pride." the song is a beautiful and clear allegory, vivid in its pictures, rapid and musical. song iii. (book v) in book v paracelsus is described as lying ill in the hospital of st. sebastian. festus is endeavoring to divert the current of his dying friend's fierce, delirious thoughts into a gentler channel. he brings up one picture after another of the early happy life of paracelsus, and dwells on the grandeur of his mind and achievements, and on the fame that shall be his. but the desired peace comes only when festus sings the song of the river mayne beside which their youth had been spent. at the end of the song paracelsus exclaims, "my heart! they loose my heart, those simple words; its darkness passes which naught else could touch." the mayne, or main, is the most important of the right-hand tributaries of the rhine. wurzburg, where festus and paracelsus had been as students, is on its banks. its university was especially noted for its medical department. mr. stopford brooke (_the poetry of robert browning_, p. ) says of this lovely lyric: "i have driven through that gracious country of low hill and dale and wide water-meadows, where under flowered banks only a foot high the slow river winds in gentleness; and this poem is steeped in the sentiment of the scenery. but, as before, browning quickly slides away from the beauty of inanimate nature into a record of the animals that haunt the streams. he could not get on long with mountains and rivers alone. he must people them with breathing, feeling things; anything for life!" cavalier tunes these three, stirring songs represent the gay, reckless loyalty of the cavaliers to the cause of king charles i and their contempt for his puritan opposers. the puritans wore closely cropped hair; hence the parliament which came together in and was controlled by the opponents of the king, is dubbed "crop-headed." john pym and john hampden were leaders in the struggle against the tyranny of the king. hazelrig, fiennes, and young sir henry vane were also adherents of oliver cromwell. rupert, prince of the palatinate, was a nephew of charles i and was a noted cavalry leader on the royal side during the civil war. the followers of the king unfurled the royal standard at nottingham in august, ; kentish sir byng raised a troop and hurried on to join the main royal army. in september occurred the battle of edgehill. the "noll" (l. of "give a rouse") is oliver cromwell. the third song was entitled originally "my wife gertrude." it was she who held the castle of brancepeth against the roundheads. the lost leader this poem indignantly records a poet's defection from the cause of progress and liberty. who this poet might be was for some time a matter of conjecture. wordsworth, southey, and charles kingsley, all of whom had gone from radicalism in their youth to conservatism in their old age, were severally proposed as the original of browning's portrait. the poem was published in , two years after wordsworth was made poet laureate. early in wordsworth was presented at court, a proceeding which aroused comment--sometimes amused, sometimes indignant--from those who recalled the poet's early scorn of rank and titles. browning and miss barrett exchanged several gay letters on this subject in may, . in commenting on a letter from miss martineau describing wordsworth in his home in , browning wrote, "did not shelley say long ago, 'he had no more imagination than a pint-pot'--though in those days he used to walk about france and flanders like a man. _now_, he is 'most comfortable in his worldly affairs' and just this comes of it! he lives the best twenty years of his life after the way of his own heart--and when one presses in to see the result of his rare experiment--what the _one_ alchemist whom fortune has allowed to get all his coveted materials and set to work at last with fire and melting pot--what he produces after all the talk of him and the like of him; why, you get _pulvis et cinis_--a man at the mercy of the tongs and shovel." in later life, however, browning spoke of wordsworth in a different tone. in a letter to mr. grosart, written feb. , , he said, "i have been asked the question you now address me with, and as duly answered, i can't remember how many times. there is no sort of objection to one more assurance, or rather confession, on my part, that i _did_ in my hasty youth presume to use the great and venerated personality of wordsworth as a sort of painter's model; one from which this or the other particular feature may be selected and turned to account. had i intended more--above all such a boldness as portraying the entire man--i should not have talked about 'handfuls of silver and bits of ribbon.' these never influenced the change of politics in the great poet--whose defection, nevertheless, accompanied as it was by a regular face-about of his special party, was, to my private apprehension, and even mature consideration, an event to deplore. but, just as in the tapestry on my wall i can recognize figures which have _struck out_ a fancy, on occasion, that though truly enough thus derived, yet would be preposterous as a copy; so, though i dare not deny the original of my little poem, i altogether refuse to have it considered as the 'very effigies' of such a moral and intellectual superiority." for an interesting parallelism in theme, see whittier's "ichabod." . _whom._ the reference is to the lower classes, whom the liberals were endeavoring to rouse to aspiration and action. the conservatives opposed such beginnings of independence. . _best fight on well._ it is the deserting leader who is exhorted to fight well. though it is pain to have him desert their party, they have gloried in his power and it would be an even greater pain to see him weak. they wish him to fight well even though their cause is thereby menaced. how they brought the good news from ghent to aix this poem was written during mr. browning's first journey to italy, in . he sailed from london in a merchant vessel bound for trieste, on which he found himself the only passenger. the weather was stormy and for the first fortnight browning was extremely ill. as they passed through the straights of gibraltar the captain supported him upon deck that he might not lose the sight. of the composition of the poem he says, "i wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel off the african coast, after i had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse 'york' there in my stable at home." the poem was written in pencil on the flyleaf of bartoli's _simboli_, a favorite book of his. browning says that there was no sort of historical foundation for the story, but the pacification of ghent in has been suggested as an appropriate background. the incident narrated could naturally belong to the efforts of the united cities of holland, zealand, and the southern netherlands to combat the tyranny of philip ii. . of this line miss barrett wrote: "it drew us out into the night as witnesses." . _'twas moonset._ the distance from ghent to aix is something over a hundred miles. the first horse gave out at hasselt, about eighty miles from ghent; the second horse failed at dalhem in sight of aix. roland made the whole distance between midnight of one day and sunset of the next. the minute notes of time are for dramatic and picturesque effect rather than as exact indications of progress. even the towns are not used with the exactness of a guide-book, for looz and tongres are off the direct route. . _mecheln._ flemish for mechlin. the chimes they heard were probably from the cathedral tower. . _dome-spire._ over the polygonal monument founded by charlemagne in aix-la-chapelle is a dome feet high and feet in diameter. the reference is probably to this dome. the flower's name this poem and "sibrandus schafnaburgensis," a companion poem, appeared in _hood's magazine_, july, , under the title of "garden fancies." "the flower's name" is a description of a garden by a lover whose conception of its beauty is heightened and made vital by the memories it enshrines. of this poem miss barrett wrote to browning, "then the 'garden fancies'--some of the stanzas about the name of the flower, with such exquisite music in them, and grace of every kind--and with that beautiful and musical use of the word 'meandering,' which i never remember having seen used in relation to sound before. it does to mate with your '_simmering_ quiet' in _sordello_, which brings the summer air into the room as sure as you read it." (_letters of r. b. and e. b. b._, i, .) . _box._ an evergreen shrub, dwarf varieties of which are used for low hedges or the borders of flower-beds. meeting at night and parting at morning these poems were published originally simply as "night" and "morning." the second of these love lyrics is somewhat difficult to interpret. if the man is speaking, the "him" in l. must refer to the sun. in any case, after the isolation with the woman he loved as described in the first poem, there comes with the morning a sense of the world of action to which the man must return. the two poems are fully discussed in _poet-lore_, volume vii, april, may, june-july. the poems are noteworthy for the fusion of human emotion and natural scenery and for the startlingly specific phrasing of the first quatrain. evelyn hope in this lyric are embodied browning's faith in personal immortality, his belief in the permanence of true love and in the value of love though unrequited in this world. . _what meant._ from this point on through line the lover repeats what he shall say to evelyn hope when in the life to come he claims her. love among the ruins a man is on his way across the fields to a turret where he is to meet the girl he loves. as he walks through the solitary pastures he mentally recreates the powerful life and varied interests of the city which, tradition has it, once occupied this site, and he seems to be absorbed in a melancholy recognition of the evanescence of human glory. the girl is not mentioned till stanza . does the emphasis on the scenery and its historic associations unduly minimize the love element of the poem? or is the whole picture of vanished joy and woe, pride and defeat, but a background against which stands out more clearly the rapture of the meeting in the ruined turret? . _earth's returns._ this phrase refers to the ruins which are all that now remains of the centuries of folly, noise, and sin. "them" in l. refers apparently to the "fighters" and the others of the first part of the stanza. up at a villa--down in the city "it is an admirable piece of work crowded with keen descriptions of nature in the casentino, and of life in the streets of florence. and every piece of description is so filled with the character of the 'italian person of quality' who describes them--a petulant, humorous, easily angered, happy, observant, ignorant, poor gentleman--that browning entirely disappears. the poem retains for us in its verse, and indeed in its light rhythm, the childlikeness, the naïveté, the simple pleasures, the ignorance and the honest boredom with the solitudes of nature--of a whole class of italians, not only of the time when it was written, but of the present day. it is a delightful, inventive piece of gay and pictorial humor." (stopford brooke, _the poetry of browning_, p. .) . _corn._ in great britain the word is generally applied to wheat, rye, oats, and barley, not to maize as in america. . _stinking hemp._ in chapter i of james lane allen's _the reign of law_ is the following passage on the odor of the hemp-field: "and now borne far through the steaming air floats an odor, balsamic, startling: the odor of those plumes and stalks and blossoms from which is exuding freely the narcotic resin of the great nettle." when the long swaths of cut hemp lies across the field, the smell is represented as strongest, "impregnating the clothing of the men, spreading far throughout the air." to many this odor is essentially unpleasant. . _pulcinello-trumpet._ pulcinello was originally the clown in the neapolitan comedy. later he became the punch in punch and judy shows. the trumpet announces that one of these puppet plays is to be given in the public square. . _scene-picture._ a picture advertising the new play. . _liberal thieves._ members of the liberal party, the party striving for italian independence. the person of quality is, of course, of the aristocratic party. . _a sonnet._ laudatory poetical tributes with ornamental borders were posted in public places as a method of doing homage. in this case the unknown "reverend don so-and-so" is ranked by his admirer with dante, boccaccio, and petrarch, the greatest italian poets; with st. jerome, one of the most celebrated fathers of the latin church; with cicero, one of the greatest of roman orators; and with st. paul, the greatest of christian preachers. . _our lady._ the seven swords represent symbolically the seven sorrows of the virgin mary, but this person of quality regards the gilt swords and the smart pink gowns merely as gay decorations. religious processions of the sort described here and in lines - are frequent in european countries. . _it's dear._ according to the system of taxation in italy, town dues must be paid on all provisions brought into the city. . _yellow candles._ used at funerals and in penitential processions in the roman church. a toccata of galuppi's mrs. ireland says of this poem: "the toccata as a form of composition is not the measured, deliberate working-out of some central musical theme as is the sonata or _sound_-piece. the _toccata_, in its early and pure form, possessed no decided subject, made such by repetition, but bore rather the form of a capricious improvisation, or 'impromptu.'" ("a toccata of galuppi's" by mrs. alexander ireland, published in _london browning society papers_.) . _galuppi._ baldassare galuppi ( - ) was an italian composer born near venice. he spent many years in england and russia. in he became organist at st. mark's, venice. . _your old music._ at the sound of the music browning imaginatively re-creates the venetian social life of the eighteenth century. . _st. mark's._ the great cathedral. the doge of venice used to throw a ring into the sea from the ship _bucentaur_ to "denote that the adriatic was subject to the republic of venice as a wife is subject to her husband." . _shylock's bridge._ the rialto, a bridge over the grand canal. it has two rows of shops under arcades. . _clavichord._ an instrument with keys and strings, something like a piano. - . the musical terms in these lines show browning's knowledge of the technicalities of the art. to one without such expert knowledge the exact musical connotation is doubtless obscure. but the epithets and phrases are in themselves sufficient to suggest the varying moods of the venetian merrymakers. the plaintiveness, the sighs, the sense of death, the trembling hope that life may last, the renewed love-making, the new round of futile pleasures or evil deeds, the end of it all in the grave, are clearly brought forth. an elaborate explanation of the musical terms is given in the notes to the camberwell edition of browning's poems. . _but when i sit down to reason._ the first thirty lines of the poem have recorded the effect of the music in re-creating in the poet's imagination the gay, careless life of eighteenth century venice, and its close in death. now when the poet endeavors to turn from that picture of death lurking under smiles, he finds that the cold music has filled his mind with an inescapable sense of the futility of life, and even his own chosen mental activities seem to him, along with the rest, hardly more than dust and ashes. ambition and enthusiasm fade before the spell of the music. old pictures in florence . _aloed arch._ the genus aloe includes trees, shrubs, and herbs. the american variety is the century-plant. browning's hill-side villa evidently had aloes trained to grow in an arch. . _the startling bell-tower giotto raised._ giotto began the campanile in , and after his death in the work was continued by andrea pisano. its striking beauty impresses the poet as he looks out over the city. but it does more than that, for it rouses in him reflections on the progress and meaning of art. - . the address to giotto, thrown in here as it is with conversational freedom, is partially explained in lines - . see note on l. . . _by a gift god grants me._ the power to re-create vividly and minutely the past. the artists of bygone centuries are called back by his imagination to their old haunts in florence. . _stands one._ the "one" (l. ), "a lion" (l. ), "the wronged great soul" (l. ), and "the wronged great souls" (l. ), all refer to the unappreciated early artists. . _they._ that is, the famous great artists such as michael angelo and raphael. critics "hum and buzz" around them with praise to which they are indifferent. . _where their work is all to do._ their place in the development of art is not yet understood. it must be made clear, browning thinks, that painters like leonardo da vinci ( - ) come in natural succession from earlier obscure artists like dello, that art is a real and continuous record of the human mind and heart. . _the mastiff girns._ when some influential critic snarls, all the imitative inferior critics take the same tone. cf. shelley's "adonais," stanzas , , . . _stefano._ a pupil of giotto and called "nature's ape" because his accurate representations of the human body. . _vasari._ author of _lives of the most eminent painters and sculptors_. (published . translated by mrs. foster in _bohn's library_.) in his studies of art browning made constant use of this book. . _sic transit. sic transit gloria mundi._ "so passes away the glory of the world." . _in fructu._ "as fruit." the fruit of greek art at its best was that it presented in marble ideally perfect human bodies. . _theseus._ the kingly statue of the reclining theseus in the frieze of the parthenon. . _son of priam._ in the sculptures of Æsina, paris, the son of priam, kneeling and drawing his bow, has a grace beyond that of any man who might think to pose as a model. . _apollo._ at delphi apollo slew an enormous python. . _niobe._ through the vengeance of apollo and diana, niobe's seven sons and seven daughters were all slain. in the imperial gallery of florence there is a statue of niobe clasping her last child. . _the racer's frieze._ in the parthenon. . _the dying alexander._ a piece of ancient greek sculpture at florence. . _to submit is a mortal's duty._ the supreme beauty of the statues led men to content themselves with admiration and imitation. . _growth came._ new life came to art when men ceased to rest in the perfect achievement of the past, and found a new realm opened up to them in representing the subtler activities of the soul. lines - state the ideals that actuated the new art. the reference is to the religious art of the italian renaissance. - . these lines sum up the reasons for the importance of the art that strives "to bring the invisible full into play" (l. ). it may be rough-hewn and faulty; but it is greater and grander than greek art because of its greater range, variety, and complexity, and because it reaches beyond any possible present perfection into eternity. . _thy one work ... done at a stroke._ giotto when asked for a proof of his skill to send to the pope, drew with one stroke of his brush a perfect circle, whence the proverb, "rounder than the o of giotto." . _quiddit._ quibble. the humorous rhyme "did it--quiddit" is but one of the many whimsical rhyming effects in the poem. the use of a light, semi-jocose form to give the greater emphasis to serious subject-matter is characteristic of browning. lowell in "a fable for critics" employs the same device. - . not browning's usual attitude. even this poem is a deification of progress through effort, not through repose. . _art's spring-birth._ nicolo the pisan and cimabue lived in the second half of the thirteenth century. from them to ghiberti ( - ), who made the famous bronze doors of the baptistry at florence, and ghirlandajo ( - ), a florentine fresco painter, was a period in which browning was especially interested. mrs. orr says that he owned pictures by all the artists mentioned here. . _italian quicklime._ many of the fine old italian fresco paintings have been whitewashed over. . _dree._ the pictures "endure" the doom of captivity. but they might be ferreted out if the ghosts of the old painters would only indicate where the lost works are. - . he does not hope to get pictures of the famous florentine painters, bigordi (probably another name for ghirlandajo), sandro, botticelli, lippino (son of fra lippo lippi), or fra angelico. but he might hope for better success in finding pieces by the obscure painters mentioned in lines - . these painters are so described that we know concerning each one, some characteristic quality or work. . _intonaco._ the plaster that forms the ground for fresco work. . _tempera._ a pigment mixed with some vehicle soluble in water instead of with oil as in oil paintings. . _barret._ a kind of cap. . _zeno._ the founder of the sect of stoics, and hence supposedly not stirred by "naked high art." . _some clay-cold vile carlino._ commercial dealers in art are unmoved by true beauty, but they go into ecstasies over uninspired work like that of carlino. (carlo dólci, - .) . _a certain precious little tablet._ mr. browning wrote to professor corson that this was a lost "last supper" praised by vasari. the stanza in which this line occurs explains ll. - . . _buonarroti._ michael angelo. . _san spirito_, etc. "holy spirit" and "all saints," old churches in florence. . _detur amanti._ "let it be given to the one who loves it." . _koh-i-noor._ a famous indian diamond presented to queen victoria in . . _jewel of giamschid._ the splendid fabulous ruby of sultan giamschid, sometimes called "the cup of the sun" and "the torch of night." byron ("the giaour") says that the dark eyes of leila were "bright as the jewel of giamschid." the carbuncle of giamschid is one of the treasures sought by the caliph in beckford's _caliph vathek_. . _the persian sofi._ the sufi or sofi is a title or surname of the shah of persia. . _a certain dotard_, etc. radetsky ( - ) was in - governor of the austrian possessions in upper italy. "the worse side of the mont st. gothard" is the swiss side. "morello" is a mountain near florence. there had been frequent insurrections against austria, but they had been fruitless. browning prophesies the time when there shall be a great national council (a witanagemot) by which, when freedom has been restored to florence, a new and vigorous art shall be brought in. it will then be perceived that a monarchy nourishes the false and monstrous in art, and that "pure art" must come from the people. . _the stone of dante._ the stone where dante used to draw his chair out to sit. for this and other references in stanza xxxiv see mrs. browning's "casa guidi windows," part i. in this poem she suggests "a parliament of the lovers of italy." . _quod videas ante_--"which you may have seen before." . _hated house._ the poet hates the rule of the house of lorraine, and prefers the days of the painter orgagna, in the fourteenth century, when italy was free. . _tuscan._ the literary language of italy and not given to superlatives such as are indicated by "_issimo_." . _cambuscan:_ a reference to "the squire's tale," left unfinished by chaucer. . _alt to altissimo._ "high to highest." . _beccaccia._ a woodcock. . _shall i be alive._ according to giotto's plan the tower was to have had a spire fifty braccia or cubits (about feet) high. this spire has never been built. "de gustibus--" the whole phrase is _de gustibus non disputandum_--"there is no disputing about tastes." browning is writing to a friend who prefers an english landscape while the poet himself declares in favor of italy. . _if our loves remain._ if we have a life after death. . _a cornfield._ the picture is a field of wheat with red poppies scattered through the wheat. . _cypress._ it is interesting to note how many of the trees, shrubs, flowers, and fruits in browning's poems are those of southern europe. his poetry of nature is almost as distinctively italian as tennyson's is english. "the englishman in italy" is especially rich in vivid, picturesque details of southern scenes. . _liver-wing._ the right wing. the shot hit the king in the right arm. . _bourbon._ mr. and mrs. browning were rejoicing at any indications that the people of italy were awake to revolt against the bourbons. see mrs. browning's "casa guidi windows" and "first news from villa franca" and mr. browning's "the italian in england." . _queen mary's saying._ for two hundred years calais had been one of england's most important possessions. it was taken by the french in , the last year of the reign of queen mary. what queen mary said of calais, browning says of italy. home-thoughts from abroad compare the sentiment of this poem with that of "de gustibus--" written ten years later. in "home thoughts from abroad" we have one of browning's rare uses of the scenery of his own country. . _that's the wise thrush._ the power of these lines in presenting both the musical and the emotional quality of the bird's song is rivaled only by wilson flagg's "the bobolink" (quoted in john burroughs's _birds and poets_) and wordsworth's "to the cuckoo." home-thoughts from the sea this poem and the preceding one express two phases of the poet's love of country; his affection for the physical beauty of england, and his pride in her political freedom. in the first poem, he turns, in thought, from the glowing color of italy, to the more delicate loveliness of england in april; in the second poem, he longs to repay the service his country has rendered him in defeating foreign foes. "home-thoughts from the sea" was written at the same time and under the same circumstances as "how they brought the good news from ghent to aix." the poet, aboard a vessel coasting along the shore of africa, could see to the northwest the portuguese cape vincent, near which, in , england won a naval victory over spain; southeast of cape vincent, on the spanish coast, cadiz bay, where, in , england defeated the second spanish armada; and southeast of cadiz bay, cape trafalgar, where, in , nelson won a famous victory over the allied fleets of france and spain. to the northeast, the poet could see gibraltar, the great fortress which england acquired from spain by the peace of utrecht, . saul . _abner._ the cousin of saul and the commander of his army. _i samuel_ xiv, . . _saul and the spirit._ for the conflict between saul and the evil spirit, and the refreshment that came to him when david played, see _i samuel_ xvi, - . . _gracious gold hair._ for the personal appearance of david, see _i samuel_ xvi, , ; xvii, . . _those lilies ... blue._ mrs. coleridge wrote to mr. kenyon to know whether mr. browning had any authority for "blue lilies." mr. browning answered, "lilies are of all colors in palestine--one sort is particularized as _white_ with a dark blue spot and streak--the water lily, lotus, which i think i meant, is _blue_ altogether." (_letters of r. b. and e. b. b._, i, , .) . _the king-serpent._ probably the boa-constrictor. in poetry the characteristic most often attributed to a snake is malignancy. but in this picture of the serpent lying dormant and waiting for the sloughing of its old skin in the springtime, when it will come forth with new beauty and power, the idea presented is that of tremendous force temporarily in abeyance. . _then the tune._ the boy, alone in the field, tries all sorts of experiments in musical attraction on the animals about him. professor albert s. cook suggests that browning is here indebted to the greek pastoral romance of _daphnis and chloe_. see smith's translation in the bohn edition. the passages read in part as follows: "he ran through all variations of pastoral melody; he played the tune which the oxen obey, and which attracts the goats--that in which the sheep delight. "he took his pipe from his scrip, and breathed into it very gently. the goats stood still, merely lifting up their heads. next he played the pasture tune, upon which they all put down their heads and began to graze. now he produced some notes soft and sweet in tone; at once his herd lay down. after this he piped in a sharp key, and they ran off to the woods as if a wolf were in sight." these quotations serve at least to show how old is the fancy that animals are affected by music. . the service enjoined on the men of the house of levi is described in _i chronicles_ xxiii, - . . _male-sapphires._ the male sapphire exhibits, through some peculiarity of crystalline structure, a star of bright rays. it is also known as "the star sapphire" and "the asteriated sapphire." the ruby shows a clear red light at the center. . _locust-flesh._ in _leviticus_, chapter xi, are given the laws concerning "what beasts may and what may not be eaten." see verse for the rule about locusts. cf. _matthew_ iii, for the food of john the baptist. . _the cherubim chariot._ the first chapter of _ezekiel_ seems to be the source of this picture. . _have ye seen_, etc. the simile in lines - could have been written only by one familiar with mountain regions. browning knew the alps and apennines. did david at any time live in a mountainous country? . _slow pallid sunsets._ note the character of the similitudes so far used in describing saul. in his agony he is like the king-serpent. his rage is like the earthquake that may tear open the rock but at the same time sets the gold free. his final release from the evil spirit is described by the sudden fall of the avalanche from the mountain summit. the look in his eyes as he comes back to life, yet seeing nothing in life to desire, is compared to pale autumn sunsets seen over the ocean, or to slow sunsets seen over a desolate hill country. all the figures contribute to our impression of saul's power and majesty. . _since my days_, etc. compare this passage with _pippa passes_, prologue, - . . _carouse in the past._ this line marks a change in the direction of david's thought. up to stanza x it was the glorious past that he had been urging upon saul's attention. but now he realizes that true inspiration comes not so much from a re-living of one's achievements, as from the thought of the permanence of one's fame and one's deeds. . _and behold while i sang._ at this point david is overcome by the memory of the sudden spiritual illumination that came to him in his interview with saul. he had reached the summit of his endeavor (l. ) and yet knew himself powerless to give the king new life. then there flashed upon him the truth expressed in stanzas xvii-xix. he breaks off in lines - , going, in his strong feeling, ahead of his story and commenting on what is described in stanza xix. in stanza xv he resumes his narrative. . _hebron._ david watches the slow coming of the dawn over the hill on which is situated the town of hebron. . _kidron._ a brook near jerusalem. it is fed by springs, and the amount of water in it is sensibly decreased by the extreme heat of the day. . _ere error had bent._ in _i samuel_, chapter xv, is an account of saul's disobedience and punishment. the choosing of saul to be king is described in _i samuel_, chapters ix and x. . _sabaoth._ the word means "hosts" and is ordinarily used in the phrase "the lord of hosts." it represents the omnipotence of god. . _nor leave up nor down_, etc. at the end of stanza xv, the thought that had come to david was that god had proved supreme in all the ways in which a human being could test knowledge and power, but that in the one way of love the creature might surpass the creator. at line he has come to believe in the infinitude of god's love as well as in the infinitude of his power. it is interesting to note that george eliot in _silas marner_ gives to ignorant dolly winthrop an experience and a philosophy of life almost identical with those of browning's david. - . a prophecy of the revelation of the divine in the human, the coming of god in the person of christ. it is the human in the divine that men seek and love. in the old testament days such an idea, though foretold and longed for, could be but vaguely conceived except in moments of especial insight in the minds of poet-prophets like david. mr. herford (_robert browning_, p. ) says of this passage: "david is occupied with no speculative question, but with the practical problem of saving a ruined soul; and neither logical ingenuity nor divine suggestion, but the inherent spiritual significance of the situation, urges his thought along the lonely path of prophecy. the love for the old king, which prompted him to try all the hidden paths of his soul in quest of healing, becomes a lighted torch by which he tracks out the meaning of the world and the still unrevealed purposes of god; until the energy of thought culminates in vision and the christ stands full before his eyes." - . in this stanza david represents all existences, good and evil spirits, all animals, all forms of nature, as stirred by the great news of the future manifestation of the love of god as shown in christ. my star a love lyric generally supposed to refer to mrs. browning. . _the angled spar._ a prism. in looking at a prism the colors one sees are determined by the point of view. the idea of the poem is amplified in "one word more," stanzas xvi-xviii. two in the campagna the campagna, a plain around the city of rome, was in ancient times the seat of many cities; it is now dotted with ruins. "there is a solemnity and beauty about the campagna entirely its own. to the reflective mind, this ghost of old rome is full of suggestion; its vast, almost limitless extent as it seems to the traveler; its abundant herbage and floral wealth in early spring; its desolation, its crumbling monuments, and its evidences of a vanished civilization, fill the mind with a sweet sadness, which readily awakens the longing for the infinite spoken of in the poem." (berdoe, _browning cyclopædia_, p. .) . _i touched a thought._ the elusive thought which he fancifully pursues from point to point in the surrounding landscape finds statement in lines - . of these lines sharp (_life of browning_, p. ) says, "there is a gulf which not the profoundest search can fathom, which not the strongest-winged love can overreach: the gulf of individuality. it is those who have loved most deeply who recognize most acutely this always pathetic and often terrifying isolation of the soul. none save the weak can believe in the absolute union of two spirits ... no man, no poet assuredly, could love as browning loved, and fail to be aware, often with vague anger and bitterness, no doubt, of this insuperable isolation even when spirit seemed to leap to spirit, in the touch of a kiss, in the evanishing sigh of some one or other exquisite moment." in three days "another poem of waiting love is 'in three days.' and this has the spirit of a true love lyric in it. it reads like a personal thing; it breathes exaltation; it is quick, hurried, and thrilled. the delicate fears of chance and changes in the three days, or in the years to come, belong of right and nature to the waiting, and are subtly varied and condensed. it is, however, the thoughtful love of a man who can be metaphysical in love." (stopford brooke, _the poetry of robert browning_, p. .) the guardian angel _fano._ this poem was written in the summer of after a visit of three days at fano. it is addressed to alfred domett, one of browning's warm friends, who was at that time in new zealand on the wairoa river. for a vivid description of him see browning's "waring." the picture at fano, the details of which are fully brought out in the poem, has been reproduced in _illustrations to browning's poems_, part i, published by the browning society. mrs. browning (_letters_ i, ) speaks of it as "a divine picture of guercino's worth going all that way to see." . _another child for tending._ with a longing for guidance and protection browning imagines himself as a child under the guardianship of the angel. . _like that child._ the child in the picture looks into the heavens. browning would look only at the gracious face of the angel. . _my angel._ cf. "my love," l. . both refer to mrs. browning. memorabilia _pauline_ ( ) has many references to shelley; note especially lines - ; - . browning's "essay on shelley" appeared in . "memorabilia" was composed in - . - . that later in life browning "came to think unfavorably of shelley as a man and to esteem him less highly as a poet" is shown by a letter written to dr. furnivall: "for myself i painfully contrast my notions of shelley the _man_ and shelley, well, even the _poet_, with what they were sixty years ago." (quoted by mr. dowden: _robert browning_, p. .) mr. browning declined an invitation to be president of the shelley society. for a discussion of shelley's influence on browning see _poet-lore_, volume vii, january, . incident of the french camp ratisbon, a city of bavaria, was stormed by napoleon in . the story told in the poem is a true one, but its hero was a man, not a boy. my last duchess the original title in _dramatic lyrics_, , was "italy." it is a poem of the italian renaissance. frà pandolf and claus of innsbruck are, however, imaginary artists. the boy and the angel there is no known original for the story of theocrite, but it is in accord with the roman catholic belief that angels watch over human beings and are interested in their affairs. in the last line is the fundamental lesson of the poem. compare the thought of pippa in the song "all service ranks the same with god." see leigh hunt's "king robert of sicily" (in _a jar of honey_, ch. vi.) and longfellow's "king robert of sicily" (in _tales of a wayside inn_) for an analogous legend. the pied piper of hamelin this poem was written to amuse little willie macready who was ill and wished a poem for which he could make illustrations. there are many legends that deal with the refusal of a reward promised to a magician for some stipulated service. mr. berdoe (_browning cyclopædia_, p. ) says that the story given here is based on an account by verstegan in his _restitution of decayed intelligence_ ( ). verstegan gives "bunting" as the name of the piper; the town, as hamelin in brunswick on the weser; and the mountain into which the children were led as the köppenberg. the flight of the duchess when mr. browning was little more than a child he heard a woman one guy fawkes's day sing, in the street a strange song whose burden was "following the queen of the gypsies, o!" the singular refrain haunted his memory for many years, and out of it was ultimately born this poem. - . the duke's medieval castle was apparently in northern germany, near the sea. . _rough-foot merlin._ a species of hawk formerly trained to pursue other birds and game. a "falcon-lanner" is a long-tailed hawk. the word, when used in falconry, is restricted to the female hawk, which is larger than the male. . _struck at himself._ amazed at his own importance. . _urochs._ the aurochs, the european bison, a species nearly extinct but preserved in the forests of lithuania and the caucasus. the "buffle" is the buffalo. - . compare this lady with the one in "my last duchess." . _well, early in autumn._ in writing "the flight of the duchess" browning was interrupted by a friend on some important business which temporarily drove the story out of the poet's mind. some months after the publication of the first part in _hood's magazine_, april, , he was staying at bettisfield park in shropshire when someone in commenting on the early approach of winter said that already the deer had to break the ice in the pond. this chance phrase roused the poet's fancy, and when he returned home he completed his poem. . _st. hubert._ before his conversion st. hubert had been passionately fond of hunting; hence he became the patron saint of hunters. - . "the jerkin" or short coat; the "trunk-hose," or full breeches extending from the waist to the middle of the thigh; the big rimless hats with broad projections back and front and highly ornamented, were medieval articles of attire revived by the duke for his "middle age" hunting party. . _venerers, prickers, and verderers_ are ancient names for huntsmen, horsemen, and preservers of venison. . _horns wind a mort._ horns announce the death of the stag; "at siege" probably means "brought to the appointed station." possibly it means "at bay," in which case "wind a mort" must mean "announce that the death of the stag is imminent." . _prick forth._ spur her horse forth. she was to ride a jennet, a small spanish horse known in the middle ages. . _quince-tinct._ tincture of quince was used as a cosmetic. . _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." berdoe, _browning cyclopædia_: page . . _the band-roll._ her head was ornamented with a band on which were strung persian coins. . _gor-crow's flappers._ wings of carrion crow. . _like the spots._ effects of phosphorescence. . _i have seen my little lady._ it is not clear where or when he saw her. possibly he refers only to his revived memory of her. . _and ... floats me._ this construction is what is known as the "ethical dative." the old servant merely says in jocose fashion that telling his story has made his blood course more rapidly and freely. a grammarian's funeral _the revival of learning._ the revival of learning, or the renaissance, began as early as the tenth century. its period of most rapid progress was from the twelfth century to the fifteenth. one phase of the interest in the revival of learning was the effort to restore latin to its ancient purity. the word "grammarian" was more widely inclusive than now, meaning one who devoted himself to general learning. of this poem dr. burton in "renaissance pictures in browning" (_poet-lore_, vol. x, pp. - , no. , ) says: "i know of no lyric of the poet's more representative of his peculiar and virile strength than this, in that it makes vibrant and thoroughly emotional an apparently unemotional theme. in relation to the renaissance, the revival of learning, the moral is the higher inspiration derived from the new wine of the classics, so that what in later times has cooled down too often to a dry-as-dust study of the husks of knowledge is shown to be, at the start, a veritable reveling in the delights of the fruit." mr. stopford brooke in _the poetry of browning_, p. , says, "this is the artist at work, and i doubt whether all the laborious prose written, in history and criticism, on the revival of learning, will ever express better than this short poem the inexhaustible thirst of the renaissance in its pursuit of knowledge, or the enthusiasm of the pupils of a new scholar for his desperate strife to know in a short life the very center of the universe." . _leave we the common crofts._ as the procession starts up the hill they leave behind them the small farms and little villages of the plain. . _rock-row._ day is just breaking over the rocky summits of the mountains. . _there, man's thought._ the smoking crater of a volcano, described as a censer from which rise the fumes of incense, portends an outbreak of subterranean fire. the speaker fancifully considers this an appropriate spot in which to bury the scholar whose passionate eagerness of thought chafed continually against the bounds of custom and ignorance and human weakness. . _sepulture._ pronounced here, _sepúlture_. a burial place or tomb. . _step to a tune._ here and in various other places, as lines , , , etc., are directions to the pallbearers. . _lyric apollo._ the god apollo was the ideal of manly beauty. the grammarian was, it seems, endowed with rare charm of face and form. . _long he lived nameless._ youth had passed before the grammarian really entered upon his quest for knowledge. but he did not despair. his vanishing of youth was but a signal to "leave play for work." . _grappled with the world._ the world of knowledge, especially ancient learning, which was recovered slowly and with difficulty. . _theirs._ he wishes to study the "shaping" or writings of poets and sages. . _gowned._ put on the scholastic gown. . _queasy._ sick at the stomach. he could not get knowledge enough to make him feel a distaste for it. - . "it" in l. refers to l. . the "it" in l. refers to "such a life," l. . . _fancy the fabric._ under the figure of making a complete plan before beginning to build a house, he describes the grammarian's purpose to know the whole scheme of life before he lived out any part of it. . _calculus_ and _tussis_ (l. ) are diseases, the stone and bronchitis, that attacked him. . _soul-hydroptic._ "hydroptic" is a rare word for "thirsty." . _god's task_, etc. he neglected the body, magnified the mind, and believed that the full realization of his aspirations would come in "the heavenly period." . _that low man_. this comparison between the "low man" and the "high man" could be effectively illustrated from "andrea del sarto." andrea is the "low man" who with his skillful hand "goes on adding one to one" till he attains his "hundred," or excellence of technique. but the other painters, the ones with the "truer light of god" in them, reach the heaven above and take their place there although what they see transcends the power of their art to tell. they miss the "unit" of an adequate technique, but they gain the "million" of spiritual insight. . _hoti ... oun ... de._ points in greek grammar concerning which there was much learned discussion. "childe roland to the dark tower came" mrs. orr (_handbook of browning's works_, p. ) says of this poem: "we can connect no idea of definite pursuit or attainment with a series of facts so dream-like and so disjointed: still less extract from it a definite moral; and we are reduced to taking the poem as a simple work of fancy, built up of picturesque impressions which have, separately or collectively, produced themselves in the author's mind." and she adds in a note: "i may venture to state that these picturesque materials included a tower which mr. browning once saw in the carrara mountains, a painting which caught his eye years later in paris; and the figure of a horse in the tapestry in his own drawing-room--welded together in the remembrance of the line from '_king lear_,' which forms the heading of the poem." the possible allegorical signification of the poem has been the subject of much, and often of singularly futile discussion. dr. furnivall said he had asked browning if it was an allegory, and in answer had on three separate occasions received an emphatic statement that it was simply a dramatic creation called forth by a line of shakspere's. (porter-clarke, _study programmes_, p. .) yet allegorical interpretations continue to be made. according to one line of interpretation the pilgrim is a "truth-seeker, misdirected by the lying spirit" (the hoary cripple), and when he blows the slug-horn it is as a warning to others that he has failed in his quest, and that the way to the dark tower is the way of destruction and death. (berdoe, _browning cyclopædia_, p. ) according to other readings of the tale the blast which the pilgrim blows at the end of his quest is one of "spiritual victory and incitement to others." when the rev. john s. 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, browning said: "yes, just about that." with constancy to an ideal as the central purpose, the details of this poem, without being minutely interpreted, may yet serve as a representation of the depression, the hopelessness, the dullness and deadness of soul, the doubt and terror even of the man who travels the last stages of a difficult journey to a long-sought but unknown goal. his victory consists in the unfaltering persistence of his search. the "squat tower," when he reaches it, is prosaic and ugly, but finding it is after all not the essential point. the essential element of his success is that, encircled by the last temptations to despair, he holds heart and brain steady, and carries out his quest to its last detail. (see an article in _the critic_, may , , by mr. arlo bates, in opposition to any definite allegory. mr. nettleship in _robert browning_ [p. ] devotes a chapter to a paraphrase and an allegorical explanation.) mr. herford (_life of browning_, p. ) calls the poem "a great romantic legend" and emphasizes its intensity and boldness of invention. he compares its "horror-world" with that of coleridge in "the ancient mariner." "what 'the ancient mariner' is in the poetry of the mysterious terrors and splendors of the sea, that 'childe roland' is in the poetry of bodeful horror, of haunted desolation, of waste and plague, ragged distortion, and rotting ugliness in landscape. the childe, like the mariner, advances through an atmosphere and scenery of steadily gathering menace." mr. chesterton says of the scenery: "it is ... the poetry of the shabby and hungry aspect of the earth itself. daring poets who wished to escape from the conventional gardens and orchards had long been in the habit of celebrating the poetry of rugged and gloomy landscapes, but browning is not content with this. he insists on celebrating the poetry of mean landscapes. that sense of scrubbiness in nature, as of a man unshaved, had never been conveyed with this enthusiasm and primeval gusto before." (_robert browning_, p. .) how it strikes a contemporary this poem is the story of an obscure poet in the spanish city of valladolid. it brings out his actual life and the townfolk's misinterpretations of it. reports multiply upon themselves and take new meanings till the harmless poet is generally accounted the king's spy and the real agent of all royal edicts, the town's master, in fact. the interest which, as a poet, he takes in all manifestations of life is popularly supposed to be the alertness of a secret agent of the government. the reams of poetry he writes are transformed into letters of information to the king. rumor translates the poet's perfectly decent, regular, meager life into secret sybaritic extravagances. . _though none did._ his suit had once been fashionable, but, though still serviceable, was of a sort no longer worn by his fellow townsmen. . _the coffee-roaster's brazier._ the coffee is roasted in a dish that is made to revolve over the coals in an open pan or basin. . _beyond the jewry._ beyond the jew's quarter, a squalid portion of the city. . _the corregidor._ the spanish title for a magistrate. . _here had been._ the poet, misconceived by his generation, poor, and lonely, has yet a great spiritual personality. men see the old coat. god, the king for whom he works, sees his real nature; hence heavenly guards attend when this man comes to die. . _the prado._ the chief fashionable promenade of madrid. fra lippo lippi fra lippo lippi was born in florence in . see vasari's _lives of the painters_ for the account of his life on which browning based his poem. (vasari's account is quoted in cooke's _browning guide book_.) . _you need not clap your torches._ throughout this lively dramatic monologue it is important to mark every indication of the words or gestures of the auditors; for instance, in lines , , , etc. . _the carmine._ fra lippo lippi's entrance into the monastery of the friars del carmine and his education there are described later in the poem. he lived there till he was twenty-six. he had no vocation for the life of a monk and wished to devote himself to painting. he apparently left the monastery on good terms with the friars. . _master--a cosimo of the medici._ cosimo de medici ( - ) was a rich florentine banker and statesman. he was a magnificent patron of art and literature. the old medici palace (l. ), now known as _palazzo riccardi_, is on the corner of the _via cavour_ and the _via gori_. the church of _san lorenzo_ (the "saint laurence" of l. ) is a short distance farther west on the via gori. . _pick up a manner_. the painter protests against the rough usage to which he has been subjected. . _zooks._ an interjection formerly written "gadzooks." _pilchards_ are a common cheap fish of the mediterranean and are taken in seines. . _quarter-florin._ the florin was a gold coin of florence. it was first struck off in the twelfth century and was called a florin because it had a flower stamped on one side. . _i'd like his face._ the painter cannot look upon the crowd of men about him without seeing faces he would like to draw. one man would do as a model for judas. another would do well in a picture fra lippo's imagination quickly conjures up of a slave holding the head of john the baptist by the hair. in fra lippo's real picture of the beheading of john the baptist the head is brought in by salome, the daughter of herodias, on a great platter. . _carnival._ the days preceding lent. a period marked by much gaiety, street revelry, masking, etc. . _flower o' the broom._ these flower songs, called _stornelli_, are improvised by the peasants at their work. "the _stornelli_ consists of three lines. the first line 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." (porter and clarke note in camberwell edition.) browning does not follow the model strictly. . _jerome._ st. jerome was one of the fathers of the christian church. during a part of his early life he was given up to worldly pleasures, and for this he did penance by living for a number of years in a cave in a desert region. the penitent st. jerome was a popular devotional subject in early christian art. "the scene is generally a wild rocky solitude; st. jerome, half-naked, emaciated, with matted hair and beard, is seen on his knees before a crucifix, beating his breast with a stone." (mrs. jameson, _sacred and legendary art_, i, .) . _what am i a beast for?_ if you had happened, says fra lippo, to catch cosimo in a frolic like this, of course you would have said nothing; but you think a monk is a beast if he indulges in these nocturnal pleasures. yet why should the fact that i break monastic rules make you consider me a beast? just let me tell you how i happened to become a monk. . _i starved there._ note the vivid picture of the life of a street gamin here and in lines - . . _aunt lapaccia._ vasari says, "the child was for some time under the care of a certain mona lapaccia, his aunt, who brought him up with very great difficulty till he had attained his eighth year, when, being no longer able to support the burden of his maintenance, she placed him in the above-named convent of the carmelites." "trussed," means "firmly seized." . _which gentlemen_, etc. gentlemen clad in fine ecclesiastical robes walk in the religious procession and carry tall wax candles or torches; the drippings from these candles the street-urchin wishes to catch in order to sell them again, but it is against the law, and the fine gentlemen if not kindly disposed may call in the magistrates ("the eight") and have the boy whipped. . _the antiphonary's marge._ he scrawled his sketches on the margins of the book used by the choir, and he made faces out of the notes, which were then square with long stems. . _we carmelites._ the three orders of monks, the carmelites, the camaldolese, and the dominicans (called "preaching brothers" by pope innocent iii) owned various monasteries and churches, and were each ambitious to possess the greatest sacred paintings. - . these lines describe the different figures painted on the wall by fra lippo when the prior bade him "daub away." the monks dressed in black or white according to the garb of their orders; the old women waiting to confess small thefts; the row of admiring little children gazing at a bearded fellow, a murderer who, still breathing hard with the run that has brought him in safety to the altar steps, defies the "white anger" of his victim's son, who has followed him into the church; the girl who loves the brute of a murderer, and brings him flowers, food, and her earrings to aid him when he shall escape--all these are painted on the wall. then the young artist took down the ladder by means of which he had reached the bit of cloister-wall where he had been recording his observations of life, and called the monks to see. . _whose sad face._ the purpose of christ's suffering ("passion") on the cross was to bring love into the world, but after a thousand years of his teaching his image looks down upon theft, anger, murder. . _my triumph's straw-fire._ lippo's triumph was as short-lived as a fire of straw. the monks were delighted with the realism of the painting, but when the prior and the critics came they declared that such "homage to the perishable clay" was a mere "devil's game." the business of the painter, they said, was to ignore the body and paint the soul. . _man's soul._ note the difficulty the prior experiences when he tries to describe the "soul" he wishes the artist to paint. lines - represent an old superstition. - . in contrast to the homely realism of fra lippo's picture of ordinary people are the idealism, the religious symbolism, of the pictures of giotto, a painter a century and a half earlier than fra lippo, and the greatest master of the early school of italian art. - . an exposition of fra lippo's idea of painting. he says that it is nonsense to ignore the body in order to make the soul preëminent, that the painter should go a "double step" and paint both body and soul. he may make the face of a girl as lovely and life-like as possible, and at the same time show her soul in her face. - . a defense of the value of beauty for its own sake. cf. keats, "ode to a grecian urn," and the beginning of his "endymion." fra lippo lippi has been long out of convent limitations, but he cannot forget how certain the monks were that he had chosen the wrong path, and that he could never equal the great painter, fra angelico ( - ), who, kneeling in adoration, painted lovely saints and angels, nor even lorenzo monaca, a florentine painter with the same tendencies as angelico. . _out at grass._ _grass_ in this passage stands for enjoyment of life as opposed to asceticism. . _guidi._ tommaso guidi, ordinarily known as masaccio, or tomassacio, slovenly or hulking tom. browning followed good authority in making masaccio a pupil of fra lippo lippi, but in point of fact he was probably the master whose works fra lippo studied. lübke (_history of art_ ii, ) says of guidi: "in his exceedingly short life he rapidly traversed the various stages of development of earlier art, and pressed on with a bold confidence to a greatness and power of vision which have rendered his works the characteristic ones of an epoch, and his example a decisive influence in all the art of the fifteenth century.... almost every master in the fifteenth century ... studied these great works and learned from them. one of the first of these masters was fra lippo lippi." the important point is that fra lippo and masaccio were both pioneers in the new art which took infinite pains in the representation of the body. masaccio is said to have been the first italian artist to paint a nude figure. . _a saint laurence ... at prato._ prato a town near florence, attracted many artists in the fifteenth century, so that one finds there many specimens of early renaissance painting. some of the most important of fra lippo lippi's large works are in the cathedral at prato. - . the people have been so enraged at the slaves who are pictured as assisting in the martyrdom of st. laurence that the faces of these slaves have been scratched from the wall. the monks think the picture a huge success because it has thus roused religious zeal. . _chianti wine._ a famous wine named from chianti, a mountain group near siena, italy. . _sant ambrogio's._ the picture described here is the "coronation of the virgin" now in the _accademia delle belle arti_ of florence. _sant' ambrogio_ is a florentine church named after st. ambrose, a bishop of milan. . _st. john._ the baptist. note the reference to camel's hair raiment in l. . _the battistero_, the original cathedral of florence, was dedicated to john the baptist. some say the reliefs on one of its famous bronze doors represent scenes from his life. to this church all children born in florence are brought to be baptized. . _job._ see _job_ i, . . _up shall come._ artists not infrequently painted their own portraits in their pictures. in the "coronation of the virgin" fra lippo's round tonsured head is seen in the lower right hand corner. . _iste perfecit opus._ "this one did the work." . _hot cockles._ an old english game in which a blind-folded player tries to guess the names of those who touch or strike him. andrea del sarto andrea del sarto's father was a tailor (_sarto_) and so the son was nicknamed "the tailor's andrew." he was born in . his first paintings were seven frescoes in the church of the annunziata in florence. they were "marvelous productions for a youth who was little over twenty, and remain andrea's most charming and attractive works." (julia cartwright, _the painters of florence_.) algernon charles swinburne in _essays and studies_ ("notes and designs on the old masters at florence") says of andrea's early paintings in comparison with his later work: "these are the first fruits of his flowering manhood, when the bright and buoyant genius in him had free play and large delight in its handiwork; when the fresh interest of invention was still his, and the dramatic sense, the pleasure in the play of life, the power of motion and variety; before the old strength of sight and of flight had passed from weary wing and clouding eye, the old pride and energy of enjoyment had gone out of hand and heart. "how the change fell upon him, and how it wrought, anyone may see who compares his later with his earlier work.... the time came when another than salome [referring to andrea del sarto's picture of salome dancing before herod] was to dance before the eyes of the painter; and she required of him the head of no man, but his own soul; and he paid the forfeit into her hands.... in mr. browning's noblest poem--his noblest, it seems to me--the whole tragedy is distilled into the right words, the whole man raised up and reclothed with flesh. one point only is but lightly touched upon--missed it could not be by an eye so sharp and skillful--the effect upon his art of the poisonous solvent of love. how his life was corroded by it, and his soul burnt into dead ashes we are shown in full, but we are not shown in full what as a painter he was before, what as a painter he might have been without it." the bare facts of this poem are taken from vasari's _lives of the painters_. vasari, once a pupil of andrea del sarto, hated lucrezia and in his account spared no details of her evil influence. later chronicles give a somewhat more favorable view of her, but the main facts of the story remain undisputed. of the origin of the poem, mrs. andrew crosse (see "john kenyon and his friends" in _temple bar magazine_, april, ) writes; "when the brownings were living in florence, kenyon had begged them to procure him a copy of the portrait in the pitti of andrea del sarto and his wife. mr. browning was unable to get the copy made with any promise of satisfaction, and so wrote the exquisite poem of andrea del sarto--and sent it to kenyon!" for another literary presentation of andrea del sarto see _andre del sarto_, a play by alfred de musset. . _fiesole_. a town on a hill above the arno about three miles northwest of florence. see _pippa passes_. . _we are in god's hand._ andrea's fatalistic view of life aids him in escaping the poignancy of remorse. . _the legate's talk._ the representative of the pope praised andrea's work. for the high esteem accorded andrea when he was in paris at the court of francis i, see lines - . . _this low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand._ eugene muntz (quoted in _masters of art_ series, in the number entitled "andrea del sarto") says of andrea's skill: "no painter has excelled him in the rendering of flesh.... no painter, moreover, has surpassed him in his grasp of the infinite resources of the palette. all the secrets of richness, softness, and _morbidenza_, all the mysteries of _pastoso_ and _sfumato_ were his. it is not then as a technician that we must deny andrea del sarto the right to rank with the very greatest. it is as an artist (using the word in its highest sense) that he falls below them, for he was lacking in the loftier qualities of imagination, sentiment, and, worst of all, conviction." _histoire de l'art pendent la renaissance_. . _morello_. a mountain of the apennines and visible from florence. . _or what's a heaven for._ according to browning's theory, perfection gained and rested in means stagnation. aspiration toward the unattainable is the condition of growth. the artist who can satisfy himself with such themes as can be completely expressed by his art, is on a low level of experience and attainment. . _the urbinate._ raphael sanzio of urbino, one of the greatest of italian painters. he died in ; hence the date of this poem is supposed to be . . _agnolo._ michael agnolo (less correctly, angelo), - , great both as sculptor and painter. . _francis._ francis i of france was a patron of the arts. when andrea was thirty-two and had been married five years, king francis sent for him to come to fontainebleau, the most sumptuous of the french royal palaces. andrea greatly enjoyed the splendor and hospitality of the french court, and he was happy in his successful work, when lucrezia called him home. he obtained a vacation of two months and took with him money with which to make purchases for the french king. this money he used to buy a house for lucrezia. . _scudi._ italian coins worth about ninety-six cents each. . _four great walls._ _revelation_, xxi, - . . _leonardo._ leonardo da vinci ( - ), one of the greatest of italian painters. the bishop orders his tomb at st. praxed's church there is an old church in rome named in honor of st. praxed or praxedes. the bishop's tomb, however, "is entirely fictitious, although something which is made to stand for it is now shown to credulous sightseers." (mrs. orr, _handbook to robert browning's works_, p. .) ruskin says of this poem: "robert browning is unerring in every sentence he writes of the middle ages--always vital, right, and profound, so that in the matter of art, with which we are specially concerned, there is hardly a principle connected with the medieval temper that he has not struck upon in these seemingly careless and too rugged lines of his.... i know no other piece of modern english prose or poetry in which there is so much told, as in these lines, of the renaissance spirit--its worldliness, inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, ignorance of itself, love of art, of luxury, and of good latin. it is nearly all that i have said of the central renaissance, in thirty pages of 'the stones of venice,' put into as many lines, browning's also being the antecedent work." (_modern painters_, vol. iv, pp. - .) "it was inevitable that the great period of the renaissance should produce men of the type of the bishop of st. praxed; it would be grossly unfair to set him down as the type of the churchmen of his time." berdoe, _browning cyclopædia_, p. . . _vanity, saith the preacher, vanity._ cf. ll. - , - , as illustrative of the religious professionalism of the bishop's talk. he drops into the ecclesiastical conception of life and death, and into the phraseology of his order. . _epistle-side._ the right-hand side facing the altar, where the epistle is read by the priest acting as celebrant, the gospel being read from the other side by the priest acting as assistant. . _peach-blossom marble._ this rosy marble delights the bishop as much as the pale cheap onion-stone offends him. the lapis-lazuli, a rich blue stone (l. ), the antique-black (nero-antico), a rare black marble (l. ), the beautiful green jasper (l. ), the elaborate carving planned for the bronze frieze (l. - , - ), show not only that the bishop covets what is costly, but that his highly cultivated taste knows real beauty. . _that conflagration._ the eagerness of the bishop for the lump of the lapis-lazuli has made him steal even from his own church. . _olive-frail._ a basket made of rushes, used for packing olives. . _those pans and nymphs._ the underlying paganism of the bishop produces a strangely incongruous mixture on his tomb--the savior, st. praxed, moses, pan, and the nymphs. . _thyrsus._ the ivy-coiled staff or spear stuck in a pine-cone, symbol of the bacchic orgy. . _travertine._ a white limestone, the name being a corruption of tiburninus, from tibur, now tivoli, near rome, whence this stone comes. . _choice latin._ the bishop's scholarship was as good as his taste in marbles. the _elucescebat_ ("he was illustrious") of l. browning called "dog-latin" and he called "ulpian, the golden jurist, a copper latinist." (see letter to d. g. rossetti. quoted by a. j. george, _select poems of browning_, p. .) tully's latin was cicero's (marcus tullius cicero), the purest classic style. the grammarian in "the grammarian's funeral" was equally intense on a point of elegance or correctness in the ancient languages. - . the bishop rejoices in all that has to do with the forms and ceremonies of the church. note in ll. - his insistence on form and order. . _strange thoughts._ from this point on the bishop's mind seems to wander. . _a visor and a term._ the visor is a mask. a term is any bust or half-statue not placed upon but incorporated with, and as it were immediately springing out of, the square pillar which serves as its pedestal. cleon the quotation preceding this poem is from _acts_ xvii, , and is, in full, "as certain also of your own poets have said, 'for we are also his offspring.'" the poet thus referred to by paul was aratus, a greek poet from tarsus, paul's own city. the cleon and protus of browning's poem are not historical characters, but they are representative of the tone of thought and inquiry on the part of the greek philosophers at the time of paul. lines - give an account of the achievements of cleon, a man who has attained eminence in the various realms of poetry, philosophy, painting, and sculpture. he is not in any one accomplishment equal to the great poets, musicians, or artists of the past, and yet he represents progress because he is able to enter into sympathy with the great achievements in all these realms. . _sprinkled isles._ presumably the sporades, the "scattered isles." . _profits in his tyranny._ free government [in greece] having superseded the old hereditary sovereignties, all who obtained absolute power in a state were called tyrants, or rather despots; for the term indicates the irregular way in which the power was given rather than the way in which it was exercised. tyrants might be mild in exercise of authority, and, like protus, liberal in their patronage of the arts. . _gift after gift._ protus, a patron of the arts, shows his appreciation of the work of cleon by many royal gifts. chief among the slaves, black and white, sent by protus, is one white woman in a bright yellow wool robe, who is especially commissioned to present a beautiful cup. lines - are also descriptive of this girl. . _zeus._ the chief of the grecian gods. . _that epos._ an epic poem by cleon engraved on golden plates. . _the image of the sun-god on the phare._ cleon has made a statue of apollo for a lighthouse. _phare_ is from the island of pharos where there was a famous lighthouse. . _the poecile._ the portico of athens painted with battle pictures by polygnotus. . _for music._ "in greek music the scales were called moods or modes and were subject to great variation in the arrangement of tones and semitones." (porter-clarke, note in camberwell edition.) . _the checkered pavement._ this pavement of black and white marble in an elaborate pattern of various sorts of four-sided figures was a gift to cleon from his own nation. - . the similitude is involved but fairly clear. the water that touches the sphere here and there, one point at a time, as the sphere is revolved, represents the power of great geniuses who, each at one point, have reached great heights. the air that fills the sphere represents the composite modern mind that synthesizes the parts into a great whole. . _drupe._ any stone-fruit. the contrast is between the wild plum and the cultivated plum. . _homer._ the poet to whom very ancient tradition assigns the authorship of the _iliad_ and the _odyssey_. _terpander_, the father of greek music, flourished about - b.c. phidias, a famous athenian sculptor, lived - b.c. his friend was pericles, the ruler of athens. . _sappho._ a greek poetess. she wrote about b.c. . _Æschylus_, a greek tragic poet, - b.c. . _paulus._ paul died about a.d. the date of this poem is therefore about the last quarter of the first century a.d. cleon had heard so vaguely about the christian religion that he did not know the difference between christ and paul. the "doctrine" spoken of in the last line was the christian teaching concerning immortality. the greek, cleon, had felt a longing to believe in another existence in which man would have unlimited capability for joy, but zeus had revealed no such doctrine, and the cultivated greek was not ready to receive it at the hands of a man like paul. one word more a poem directly addressed to mrs. browning. it was originally appended to the collection of poems called _men and women_. for other tributes by great poets to their wives see wordsworth's "she was a phantom of delight," and "o dearer far than life and light are dear;" and tennyson's "dear, near and true." mrs. browning's love for her husband had found passionate expression in _sonnets from the portuguese_. . _naming me._ giving a name to the volume for me. - . raphael's "lady of the sonnets" was margharita (la fornarina), the baker's daughter, whose likeness appears in several of his most celebrated pictures. the madonnas enumerated in ll. - are the sistine madonna, now in the dresden gallery; the madonna di foligno, so called because it had been painted as a votive offering for sigismund corti of foligno; the madonna del granduca (petti palace, florence) in which the madonna is represented as appearing to a votary in a vision; and probably the madonna called la belle jardiniere in the louvre. there is no evidence that raphael wrote more than one sonnet, or three at most. the "century of sonnets" attributed to him by browning "is probably an example of poetical license." the volume guido reni treasured and left to his heir was a volume with a hundred designs by raphael. (berdoe, _browning cyclopædia_, p. ) - . dante's chief work was his great poem, the _inferno_, in which were caustic sketches of evil men of various sorts. the sketch in the lines - is made up from two descriptions (_inferno_, cantos , ) of traitors, the one to his country, the other to a familiar friend. the second of these was still alive when dante wrote (w. m. rossetti, _academy_, jan. , ). beatrice, or bice, was the woman dante loved. it was on the first anniversary of her death that he began to draw the angel. dante tells of this in the _vita nuovo_, xxxv, and there describes the interruption of the "people of importance." - . to raphael painting is an art that has become his nature; to dante, poetry is an art that has become his nature. but this one time, for the woman of his love, each chooses the art in which he may have some natural skill but for which he has had no technical training. - . the "artist's sorrow" as contrasted with the "man's joy" is illustrated from the experiences of moses in conducting the children of israel out of egypt (_exodus_ xvii). his achievement savors of disrelish because of the grumbling unbelief of the people, and because of the ungracious irritation into which he has been betrayed even when taxing his god-given power to the utmost in their behalf. he must hold steadily to his majesty as a prophet or he cannot control and so serve the crowd, but he covets the man's joy of doing supreme service to the woman whom he loves. . _sinai-forehead's cloven brilliance._ _exodus_ xix, , ; xxxiv, . . _jethro's daughter._ zipporah, the wife of moses. _exodus_ ii, , . . _he who works in fresco._ the fresco painter uses large free strokes of the brush. but in order to give something distinctive to the lady of his love he will try painting tiny illuminations on the margins of her missal. . _be how i speak._ that is, he usually writes dramatically, giving the experience and uttering the words of the characters he has created, such as the arab physician, karshish; the greek cleon; norbert, the man whom the queen loved in "in a balcony"; the painter, fra lippo lippi; the heroic pilgrim, childe roland; the painter, andrea del sarto. but now, for once, he speaks in his own person, directly to the woman he loves. - . in florence they had seen the new moon, a mere crescent over the hill fiesole, and had watched its growth till it hung, round and full, over the church of san miniato. now, in london, the moon is in its last quarter. . _zoroaster._ founder of the irano-persian religion, the chief god of which, varuna, was the god of light and of the illuminated night-heaven. . _galileo._ a celebrated italian astronomer ( - ). . _dumb to homer._ homer celebrated the moon in the "hymn to diana." keats wrote much about the moon and the hero of his poem "endymion" was represented as in love with the moon. - . see _exodus_ xxiv. abt vogler abbé (or abt) vogler ( - ) was a catholic priest well known a century ago as an organist and a composer. he founded three schools of music, one at mannheim, one at stockholm, and one at darmstadt. he was especially noted for his organ recitals, as many as tickets having been sold for a single recital in amsterdam. in it was said that he had then given over a thousand organ concerts. his knowledge of acoustics and his consequent skill in combining the stops enabled him to bring much power and variety from organs with fewer pipes than were generally considered necessary. the remodeling and simplification of organs was one of his most eagerly pursued activities. he not only rearranged the pipes, but he introduced free reeds. through some skillful swedish organ-builders he was at last enabled to have an organ small enough to be portable and constructed according to his ideas. this he called an "orchestrion." of vogler's power as an organist rinck says, "his organ playing was grand, effective in the utmost degree." it was, however, when he was improvising that his power was most astonishing. once at a musical soirée vogler and beethoven extemporized alternately, each giving the other a theme, and gansbacher records the pitch of enthusiasm to which he was roused by vogler's masterly playing. three of voglers most famous pupils at darmstadt were meyerbeer, gansbacher, and carl maria von weber. the last of these gives an attractive picture of the musician extemporizing in the old church at darmstadt. "never," says weber, "did vogler in his extemporization drink more deeply at the source of all beauty, than when before his three dear boys, as he liked to call us, he drew from the organ angelic voices and word of thunder." browning's poem records the experiences of the musician in one of these moods of rapturous creation. the argument of the poem is thus given by mr. stopford brooke in _the poetry of robert browning_, page : "when solomon pronounced the name of god, all the spirits, good and bad, assembled to do his will and build his palace. and when i, abt vogler, touched the keys, i called the spirits of sound to me, and they have built my palace of music; and to inhabit it all the great dead came back till in the vision i made a perfect music. nay, for a moment, i touched in it the infinite perfection; but now it is gone; i cannot bring it back. had i painted it, had i written it, i might have explained it. but in music out of the sounds something emerges which is above the sounds, and that ineffable thing i touched and lost. i took the well-known sounds of earth, and out of them came a fourth sound, nay not a sound--but a star. this was a flash of god's will which opened the eternal to me for a moment; and i shall find it again in the eternal life. therefore, from the achievement of earth and the failure of it, i turn to god, and in him i see that every image, thought, impulse, and dream of knowledge or beauty--which, coming whence we know not, flit before us in human life, breathe for a moment, and then depart; which, like my music, build a sudden palace in imagination; which abide for an instant and dissolve, but which memory and hope retain as a ground of aspiration--are not lost to us though they seem to die in their immediate passage. their music has its home in the will of god and we shall find them completed there." . _solomon._ in jewish legend it is said that solomon had power over angels and demons through a seal on which "the most great name of god was engraved." . _and one would bury his brow._ this description of the foundations of the palace is not unlike milton's account of the work of the fallen angels in building the palace in hell. (_paradise lost_, i, .) that "fabric huge" was as magical in its construction as the palace of abt vogler, for, though it was not built by music, it "rose like an exhalation with the sound of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet." . _nether springs._ remotest origins. . _rome's dome._ the illumination of st. peter's was formerly one of the customary spectacles on the evening of easter sunday. "at ave-maria we drove to piazza of st. peter's. the lighting of the lanternoni, or large paper lanterns, each of which looks like a globe of ethereal fire, had been going on for an hour, and by the time we arrived there was nearly completed.... the whole of this immense church--its columns, capitals, cornices, and pediments--the beautiful swell of the lofty dome ... all were designed in lines of fire, and the vast sweep of the circling colonnades ... was resplendent with the same beautiful light." (c. a. eaton, _rome in the nineteenth century_, ii, .) . _space to spire._ from the wide opening between the colonnades to the cross on the top of the lantern surmounting the dome. . _protoplast._ used apparently for protoplasm, a substance constituting the physical basis of life in all plants and animals. . into his musical palace came the wonderful dead in a glorified form, and also presences fresh from the protoplast, while, for the moment, he himself in the ardor of musical creation felt himself raised to the level of these exalted ones. . _consider it well._ on the mystery of musical creation and on its permanence see cardinal newman's sermon on "the theory of development in christian doctrine." (quoted in part, in berdoe's _browning cyclopædia_.) . _palace of music._ cf. the description of the glowing banquet-room in keats's "lamia": "a haunting music, sole perhaps and lone supportress of the faery-roof, made moan throughout, as fearful the whole charm might perish." the damsel with the dulcimer in coleridge's "kubla khan" sings of mount abora, and the poet says: "could i revive within me her sympathy and song to such a deep delight 'twould win me that with music loud and long i would build that dome in air, that sunny dome, those caves of ice! and all who heard should see them there." in tennyson's "gareth and lynette" (l. ), merlin says to gareth in describing camelot, "for and ye heard a music, like enow they are building still, seeing the city is built to music, therefore never built at all, and therefore built forever." there are also more ancient accounts of this union of music and architecture. amphion, king of thebes, played on his lyre till the stones moved of their own accord into the wall he was building. when king laomedan built the walls of troy, apollo's lyre did similar service to that of amphion in thebes. for an interesting account of "voice figures" see _the century magazine_, may . . _what was, shall be._ for this faith in the actual permanence of what seemed so evanescent, compare adelaide procter's "lost chord." . _there shall never be one lost good._ whatever of good has existed must always exist. evil, being self-destructive, finally "is null, is naught." this is the hegelian doctrine. walt whitman said on reading hegel, "roaming in thought over the universe i saw the little that is good steadily hastening towards immortality. and the vast all that is called evil i saw hastening to merge itself and become lost and dead." (berdoe, _browning cyclopædia_, page .) . _a triumph's evidence._ failure in high heroic attempts seems to point forward to some more favorable future where noble effort is crowned with due success. cf. "cleon," lines - : "imperfection means perfection hid, reserved in part to grace the after time." . _the c major of this life._ the musical terms in this passage are fully explained by mrs. turnbull and miss omerod in _browning society papers_. symbolically this line describes the musician as he comes back to everyday life, proud because of the vision that has been granted him, but with a consciousness that experiences so exalted are not for "human nature's daily food," and that their true function is to send one back to ordinary pains and pleasures with a new acquiescence. (in _the browning society papers_ are mrs. turnbull's "abt vogler," and three papers by miss helen omerod: ( ) "abt vogler the man." ( ) "some notes on browning's poems relating to music." ( ) "andrea del sarto and abt vogler.") rabbi ben ezra ben ezra was an eminent jewish rabbi of the middle ages. his _commentaries_ on the books of the old testament are of great value. mr. a. j. campbell, who has studied browning's poem in connection with the writings of the real rabbi ben ezra, thinks that the distinctive features of the rabbi of the poem, and the philosophy ascribed to him, were drawn from the works of the historical rabbi, the keynote of whose teaching was that the essential life of man is the life of the soul, and that age is more important than youth. (berdoe, _browning cyclopædia_. cf. also berdoe, _browning's message to his times_, pp. - .) . _grow old along with me._ cf. _saul_, lines - . see matthew arnold's "'tis time to grow old" for a beautiful statement of the pessimistic attitude toward old age. - . it would be folly, says the rabbi, to object to the unreasoning ambitions, the fluctuations of desire, the hopes and fears of youth. in fact (ll. - ), he counts these very aspirations toward the impossible, this very state of mental and spiritual unrest and doubt, a proof of the spark of divinity which separates men from beasts and allies them to god. it is a characteristic browning doctrine that conflict, struggle, the pangs and throes of learning, are the stimuli through which character develops. - . cf. _saul_, l. . - . in lines - the rabbi had urged the subservience of the body to the soul, but in these lines he shows that the life of the flesh is not to be underestimated, that ideal progress comes from a just alliance of the soul and the body. see tennyson's "st. simeon stylites" for an account of the ascetic ideal in its lowest form. . _adventure brave and new._ in "prospice" death is reckoned an adversary to be courageously met and overcome. here the rabbi is represented as fearless and unperplexed as he contemplates the new life he will lead after death. in both poems we find unquestioning belief in an active and progressive and happy life after death. . _youth ended, i shall try_, etc. compare tennyson's "by an evolutionist." . _leave the fire ashes._ in this figure the "fire" stands for the conflicts of life, the "gold" for whatever has proved of permanent worth, and the "ashes" for whatever has failed to stand the test of time and experience. . _a certain moment._ the moment between the fading of the sunset glory and the shutting down of evening darkness is here selected as the moment in which to appraise the work of the day. in the application of the simile to the life of man (lines - ) the "moment" apparently refers to old age when man has leisure and wisdom to appraise the past. . _the future._ the life of his "adventure brave and new" after death. - . in "old pictures in florence" browning applies this idea to the development of art. as soon as men were content to repose in the perfection of greek art (the thing "found made") stagnation ensued; the new life of art came when men strove for something new and original, even though their first attempts were crude ("acts uncouth"). . _nor let thee feel alone._ the solitude of age gives a chance for unhampered thought. - . one of the things he has learned is that any judgment to be fair must take into account instincts, efforts, desires, as well as accomplishment. - . this metaphor of the wheel is found in _isaiah_ lxiv, ; _jeremiah_ xviii, - ; _romans_ ix, . throughout this metaphor as browning uses it, man seems to be "passive clay" in the hands of the potter, and under the power of the "machinery" the potter uses to give the soul its bent. the tone of the whole poem is, however, one of strenuous endeavor. ardor, effort, progress, are the keynotes of life from youth to age. but life is finally counted a divine training for the service of god, and in this training the pious rabbi sees joined the will of man and the care and guidance of god. . _all that is_, etc. cf. "abt vogler," ll. - . caliban upon setebos the idea of this poem was evolved from shakspere's caliban, a strange, misshapen, fish-like being, one of the servants of prospero in _the tempest_. he was the son of a foul witch who had potent ministers and could control moon and tides, but could not undo her own hateful sorceries, and who worshiped a god called setebos. morally, shakspere's caliban was insensible to kindness, had bestial passions, was cowardly, vengeful, superstitious. he had keen animal instincts and knew the island well. he understood prospero in some measure; learned to talk, to know the stars, to compose poetry, and took pleasure in music. _thou thoughtest_, etc. a quotation from _psalms_ , . this sentence is the keynote of caliban's theological speculations. . _will_. for "he will" instead of "i will." through most of the poem caliban speaks of himself in the third person as a child does. but note lines - , where caliban rises to unusual mental heights under the stimulus of the gourd-fruit-mash and uses the first person. how is it in ll. - , - , ? - . this portion of caliban's soliloquy and the portion in lines - give the setting for his speculations. the hot, still summer day creates a mood in which caliban's ideas flow out easily into speech. the thunderstorm at the end abruptly calls him back from his speculations to his normal state of subservience and superstitious fear. . _setebos._ the god of the patagonians. when the natives were taken prisoners by magellan, they "cryed upon their devil setebos to help them." eden, _history of travaile_. . _he._ the pronoun of the third person when referring to setebos is capitalized. . _it came of being ill at ease._ each step in caliban's reasoning proceeds from some personal experience or observation. in this case he reasons from the fish to setebos. caliban attributes to setebos unlimited power to create and control in whatever is comparatively near at hand and changeable. but caliban had been affected by the mystery of the starry heavens. the remoteness and fixedness of the stars had suggested a quiet, unalterable, passionless force beyond setebos, who must, therefore, have limitations. he did not make the stars (l. ), he cannot create a mate like himself (ll. - ), he cannot change his nature so as to be like the quiet above him (ll. - ). hence, like the fish, setebos had a dissatisfied consciousness of a bliss he was not born for. discontent with himself, spite, envy, restlessness, love of power as a means of distraction, are the motives that, according to caliban's reasoning, actuated setebos in his creation of the world. . _the fowls here, beast and creeping thing._ browning's remarkably minute and accurate knowledge of small animals is well illustrated by this poem. for further illustration see _saul_, the last soliloquy in _pippa passes_, and the lyric "thus the mayne glideth." . _put case_, etc. in determining the natural attitude of setebos toward his creations, the formula caliban uses is, caliban plus power equals setebos. the illustration from the bird (ll. - ) shows cruelty, and unreasoning, capricious exercise of power. the caprice of setebos is further emphasized in ll. - . . _hath cut a pipe._ in his attitude toward his creatures setebos is envious of all human worth or happiness if it is for a moment unconscious of absolute dependence on him. . _himself peeped late_, etc. as caliban gets some poor solace out of imitating prospero, so one reason for setebos's creation of the world was a half-scornful attempt to delude himself into apparent content. his imitations, his "make believes," are the unwilling homage his weakness pays to the power of the quiet. - . the weaknesses of all living beings were special devices whereby setebos could, through need and fear, torture and rule. - . setebos worked also out of pure ennui. he liked the exercise of power, he liked to use his "wit," and he needed distraction. - . setebos hates and favors human beings without discoverable reason. - . it is impossible to discover a way to please setebos. his favor goes by caprice as does caliban's with the daring squirrel and the terrified urchin, who please one day, and, doing the same things the next, would bring down vengeance. the only philosophy at which caliban can arrive is that it is best not to be too happy. simulated misery is more likely to escape than any show of happiness. may and death in memory of browning's cousin, james silverthorne, the "charles" of the poem. the "one plant" of the last two stanzas is supposed to be the _spotted persicaria_, "a common weed with purple stains upon its rather large leaves." according to popular tradition this plant grew beneath the cross, and the stains were made by drops of blood from the savior's wounds. (berdoe, _browning cyclopædia_, page , quoting from rev. h. friend, _flowers and flower lore_.) prospice "prospice" ("look forward") was written in the autumn following mrs. browning's death. "it ends with the expression of his triumphant certainty of meeting her, and breaks forth at last into so great a cry of pure passion that ear and heart alike rejoice. browning at his best, browning in the central fire of his character, is in it." (brooke, _the poetry of browning_, page .) a face "no poem in the volume of _dramatis personæ_ is connected with pictorial art, unless it be the few lines entitled 'a face,' lines of which emily patmore, the poet's wife, was the subject, and written, as browning seldom wrote, for the mere record of beauty. that 'little head of hers' is transferred to browning's panel in the manner of an early tuscan piece of ideal loveliness." (dowden, _life of browning_.) . _correggio._ a famous italian painter of the lombard school. these lines well describe his style. o lyric love these are the closing lines of the first book of _the ring and the book_. the passage is generally and probably rightly interpreted as an invocation to the spirit of his wife. a wall this poem was written and printed as the prologue to _pacchiarotto and how he worked in distemper_, published in . it was, however, given the title "a wall" when published in in _selections from robert browning's poems, second series_. the last two stanzas express one of the fundamental ideas of browning's poetry. under the figure of the wall with its pulsating robe of vines and the eagerness of the lover to penetrate to the life within the house, he sets forth his thought of the barrier between himself and a longed-for future life in heaven. the "forth to thee" is to be interpreted as referring to his wife. house and shop three of browning's poems, "at the mermaid," "house," and "shop," refer with more or less explicitness to shakspere. the last stanza in "house" contains a quotation from wordsworth's "scorn not the sonnet" to the effect that in his sonnets shakspere revealed the most intimate facts of his life. "at the mermaid" and "house" both combat this idea. in "at the mermaid" browning in the person of shakspere says: "which of you did i enable once to slip within my breast, there to catalogue and label what i like least, what love best, hope and fear, believe and doubt of, seek and shun, respect--deride? who has right to make a rout of rarities he found inside?" as applied to browning the poems represent the indignation with which he regarded such personal revelations, such utterance of sighs and groans, as characterized byron (the "last king" of "at the mermaid"); but they overstate the impersonal nature of browning's own work which is frequently a very direct statement of his own emotions and views, while even from his dramatic work it is not difficult to find his "hopes and fears, beliefs and doubts." in stanzas - of "at the mermaid," for example, just after he has protested against "leaving bosom's gate ajar," he fully sets forth the joy, the optimism, of his own outlook on life. "shop" is an indirect protest against the assumption that shakspere wrote mainly for money, caring merely for the material success of his work. (see _poet-lore_, vol. iii, pp. - , april, , for browning's tribute to shakspere.) more directly the poem represents the starved life of the man whom "shop," the business necessary to earn a living, occupies "each day and all day long" with no spirit-life behind. hervÉ riel this poem was written during browning's second visit to le croisic in brittany, in september, . it was published in _the cornhill magazine_, march, , the proceeds of one hundred guineas being sent by browning to the paris relief fund, to provide food for the people after the siege of paris. the story is historic. mrs. lemoyne, in , read "hervé riel" to browning and he then told her that it was his custom to learn all about the heroes and legends of any town that he stopped in and that he had thus, in going over the records of the town of st. malo, come upon the story of hervé riel, which he narrated just as it happened in , except that in reality the hero had a life holiday. "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." (dr. furnivall quoted in berdoe, _browning cyclopædia_.) "good to forgive" this little poem was written and printed as the prologue to _la saisiaz_ in , but in the _selections_ it appeared as no. of "pisgah-sights." "such a starved bank of moss" prefatory stanzas to _the two poets of croisic_. epilogue to the two poets of croisic this fate of the musician and the cricket has the same fundamental idea as the prefatory stanzas, the power of love to soften what is gruff and brighten what is somber in life. . _music's son._ goethe. the "lotte" of the next line, the heroine of goethe's _sorrows of werther_, was modeled in part on charlotte buff, with whom goethe was at one time in love. pheidippides [greek: chairete, nikômen.] rejoice we conquer! . _dæmons._ in greek mythology a superior order of beings between men and the gods. . _her of the ægis and spear._ athena, whose ægis was a scaly cloak or mantle bordered with serpents and bearing medusa's head. . _ye of the bow and the buskin._ artemis or diana, the huntress. ancient statues represent her as wearing shoes laced to the ankle. . _pan._ the god of nature, half goat and half man. to him was ascribed the power of causing sudden fright by his voice and appearance. he came suddenly into the midst of the persians on the field of marathon--so the legend runs--and threw them into such a "panic" that, for this reason, they lost the battle. . _archons of athens, topped by the tettix._ _archon._ one of the nine rulers of athens. _tettix._ a grasshopper. "the athenians sometimes wore golden grasshoppers in their hair as badges of honor, because these insects are supposed to spring from the ground, and thus they showed they were sprung from the original inhabitants of the country." (berdoe, _browning cyclopædia_, p. .) . _reach sparta for aid._ the distance between athens and sparta is about miles. . _persia bids athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth._ the persians sent to those states which they wished to subject, messengers who were to ask earth and water as symbols of submission. . _eretria._ an important city on the island of euboea. . _hellas._ greece. . _the moon, half-orbed._ spartan troops finally came to athens after the full moon. . _filleted victim._ a victim whose head was decked with ribbons. . _parnes._ herodotus refers in this connection to the parthenian mountain. . _erebos._ hades, the abode of shades or departed spirits. . _fennel._ the greek word marathon means fennel. . _miltiades._ one of the ten athenian generals. . _unforeseeing one._ the poet finishes the story, which he has hitherto allowed pheidippides to tell for himself. . _marathon day._ in the month of september, b. c. . . _akropolis._ the stronghold of athens. mulÉykeh the love of the arab for his horse is traditional. "the story is a common one and seems adapted from a bedouin's anecdote told in rollo springfield's _the horse and his rider_." (berdoe, _browning cyclopædia_, p. .) wanting is--what? this poem is in the nature of a prelude to the group of poems published under the title _jocoseria_, . each poem in this volume shows the lack of some element that would have brought the human action or experience to perfection. . _comer._ the invocation probably refers to the spirit of love with its inspiring, transforming power. "never the time and the place" this poem was published in _jocoseria_ in . it is doubtless to be grouped with the poems that refer directly to mrs. browning. the patriot browning says that this poem has no direct historical reference. he calls it "an old story," because in all ages men have experienced this unjust reversal of public approval. the poem is merely an imaginative, dramatic representation of the fickleness of popular favor. instans tyrannus the title of this poem means "threatening tyrant." it comes from horace's "ode on the just man," in _odes_, iii, , i. the just man is not frightened by the frown of the threatening tyrant--_non vullus instantis tyranni_. archdeacon farrar refers the incidents to persecution of the early christians. the poem certainly deals with some period when the ruler of a great realm had unlimited power to follow out his most insignificant animosities, and when just men and just causes had no human recourse. the general idea of the poem is clear and forcible, but there are many minor difficulties of interpretation. . _what was his force?_ an ironic question. the man groveled because he was powerless to resist, and (line ) because resistance might bring even worse punishment. . _were the object_, etc. if the man could be made rich, if his life could be crowded with pleasures, if there could be found relatives or friends whom he loved, then there would be obvious ways of hurting him, he would stand forth in sufficient importance to make the swing of the tyrant's hand effective. but as it is, the man's poverty and friendlessness and meagerness of life render it difficult to find out vulnerable points of attack. he remains hidden (_perdue_) and, like the midge of the egg of an insect (_nit_), is safe through his very insignificance. . _spilth._ that which is poured out profusely. the _flagon_ is a vessel with one handle and a long narrow neck or spout. . _then a humor_, etc. the tyrant goes through various changes of mood in his attitude toward his enemy. in lines - he feels a moment of contemptuous compunction at the man's suffering, and recognizes the absurdity of a contest between a great king and a person as insignificant as a tricksy elf, a toad, or a rat. but in line his mood turns. he perceives that the burden (_gravamen_) of the whole matter lies in the incredibly petty nature of this unconquerable, baffling opposition to his will. he sees how the situation would awaken the wonder of the great lords who abjectly obey his lightest word, but he concludes that, after all, the small becomes great if it vexes you. . _i soberly_, etc. even the tyrant sees a kind of grotesque humor as he narrates first the elaborate plans to entrap and crush so seemingly powerless a foe, and then the striking reversal of position when the man proves to have god on his side, and the tyrant becomes the one to cower in fear. the italian in england at the congress of vienna, in , lombardy and venetia were assigned to austria. most of the inhabitants submitted to the foreign rule, but there were always small bands of patriots who stirred up revolutions against austria. the chief revolution was that led by mazzini in , and when he was in exile he read this poem with much appreciation. in _pippa passes_ ( ), in the story of luigi and the austrian police, browning had already given a picture based on italy's struggle for freedom. in he visited italy and then wrote "the italian in england," which appeared in . this poem does not represent a definite historic incident, but such a one as might have occurred in the life of some italian patriot. for a similar feeling towards italian independence see mrs. browning's _casa guidi windows_ (written - ). for earlier poems see byron's "ode" beginning "o venice, venice, when thy marble walls," shelley's "lines written among the euganean hills," and the following sonnet by wordsworth: "once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee; and was the safeguard of the west: the worth of venice did not fall below her birth, venice, the eldest child of liberty. she was a maiden city, bright and free; no guile seduced, no force could violate; and, when she took unto herself a mate, she must espouse the everlasting sea. and what if she had seen those glories fade, those titles vanish, and that strength decay; yet shall some tribute of regret be paid when her long life hath reached its final day: men are we, and must grieve when even the shade of that which once was great, is passed away." . _charles._ carlo alberto, king of sardinia. he had used severe measures against "young italy," the party founded by mazzini. . _metternich._ a noted austrian diplomat and one of the most powerful enemies of italian freedom. . _duomo._ the most famous church in padua. . _tenebræ._ _darkness._ a religious service commemorative of the crucifixion. fifteen lighted candles are put out one at a time, symbolizing the growing darkness of the world up to the time of the crucifixion. "round us the wild creatures" the first interlude in _ferishtah's fancies_. these interludes are love lyrics which follow the separate fables and fancies of the persian dervish ferishtah, and state in terms of the affections the truth embodied in didactic or philosophical fashion in the fables. in the first fable, "the eagle," the dervish observes an eagle feeding some deserted ravens. his first inference is that men will be cared for as the ravens, without effort of their own; later he sees that men should be as eagles and provide for the weak. the dervish at once seeks the largest sphere of human usefulness with the words "and since men congregate in towns, not woods--to ispahan forthwith!" the lyric protests against the temptation to self-centered seclusion on the part of those who are entirely satisfied in each other's love. prologue to asolando the volume of poems entitled _asolando_ was, by a strange chance, published on the day of browning's death. most of these poems were written in - . the book was dedicated to mrs. arthur bronson. the "prologue" should be compared with wordsworth's "ode on intimations of immortality." . _chrysopras._ the ruby and the emerald of this passage stand for rich red and green. the chrysopras is also green (an apple green variety of chalcedony), but the first part of the word is from the greek [greek: chrysos], "gold," and that may be the color intended here. summum bonum the title means, the chief good. the poem came out in _asolando_ in . epilogue to asolando in the _pall mall gazette_, feb. , the following incident is given concerning the third stanza of this poem: "one evening just before his death illness, the poet was reading this 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.'" compare this poem and tennyson's "crossing the bar." pippa passes mrs. sutherland orr writes that while browning was one day strolling through dulwich wood "the image flashed upon him of someone walking ... alone through life; one apparently too obscure to leave a trace of his or her passage, yet exercising a lasting though unconscious influence at every step of it; and the image shaped itself into the little silk-winder of asolo, felippa, or pippa." introduction _asolo in the trevisan._ asolo, a fortified medieval town at the foot of a hill surmounted by the ruins of a castle, and situated in the center of the silk-growing and silk-spinning industries, is in the province of treviso about thirty-three miles northwest of venice. . _monsignor._ a title conferred upon prelates in the roman catholic church. this monsignor is the chief personage in part iii, or _night_. . _martagon._ a kind of lily with light purplish flowers. the common name is turk's cap. perhaps that suggested to browning his comparison to the round bunch of flesh on the head of a turk bird, or turkey. . _possagno church._ designed by canova, who was born at possagno, an obscure village near asolo. . _the dome._ the duomo, or cathedral, in the center of the town. the palace of the bishop's brother is close by. morning . _st. mark's._ there is an extensive view from asolo. venice, with its cupolas and steeples, is seen to the east. ottima detects the belfry of the church of st. mark. the towns of vicenza and padua are also discernible. . _the capuchin._ a branch of the franciscan order of monks. their habit is brown. . _campanula chalice._ the flower of any one of a large genus of flowers with bell-shaped corollas. interlude i . _el canibus nostris._ virgil, _eclogues_ iii, . "_notior ut jam sit canibus non delia nostris_"--"so that now not delia's self is more familiar to our dogs." the boy giovacchino of whose poetry they are making fun evidently had ideals not in harmony with the ways of these venetian art students. these "dissolute, brutalized, heartless bunglers," as jules calls them, attack with quick, clever, merciless tongues whatever savors of idealism, aspiration, purity. their revenge for the scornful superiority manifested towards them by jules is to secure, by a well-managed trick, a marriage between him and a paid model. . _canova's gallery._ possagno was the birthplace of the sculptor canova, and the circular church there was designed by him. in the gallery at possagno is his psyche (_psiche-fanciulla_, or psyche the young girl); his pietà (the mother with the dead christ in her arms) is in the church. . _malamocco._ a little town on an island near venice. . _alciphron._ a greek writer (about a. d.) of fictitious letters famous for the purity of their style and for the knowledge they give of greek social customs. . _lire._ plural of lira, an italian coin equal to . cents in our money. . _a scented letter._ forged letters have represented this fourteen year old, ignorant model as delicate, shy, reserved, intellectually alert, with lofty poetic and artistic ideals. . _tydeus._ one of the seven allies in the enterprise against thebes. jules is supposed to have modeled a statue of him for the venetian academy of fine arts. from scene ii, , we see that it is still in clay. . _paolina._ some actress at the phenix, the leading theater of venice. . _hannibal scratchy._ in jest they burlesque the name of annibale caracci, a famous italian artist, and apply it to one of their number. noon . _this minion._ this favorite. bessarion ( - ), a learned greek cardinal, discovered a poem, "the rape of helen," written by a greek epic poet, coluthus, in the sixth century, and bessarion's scribe copied it out on parchment with blue, red, and dark-brown lettering. . _odyssey._ homer's account of the adventures of ulysses. the quoted passage is in the _odyssey_, bk. xxii, . when ulysses reached home he wreaked vengeance on the suitors of his wife. antinous was the first to fall. the story of the "bitter shaft" blotted out by a flower is symbolic of the story of the hatred of lutwyche, which was robbed of its bitterness by phene's love. . _almaign kaiser._ the german emperor. _swart-green_ is really "black-green"; here it means the "dark-green" of bronze. the emperor's truncheon is a short staff, the emblem of his office. . _hippolyta._ the queen of the amazons on a fine horse from numidia. . _bay-filleted._ the bay or laurel with which victors were crowned was supposed to be an antidote against thunder because it was the tree of apollo. pliny says that tiberius and some other roman emperors wore a wreath of bay leaves as an amulet, especially in thunder-storms. (see brewer, _dictionary of phrase and fable_; also byron, _childe harold_, iv, .) . _hipparchus._ in b. c. harmodius and aristogeiton conspired against the tyrants hippias and hipparchus, and carrying swords hid in myrtle, they slew hipparchus. cf. byron, _childe harold_, iii, . "all that most endears glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword such as harmodius drew on athens' tyrant lord." . _parsley._ an aromatic herb used in ancient time in crowns worn at feasts. . _archetype._ the original pattern or model. beautiful colors and shapes in flowers, in flames, trees, and fruit suggested to the poet the beauty of perfect human forms. the rosy bloom of the peach bending close over the bough and nestled among the leaves is sufficient to suggest rosy limbs, and from that suggestion comes the whole imaginative picture of the dryad, the nymph of the woods. . _facile chalk._ jules exults in the facility with which the artist, in any realm of art, manipulates his implements and his materials. his especial enthusiasm is for marble, which he has come to regard as an original, primitive substance, containing in itself all other substances. it may be made to seem as light and clear as air, as brilliant as diamonds. sometimes as his chisel strikes, it seems to be metal. again it seems to be actual flesh and blood. at moments when the sculptor works with swift intensity it seems to flush and glow like flame. . _i am a painter_, etc. the poem by lutwyche is professedly "slow, involved, and mystical." but jules gradually perceives the purport of the words. lutwyche's hate is to have its most hideous possible aspect because it is to appear suddenly through love's rose-braided mask. . _the cornaro._ catharine cornaro was the wife of james, king of cyprus. after his death she was induced to abdicate in favor of the republic of venice, which took possession of cyprus in . she was assigned a palace and court at asolo. she was generous, kind, just, and deeply beloved. her life seemed to hold all possible external conditions of happiness. the song is further explained in lines - . . _ancona._ a lovely city in eastern italy. interlude ii . _bluphocks._ browning's note on this character reads, "he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust." (_matthew_ v, .) . _your bishop's intendant._ the bishop's superintendent (whose real name is maffeo) has charge of the estate the bishop has just inherited from his brother. the money bluphocks has is the bribe given him by maffeo to destroy pippa, who is really the heir to the estate. maffeo expects the bishop to reward him well for this service. . _prussia improper._ "the arm of land bounded on the north by the baltic and on the south by poland was long called 'prussia proper' to distinguish it from the other provinces of the kingdom. königsberg is just over the boundary of brandenberg." (rolfe, _select poems of browning_.) . _chaldee._ a semitic dialect. . _celarent_, _darii_, _ferio_. coined words used in logic to designate certain valid forms of syllogism. . _posy._ a brief inscription or motto originally in verse, and suitable for a ring or some trinket. . _how moses_, etc. for the story of moses and the plagues of egypt see _exodus_ viii and x. for the story of jonah (who was commanded, however, not to go to tarshish) see _jonah_ i. for balaam and his ass see _numbers_ xxii, . . _bishop beveridge._ there was a bishop of that name, but of course bluphocks is making a pun. . _charon's wherry._ charon was a god of hell. it was his business to carry the dead across the river styx. people thus carried over the stygian ferry paid charon by a small coin put between their lips. . _lupine-seed._ "in plant-lore 'lupine' means wolfish, and is suggestive of the evil one." (berdoe, _browning cyclopædia_.) . _hecate's supper._ hecate was a goddess of hell to whom offerings of food were made. an _obolus_ is a silver coin worth about fifteen cents. . _zwanziger._ a twenty-kreuzer piece of money. . _prince metternich._ a celebrated austrian statesman. ( - .) . _panurge._ a prominent character in _gargantua and pantagruel_ by rabelais. hertrippa is a magician who gives panurge advice on the subject of marriage. bluphocks is simply racking his brain for words to rhyme with "pippa," so that he may write doggerel poetry to or about her. for "king agrippa" see _acts_ xxvi, . . _carbonari._ all persons leaving a city had to have a passport officially signed giving the destination and the date of departure. luigi had obtained such a passport for vienna for that night. it was, however, suspected that this was a mere trick to give a wrong notion of his whereabouts. if the passport should prove to be a pretense, other suspicions against luigi would be confirmed; it would be taken for granted that he belonged to the carbonari, a secret society of italian patriots; he would be arrested and sent to the prison at spielberg. but if he should go to vienna he is to be let alone. the officers are, of course, on the wrong track. if luigi goes to vienna it is to carry out his purpose of killing the tyrant. if he stays in asolo it means that he has abandoned that purpose. evening . _lucius junius._ this name comes easily to luigi's lips because lucius junius brutus inspired the romans against tarquin. . _old franz._ the austrian emperor, francis, i. luigi's fancy is caught by the echoes and the flowers, but they play into his dominant idea of the freedom of italy. . _pellicos._ silvio pellico was an italian patriot who had suffered a long imprisonment in spielberg castle. . _andrea_, etc. three former italian patriots who had conspired against austria. - . note in these lines how little luigi really understands of the point at issue. his emotional temperament has been stirred to the point of desperate action, but the "ground for killing the king" he hardly knows. . _jupiter._ the largest of the planets. when a planet rises after midnight it becomes a morning star. . _titian at treviso._ treviso is seventeen miles from venice. its cathedral contains a fine annunciation by titian which luigi and his betrothed chiara had planned to see together. . _a king lived long ago._ this song was published in and later adapted for this poem. the song has a great effect on luigi because beside his mental picture of the hated austrian ruler he now places his old folk-king who judged his people wisely, whose dignity and grace awed even a python, and whom the gods loved. the possibility of having good kings stirs his waning determination to rid the earth of evil ones. interlude iii . _the same treat._ the feast of the girl is made up of fig-peckers (birds that feed on figs), lampreys (eel-like fish esteemed a delicacy), and red wine from breganze, a town noted for its wines. . _spring's come_, etc. these girls are well differentiated. the "first girl" is set apart from the others by her superior refinement, by her longing for her country home, and by her unhappiness with cecco. the "third girl" seems to be the leader in the plan against pippa. . _deuzans_, etc. varieties of apples. . _ortolans._ birds about the size of larks, and an expensive delicacy. . _polenta._ a coarse corn-meal pudding. . _great rich handsome englishman._ bluphocks, who has been hired by the intendant to lure pippa into evil courses. night . _monsignor._ the bishop has come from messina in sicily to take possession of his dead brother's estate. the "ugo" to whom he speaks is the intendant mentioned at the beginning of _interlude ii_. . _benedicto benedicatur._ a form of blessing for the repast. "let it be consecrated with a good saying." . _assumption day._ the festival of the assumption of the virgin into heaven comes august . . _jules._ this is the jules of _noon_. his history is thus carried on beyond the point where we left him at the close of his interview with phene. . _correggio._ an italian artist ( - ). . _podere._ (plural, _poderi_.) a small farm or manor. . _cesena._ an episcopal city about twelve miles from forli. . _millet-cake._ a cake made of an italian grain and eaten only by the poorest classes. . _letter no. ._ the information from rome is based on a wrong assumption. the elder brother had an infant heir whom the second brother endeavored to put out of the way in order that he might himself inherit the estate. he hired maffeo to destroy the child, and, according to the information from rome, maffeo did so. on this assumption maffeo is to be arrested and the money and land given him by the second brother to keep the deed a secret are now to revert to the church. . _so old a story._ in reality maffeo has been more astute than they thought. he did not kill the child but kept it ready to produce as the heir to the estates if the second brother at any time proved delinquent in the required payments. . _let us understand one another._ he believes that when the bishop sees himself about to lose the estate, he too will show himself ready for a bargain. the bishop is simply to keep still and maffeo will see that the heir--who is pippa--shall be finally brought to shame and death. the bishop is to have the estates, and maffeo is to keep his ill-gotten gains and be given a chance to escape. the bishop is apparently listening to the tempter when he hears pippa's song. its fresh lilting sweetness, and especially, perhaps, the wording of the last line, touch his heart and his conscience, and he suddenly orders maffeo's arrest, at the same time uttering the prayer, "have mercy upon me, o god." epilogue . _my zanze._ zanze was evidently the "third girl" who took pippa in charge at the end of _interlude iii_. . _monsignor's people._ zanze was apparently talking to pippa under the monsignor's window. pippa broke off the unwelcome talk by her song, and zanze had hardly time to begin again when there came the noise of the arrest of maffeo. * * * * * transcriber's note the following changes have been made to the text: page : "rabbi ben erza" changed to "rabbi ben ezra". page : numbered line . page : numbered line . page : numbered line . page : "opposed such beginings" changed to "opposed such beginnings". page : "baldasarre galuppi" changed to "baldassare galuppi". page : "name to to the volume" changed to "name to the volume". page : "voglers masterly playing" changed to "vogler's masterly playing". page : "deveolpment of art" changed to "development of art". page : "pacchiarotte" changed to "pacchiarotto". page : "chiari" changed to "chiara". page : "breganza" changed to "breganze". a blot in the 'scutcheon by robert browning transcriber's comments on the preparation of this e-text: closing brackets i.e. "]" have been added to some of the stage directions. leading blanks are reproduced from the printed text. eg.: guendolen. where are you taking me? tresham. he fell just here. introductory note robert browning stands, in respect to his origin and his career, in marked contrast to the two aristocratic poets beside whose dramas his "blot in the 'scutcheon" is here printed. his father was a bank clerk and a dissenter at a time when dissent meant exclusion from society; the poet went neither to one of the great public schools nor to oxford or cambridge; and no breath of scandal touched his name. born in london in , he was educated largely by private tutors, and spent two years at london university, but the influence of his father, a man of wide reading and cultivated tastes, was probably the most important element in his early training. he drew well, was something of a musician, and wrote verses from an early age, though it was the accidental reading of a volume of shelley which first kindled his real inspiration. this indebtedness is beautifully acknowledged in his first published poem, "pauline" ( ). apart from frequent visits to italy, there is little of incident to chronicle in browning's life, with the one great exception of his more than fortunate marriage in to elizabeth barrett, the greatest of english poetesses. browning's dramatic period extended from to the time of his marriage, and produced some nine plays, not all of which, however, were intended for the stage. "paracelsus," the first of the series, has been fairly described as a "conversational drama," and "pippa passes," though it has been staged, is essentially a poem to read. the historical tragedy of "strafford" has been impressively performed, but "king victor and king charles," "the return of the druses," "colombe's birthday," "a soul's tragedy," and "luria," while interesting in many ways, can hardly be regarded as successful stage-plays. "a blot in the 'scutcheon" was performed at drury lane, but its chances of a successful run were spoiled by the jealousy of macready, the manager. the main cause of browning's weakness as a playwright lay in the fact that he was so much more interested in psychology than in action. but in the present tragedy this defect is less prominent than usual, and in spite of flaws in construction, it reaches a high pitch of emotional intensity, the characters are drawn with vividness, and the lines are rich in poetry. a blot in the 'scutcheon a tragedy ( ) dramatis personae mildred tresham. guendolen tresham. thorold, earl tresham. austin tresham. henry, earl mertoun. gerard, and other retainers of lord tresham. time, -- act i scene i.--the interior of a lodge in lord tresham's park. many retainers crowded at the window, supposed to command a view of the entrance to his mansion. gerard, the warrener, his back to a table on which are flagons, etc. first retainer. ay, do! push, friends, and then you'll push down me! --what for? does any hear a runner's foot or a steed's trample or a coach-wheel's cry? is the earl come or his least poursuivant? but there's no breeding in a man of you save gerard yonder: here's a half-place yet, old gerard! gerard. save your courtesies, my friend. here is my place. second retainer. now, gerard, out with it! what makes you sullen, this of all the days i' the year? to-day that young rich bountiful handsome earl mertoun, whom alone they match with our lord tresham through the country-side, is coming here in utmost bravery to ask our master's sister's hand? gerard. what then? second retainer. what then? why, you, she speaks to, if she meets your worship, smiles on as you hold apart the boughs to let her through her forest walks, you, always favourite for your no-deserts, you've heard, these three days, how earl mertoun sues to lay his heart and house and broad lands too at lady mildred's feet: and while we squeeze ourselves into a mousehole lest we miss one congee of the least page in his train, you sit o' one side--"there's the earl," say i-- "what then?" say you! third retainer. i'll wager he has let both swans he tamed for lady mildred swim over the falls and gain the river! gerard. ralph, is not to-morrow my inspecting-day for you and for your hawks? fourth retainer. let gerard be! he's coarse-grained, like his carved black cross-bow stock. ha, look now, while we squabble with him, look! well done, now--is not this beginning, now, to purpose? first retainer. our retainers look as fine-- that's comfort. lord, how richard holds himself with his white staff! will not a knave behind prick him upright? fourth retainer. he's only bowing, fool! the earl's man bent us lower by this much. first retainer. that's comfort. here's a very cavalcade! third retainer. i don't see wherefore richard, and his troop of silk and silver varlets there, should find their perfumed selves so indispensable on high days, holidays! would it so disgrace our family, if i, for instance, stood-- in my right hand a cast of swedish hawks, a leash of greyhounds in my left?-- gerard. --with hugh the logman for supporter, in his right the bill-hook, in his left the brushwood-shears! third retainer. out on you, crab! what next, what next? the earl! first retainer. oh walter, groom, our horses, do they match the earl's? alas, that first pair of the six-- they paw the ground--ah walter! and that brute just on his haunches by the wheel! sixth retainer. ay--ay! you, philip, are a special hand, i hear, at soups and sauces: what's a horse to you? d'ye mark that beast they've slid into the midst so cunningly?--then, philip, mark this further; no leg has he to stand on! first retainer. no? that's comfort. second retainer. peace, cook! the earl descends. well, gerard, see the earl at least! come, there's a proper man, i hope! why, ralph, no falcon, pole or swede, has got a starrier eye. third retainer. his eyes are blue: but leave my hawks alone! fourth retainer. so young, and yet so tall and shapely! fifth retainer. here's lord tresham's self! there now--there's what a nobleman should be! he's older, graver, loftier, he's more like a house's head. second retainer. but you'd not have a boy --and what's the earl beside?--possess too soon that stateliness? first retainer. our master takes his hand-- richard and his white staff are on the move-- back fall our people--(tsh!--there's timothy sure to get tangled in his ribbon-ties, and peter's cursed rosette's a-coming off!) --at last i see our lord's back and his friend's; and the whole beautiful bright company close round them--in they go! [jumping down from the window-bench, and making for the table and its jugs.] good health, long life, great joy to our lord tresham and his house! sixth retainer. my father drove his father first to court, after his marriage-day--ay, did he! second retainer. god bless lord tresham, lady mildred, and the earl! here, gerard, reach your beaker! gerard. drink, my boys! don't mind me--all's not right about me--drink! second retainer [aside]. he's vexed, now, that he let the show escape! [to gerard.] remember that the earl returns this way. gerard. that way? second retainer. just so. gerard. then my way's here. [goes.] second retainer. old gerard will die soon--mind, i said it! he was used to care about the pitifullest thing that touched the house's honour, not an eye but his could see wherein: and on a cause of scarce a quarter this importance, gerard fairly had fretted flesh and bone away in cares that this was right, nor that was wrong, such point decorous, and such square by rule-- he knew such niceties, no herald more: and now--you see his humour: die he will! second retainer. god help him! who's for the great servants' hall to hear what's going on inside! they'd follow lord tresham into the saloon. third retainer. i!-- fourth retainer. i!-- leave frank alone for catching, at the door, some hint of how the parley goes inside! prosperity to the great house once more! here's the last drop! first retainer. have at you! boys, hurrah! scene ii.--a saloon in the mansion enter lord tresham, lord mertoun, austin, and guendolen tresham. i welcome you, lord mertoun, yet once more, to this ancestral roof of mine. your name --noble among the noblest in itself, yet taking in your person, fame avers, new price and lustre,--(as that gem you wear, transmitted from a hundred knightly breasts, fresh chased and set and fixed by its last lord, seems to re-kindle at the core)--your name would win you welcome!-- mertoun. thanks! tresham. --but add to that, the worthiness and grace and dignity of your proposal for uniting both our houses even closer than respect unites them now--add these, and you must grant one favour more, nor that the least,--to think the welcome i should give;--'tis given! my lord, my only brother, austin: he's the king's. our cousin, lady guendolen--betrothed to austin: all are yours. mertoun. i thank you--less for the expressed commendings which your seal, and only that, authenticates--forbids my putting from me... to my heart i take your praise... but praise less claims my gratitude, than the indulgent insight it implies of what must needs be uppermost with one who comes, like me, with the bare leave to ask, in weighed and measured unimpassioned words, a gift, which, if as calmly 'tis denied, he must withdraw, content upon his cheek, despair within his soul. that i dare ask firmly, near boldly, near with confidence that gift, i have to thank you. yes, lord tresham, i love your sister--as you'd have one love that lady... oh more, more i love her! wealth, rank, all the world thinks me, they're yours, you know, to hold or part with, at your choice--but grant my true self, me without a rood of land, a piece of gold, a name of yesterday, grant me that lady, and you... death or life? guendolen. [apart to austin]. why, this is loving, austin! austin. he's so young! guendolen. young? old enough, i think, to half surmise he never had obtained an entrance here, were all this fear and trembling needed. austin. hush! he reddens. guendolen. mark him, austin; that's true love! ours must begin again. tresham. we'll sit, my lord. ever with best desert goes diffidence. i may speak plainly nor be misconceived that i am wholly satisfied with you on this occasion, when a falcon's eye were dull compared with mine to search out faults, is somewhat. mildred's hand is hers to give or to refuse. mertoun. but you, you grant my suit? i have your word if hers? tresham. my best of words if hers encourage you. i trust it will. have you seen lady mildred, by the way? mertoun. i... i... our two demesnes, remember, touch, i have beer used to wander carelessly after my stricken game: the heron roused deep in my woods, has trailed its broken wing thro' thicks and glades a mile in yours,--or else some eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flight and lured me after her from tree to tree, i marked not whither. i have come upon the lady's wondrous beauty unaware, and--and then... i have seen her. guendolen [aside to austin]. note that mode of faltering out that, when a lady passed, he, having eyes, did see her! you had said-- "on such a day i scanned her, head to foot; observed a red, where red should not have been, outside her elbow; but was pleased enough upon the whole." let such irreverent talk be lessoned for the future! tresham. what's to say may be said briefly. she has never known a mother's care; i stand for father too. her beauty is not strange to you, it seems-- you cannot know the good and tender heart, its girl's trust and its woman's constancy, how pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind, how grave yet joyous, how reserved yet free as light where friends are--how imbued with lore the world most prizes, yet the simplest, yet the... one might know i talked of mildred--thus we brothers talk! mertoun. i thank you. tresham. in a word, control's not for this lady; but her wish to please me outstrips in its subtlety my power of being pleased: herself creates the want she means to satisfy. my heart prefers your suit to her as 'twere its own. can i say more? mertoun. no more--thanks, thanks--no more! tresham. this matter then discussed... mertoun. --we'll waste no breath on aught less precious. i'm beneath the roof which holds her: while i thought of that, my speech to you would wander--as it must not do, since as you favour me i stand or fall. i pray you suffer that i take my leave! tresham. with less regret 'tis suffered, that again we meet, i hope, so shortly. mertoun. we? again?-- ah yes, forgive me--when shall... you will crown your goodness by forthwith apprising me when... if... the lady will appoint a day for me to wait on you--and her. tresham. so soon as i am made acquainted with her thoughts on your proposal--howsoe'er they lean-- a messenger shall bring you the result. mertoun. you cannot bind me more to you, my lord. farewell till we renew... i trust, renew a converse ne'er to disunite again. tresham. so may it prove! mertoun. you, lady, you, sir, take my humble salutation! guendolen and austin. thanks! tresham. within there! [servants enter. tresham conducts mertoun to the door. meantime austin remarks,] well, here i have an advantage of the earl, confess now! i'd not think that all was safe because my lady's brother stood my friend! why, he makes sure of her--"do you say yes-- she'll not say, no,"--what comes it to beside? i should have prayed the brother, "speak this speech, for heaven's sake urge this on her--put in this-- forget not, as you'd save me, t'other thing,-- then set down what she says, and how she looks, and if she smiles, and" (in an under breath) "only let her accept me, and do you and all the world refuse me, if you dare!" guendolen. that way you'd take, friend austin? what a shame i was your cousin, tamely from the first your bride, and all this fervour's run to waste! do you know you speak sensibly to-day? the earl's a fool. austin. here's thorold. tell him so! tresham [returning]. now, voices, voices! 'st! the lady's first! how seems he?--seems he not... come, faith give fraud the mercy-stroke whenever they engage! down with fraud, up with faith! how seems the earl? a name! a blazon! if you knew their worth, as you will never! come--the earl? guendolen. he's young. tresham. what's she? an infant save in heart and brain. young! mildred is fourteen, remark! and you... austin, how old is she? guendolen. there's tact for you! i meant that being young was good excuse if one should tax him... tresham. well? guendolen. --with lacking wit. tresham. he lacked wit? where might he lack wit, so please you? guendolen. in standing straighter than the steward's rod and making you the tiresomest harangue, instead of slipping over to my side and softly whispering in my ear, "sweet lady, your cousin there will do me detriment he little dreams of: he's absorbed, i see, in my old name and fame--be sure he'll leave my mildred, when his best account of me is ended, in full confidence i wear my grandsire's periwig down either cheek. i'm lost unless your gentleness vouchsafes"... tresham... "to give a best of best accounts, yourself, of me and my demerits." you are right! he should have said what now i say for him. yon golden creature, will you help us all? here's austin means to vouch for much, but you --you are... what austin only knows! come up, all three of us: she's in the library no doubt, for the day's wearing fast. precede! guendolen. austin, how we must--! tresham. must what? must speak truth, malignant tongue! detect one fault in him! i challenge you! guendolen. witchcraft's a fault in him, for you're bewitched. tresham. what's urgent we obtain is, that she soon receive him--say, to-morrow--, next day at furthest. guendolen. ne'er instruct me! tresham. come! --he's out of your good graces, since forsooth, he stood not as he'd carry us by storm with his perfections! you're for the composed manly assured becoming confidence! --get her to say, "to-morrow," and i'll give you... i'll give you black urganda, to be spoiled with petting and snail-paces. will you? come! scene iii. --mildred's chamber. a painted window overlooks the park mildred and guendolen guendolen. now, mildred, spare those pains. i have not left our talkers in the library, and climbed the wearisome ascent to this your bower in company with you,--i have not dared... nay, worked such prodigies as sparing you lord mertoun's pedigree before the flood, which thorold seemed in very act to tell --or bringing austin to pluck up that most firm-rooted heresy--your suitor's eyes, he would maintain, were grey instead of blue-- i think i brought him to contrition!--well, i have not done such things, (all to deserve a minute's quiet cousin's talk with you,) to be dismissed so coolly. mildred. guendolen! what have i done? what could suggest... guendolen. there, there! do i not comprehend you'd be alone to throw those testimonies in a heap, thorold's enlargings, austin's brevities, with that poor silly heartless guendolen's ill-time misplaced attempted smartnesses-- and sift their sense out? now, i come to spare you nearly a whole night's labour. ask and have! demand, he answered! lack i ears and eyes? am i perplexed which side of the rock-table the conqueror dined on when he landed first, lord mertoun's ancestor was bidden take-- the bow-hand or the arrow-hand's great meed? mildred, the earl has soft blue eyes! mildred. my brother-- did he... you said that he received him well? guendolen. if i said only "well" i said not much. oh, stay--which brother? mildred. thorold! who--who else? guendolen. thorold (a secret) is too proud by half,-- nay, hear me out--with us he's even gentler than we are with our birds. of this great house the least retainer that e'er caught his glance would die for him, real dying--no mere talk: and in the world, the court, if men would cite the perfect spirit of honour, thorold's name rises of its clear nature to their lips. but he should take men's homage, trust in it, and care no more about what drew it down. he has desert, and that, acknowledgment; is he content? mildred. you wrong him, guendolen. guendolen. he's proud, confess; so proud with brooding o'er the light of his interminable line, an ancestry with men all paladins, and women all... mildred. dear guendolen, 'tis late! when yonder purple pane the climbing moon pierces, i know 'tis midnight. guendolen. well, that thorold should rise up from such musings, and receive one come audaciously to graft himself into this peerless stock, yet find no flaw, no slightest spot in such an one... mildred. who finds a spot in mertoun? guendolen. not your brother; therefore, not the whole world. mildred. i am weary, guendolen. bear with me! guendolen. i am foolish. mildred. oh no, kind! but i would rest. guendolen. good night and rest to you! i said how gracefully his mantle lay beneath the rings of his light hair? mildred. brown hair. guendolen. brown? why, it is brown: how could you know that? mildred. how? did not you--oh, austin 'twas, declared his hair was light, not brown--my head!--and look, the moon-beam purpling the dark chamber! sweet, good night! guendolen. forgive me--sleep the soundlier for me! [going, she turns suddenly.] mildred! perdition! all's discovered! thorold finds --that the earl's greatest of all grandmothers was grander daughter still--to that fair dame whose garter slipped down at the famous dance! [goes.] mildred. is she--can she be really gone at last? my heart! i shall not reach the window. needs must i have sinned much, so to suffer. [she lifts the small lamp which is suspended before the virgin's image in the window, and places it by the purple pane.] there! [she returns to the seat in front.] mildred and mertoun! mildred, with consent of all the world and thorold, mertoun's bride! too late! 'tis sweet to think of, sweeter still to hope for, that this blessed end soothes up the curse of the beginning; but i know it comes too late: 'twill sweetest be of all to dream my soul away and die upon. [a noise without.] the voice! oh why, why glided sin the snake into the paradise heaven meant us both? [the window opens softly. a low voice sings.] there's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than the purest; and her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the surest: and her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, gush in golden tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble: then her voice's music... call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble! [a figure wrapped in a mantle appears at the window.] and this woman says, "my days were sunless and my nights were moonless, parched the pleasant april herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak tuneless, if you loved me not!" and i who--(ah, for words of flame!) adore her, who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her-- [he enters, approaches her seat, and bends over her.] i may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, and by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me! [the earl throws off his slouched hat and long cloak.] my very heart sings, so i sing, beloved! mildred. sit, henry--do not take my hand! mertoun. 'tis mine. the meeting that appalled us both so much is ended. mildred. what begins now? mertoun. happiness such as the world contains not. mildred. that is it. our happiness would, as you say, exceed the whole world's best of blisses: we--do we deserve that? utter to your soul, what mine long since, beloved, has grown used to hear, like a death-knell, so much regarded once, and so familiar now; this will not be! mertoun. oh, mildred, have i met your brother's face? compelled myself--if not to speak untruth, yet to disguise, to shun, to put aside the truth, as--what had e'er prevailed on me save you to venture? have i gained at last your brother, the one scarer of your dreams, and waking thoughts' sole apprehension too? does a new life, like a young sunrise, break on the strange unrest of our night, confused with rain and stormy flaw--and will you see no dripping blossoms, no fire-tinted drops on each live spray, no vapour steaming up, and no expressless glory in the east? when i am by you, to be ever by you, when i have won you and may worship you, oh, mildred, can you say "this will not be"? mildred. sin has surprised us, so will punishment. mertoun. no--me alone, who sinned alone! mildred. the night you likened our past life to--was it storm throughout to you then, henry? mertoun. of your life i spoke--what am i, what my life, to waste a thought about when you are by me?--you it was, i said my folly called the storm and pulled the night upon. 'twas day with me-- perpetual dawn with me. mildred. come what, come will, you have been happy: take my hand! mertoun [after a pause]. how good your brother is! i figured him a cold-- shall i say, haughty man? mildred. they told me all. i know all. mertoun. it will soon be over. mildred. over? oh, what is over? what must i live through and say, "'tis over"? is our meeting over? have i received in presence of them all the partner of my guilty love--with brow trying to seem a maiden's brow--with lips which make believe that when they strive to form replies to you and tremble as they strive, it is the nearest ever they approached a stranger's... henry, yours that stranger's... lip-- with cheek that looks a virgin's, and that is... ah god, some prodigy of thine will stop this planned piece of deliberate wickedness in its birth even! some fierce leprous spot will mar the brow's dissimulating! i shall murmur no smooth speeches got by heart, but, frenzied, pour forth all our woeful story, the love, the shame, and the despair--with them round me aghast as round some cursed fount that should spirt water, and spouts blood. i'll not ...henry, you do not wish that i should draw this vengeance down? i'll not affect a grace that's gone from me--gone once, and gone for ever! mertoun. mildred, my honour is your own. i'll share disgrace i cannot suffer by myself. a word informs your brother i retract this morning's offer; time will yet bring forth some better way of saving both of us. mildred. i'll meet their faces, henry! mertoun. when? to-morrow! get done with it! mildred. oh, henry, not to-morrow! next day! i never shall prepare my words and looks and gestures sooner.--how you must despise me! mertoun. mildred, break it if you choose, a heart the love of you uplifted--still uplifts, thro' this protracted agony, to heaven! but mildred, answer me,--first pace the chamber with me--once again--now, say calmly the part, the... what it is of me you see contempt (for you did say contempt) --contempt for you in! i would pluck it off and cast it from me!--but no--no, you'll not repeat that?--will you, mildred, repeat that? mildred. dear henry! mertoun. i was scarce a boy--e'en now what am i more? and you were infantine when first i met you; why, your hair fell loose on either side! my fool's-cheek reddens now only in the recalling how it burned that morn to see the shape of many a dream --you know we boys are prodigal of charms to her we dream of--i had heard of one, had dreamed of her, and i was close to her, might speak to her, might live and die her own, who knew? i spoke. oh, mildred, feel you not that now, while i remember every glance of yours, each word of yours, with power to test and weigh them in the diamond scales of pride, resolved the treasure of a first and last heart's love shall have been bartered at its worth, --that now i think upon your purity and utter ignorance of guilt--your own or other's guilt--the girlish undisguised delight at a strange novel prize--(i talk a silly language, but interpret, you!) if i, with fancy at its full, and reason scarce in its germ, enjoined you secrecy, if you had pity on my passion, pity on my protested sickness of the soul to sit beside you, hear you breathe, and watch your eyelids and the eyes beneath--if you accorded gifts and knew not they were gifts-- if i grew mad at last with enterprise and must behold my beauty in her bower or perish--(i was ignorant of even my own desires--what then were you?) if sorrow-- sin--if the end came--must i now renounce my reason, blind myself to light, say truth is false and lie to god and my own soul? contempt were all of this! mildred. do you believe... or, henry, i'll not wrong you--you believe that i was ignorant. i scarce grieve o'er the past. we'll love on; you will love me still. mertoun. oh, to love less what one has injured! dove, whose pinion i have rashly hurt, my breast-- shall my heart's warmth not nurse thee into strength? flower i have crushed, shall i not care for thee? bloom o'er my crest, my fight-mark and device! mildred, i love you and you love me. mildred. go! be that your last word. i shall sleep to-night. mertoun. this is not our last meeting? mildred. one night more. mertoun. and then--think, then! mildred. then, no sweet courtship-days, no dawning consciousness of love for us, no strange and palpitating births of sense from words and looks, no innocent fears and hopes, reserves and confidences: morning's over! mertoun. how else should love's perfected noontide follow? all the dawn promised shall the day perform. mildred. so may it be! but-- you are cautious, love? are sure that unobserved you scaled the walls? mertoun. oh, trust me! then our final meeting's fixed to-morrow night? mildred. farewell! stay, henry... wherefore? his foot is on the yew-tree bough; the turf receives him: now the moonlight as he runs embraces him--but he must go--is gone. ah, once again he turns--thanks, thanks, my love! he's gone. oh, i'll believe him every word! i was so young, i loved him so, i had no mother, god forgot me, and i fell. there may be pardon yet: all's doubt beyond! surely the bitterness of death is past. act ii scene.--the library enter lord tresham, hastily tresham. this way! in, gerard, quick! [as gerard enters, tresham secures the door.] now speak! or, wait-- i'll bid you speak directly. [seats himself.] now repeat firmly and circumstantially the tale you just now told me; it eludes me; either i did not listen, or the half is gone away from me. how long have you lived here? here in my house, your father kept our woods before you? gerard. --as his father did, my lord. i have been eating, sixty years almost, your bread. tresham. yes, yes. you ever were of all the servants in my father's house, i know, the trusted one. you'll speak the truth. gerard. i'll speak god's truth. night after night... tresham. since when? gerard. at least a month--each midnight has some man access to lady mildred's chamber. tresham. tush, "access"-- no wide words like "access" to me! gerard. he runs along the woodside, crosses to the south, takes the left tree that ends the avenue... tresham. the last great yew-tree? gerard. you might stand upon the main boughs like a platform. then he... tresham. quick! gerard. climbs up, and, where they lessen at the top, --i cannot see distinctly, but he throws, i think--for this i do not vouch--a line that reaches to the lady's casement-- tresham. --which he enters not! gerard, some wretched fool dares pry into my sister's privacy! when such are young, it seems a precious thing to have approached,--to merely have approached, got sight of the abode of her they set their frantic thoughts upon. ha does not enter? gerard? gerard. there is a lamp that's full i' the midst. under a red square in the painted glass of lady mildred's... tresham. leave that name out! well? that lamp? gerard. is moved at midnight higher up to one pane--a small dark-blue pane; he waits for that among the boughs: at sight of that, i see him, plain as i see you, my lord, open the lady's casement, enter there... tresham. --and stay? gerard. an hour, two hours. tresham. and this you saw once?--twice?--quick! gerard. twenty times. tresham. and what brings you under the yew-trees? gerard. the first night i left my range so far, to track the stranger stag that broke the pale, i saw the man. tresham. yet sent no cross-bow shaft through the marauder? gerard. but he came, my lord, the first time he was seen, in a great moonlight, light as any day, from lady mildred's chamber. tresham [after a pause]. you have no cause --who could have cause to do my sister wrong? gerard. oh, my lord, only once--let me this once speak what is on my mind! since first i noted all this, i've groaned as if a fiery net plucked me this way and that--fire if i turned to her, fire if i turned to you, and fire if down i flung myself and strove to die. the lady could not have been seven years old when i was trusted to conduct her safe through the deer-herd to stroke the snow-white fawn i brought to eat bread from her tiny hand within a month. she ever had a smile to greet me with--she... if it could undo what's done, to lop each limb from off this trunk... all that is foolish talk, not fit for you-- i mean, i could not speak and bring her hurt for heaven's compelling. but when i was fixed to hold my peace, each morsel of your food eaten beneath your roof, my birth-place too, choked me. i wish i had grown mad in doubts what it behoved me do. this morn it seemed either i must confess to you or die: now it is done, i seem the vilest worm that crawls, to have betrayed my lady. tresham. no-- no, gerard! gerard. let me go! tresham. a man, you say: what man? young? not a vulgar hind? what dress? gerard. a slouched hat and a large dark foreign cloak wraps his whole form; even his face is hid; but i should judge him young: no hind, be sure! tresham. why? gerard. he is ever armed: his sword projects beneath the cloak. tresham. gerard,--i will not say no word, no breath of this! gerard. thank, thanks, my lord! [goes.] tresham [paces the room. after a pause]. oh, thoughts absurd!--as with some monstrous fact which, when ill thoughts beset us, seems to give merciful god that made the sun and stars, the waters and the green delights of earth, the lie! i apprehend the monstrous fact-- yet know the maker of all worlds is good, and yield my reason up, inadequate to reconcile what yet i do behold-- blasting my sense! there's cheerful day outside: this is my library, and this the chair my father used to sit in carelessly after his soldier-fashion, while i stood between his knees to question him: and here gerard our grey retainer,--as he says, fed with our food, from sire to son, an age,-- has told a story--i am to believe! that mildred... oh, no, no! both tales are true, her pure cheek's story and the forester's! would she, or could she, err--much less, confound all guilts of treachery, of craft, of... heaven keep me within its hand!--i will sit here until thought settle and i see my course. avert, oh god, only this woe from me! [as he sinks his head between his arms on the table, guendolen's voice is heard at the door.] lord tresham! [she knocks.] is lord tresham there? [tresham, hastily turning, pulls down the first book above him and opens it.] tresham. come in! [she enters.] ha, guendolen!--good morning. guendolen. nothing more? tresham. what should i say more? guendolen. pleasant question! more? this more. did i besiege poor mildred's brain last night till close on morning with "the earl," "the earl"--whose worth did i asseverate till i am very fain to hope that... thorold, what is all this? you are not well! tresham. who, i? you laugh at me. guendolen. has what i'm fain to hope, arrived then? does that huge tome show some blot in the earl's 'scutcheon come no longer back than arthur's time? tresham. when left you mildred's chamber? guendolen. oh, late enough, i told you! the main thing to ask is, how i left her chamber,--sure, content yourself, she'll grant this paragon of earls no such ungracious... tresham. send her here! guendolen. thorold? tresham. i mean--acquaint her, guendolen, --but mildly! guendolen. mildly? tresham. ah, you guessed aright! i am not well: there is no hiding it. but tell her i would see her at her leisure-- that is, at once! here in the library! the passage in that old italian book we hunted for so long is found, say, found-- and if i let it slip again... you see, that she must come--and instantly! guendolen. i'll die piecemeal, record that, if there have not gloomed some blot i' the 'scutcheon! tresham. go! or, guendolen, be you at call,--with austin, if you choose,-- in the adjoining gallery! there go! [guendolen goes.] another lesson to me! you might bid a child disguise his heart's sore, and conduct some sly investigation point by point with a smooth brow, as well as bid me catch the inquisitorial cleverness some praise. if you had told me yesterday, "there's one you needs must circumvent and practise with, entrap by policies, if you would worm the truth out: and that one is--mildred!" there, there--reasoning is thrown away on it! prove she's unchaste... why, you may after prove that she's a poisoner, traitress, what you will! where i can comprehend nought, nought's to say, or do, or think. force on me but the first abomination,--then outpour all plagues, and i shall ne'er make count of them. enter mildred mildred. what book is it i wanted, thorold? guendolen thought you were pale; you are not pale. that book? that's latin surely. tresham. mildred, here's a line, (don't lean on me: i'll english it for you) "love conquers all things." what love conquers them? what love should you esteem--best love? mildred. true love. tresham. i mean, and should have said, whose love is best of all that love or that profess to love? mildred. the list's so long: there's father's, mother's, husband's... tresham. mildred, i do believe a brother's love for a sole sister must exceed them all. for see now, only see! there's no alloy of earth that creeps into the perfect'st gold of other loves--no gratitude to claim; you never gave her life, not even aught that keeps life--never tended her, instructed, enriched her--so, your love can claim no right o'er her save pure love's claim: that's what i call freedom from earthliness. you'll never hope to be such friends, for instance, she and you, as when you hunted cowslips in the woods, or played together in the meadow hay. oh yes--with age, respect comes, and your worth is felt, there's growing sympathy of tastes, there's ripened friendship, there's confirmed esteem: --much head these make against the newcomer! the startling apparition, the strange youth-- whom one half-hour's conversing with, or, say, mere gazing at, shall change (beyond all change this ovid ever sang about) your soul ...her soul, that is,--the sister's soul! with her 'twas winter yesterday; now, all is warmth, the green leaf's springing and the turtle's voice, "arise and come away!" come whither?--far enough from the esteem, respect, and all the brother's somewhat insignificant array of rights! all which he knows before, has calculated on so long ago! i think such love, (apart from yours and mine,) contented with its little term of life, intending to retire betimes, aware how soon the background must be placed for it, --i think, am sure, a brother's love exceeds all the world's love in its unworldliness. mildred. what is this for? tresham. this, mildred, is it for! or, no, i cannot go to it so soon! that's one of many points my haste left out-- each day, each hour throws forth its silk-slight film between the being tied to you by birth, and you, until those slender threads compose a web that shrouds her daily life of hopes and fears and fancies, all her life, from yours: so close you live and yet so far apart! and must i rend this web, tear up, break down the sweet and palpitating mystery that makes her sacred? you--for you i mean, shall i speak, shall i not speak? mildred. speak! tresham. i will. is there a story men could--any man could tell of you, you would conceal from me? i'll never think there's falsehood on that lip. say "there is no such story men could tell," and i'll believe you, though i disbelieve the world--the world of better men than i, and women such as i suppose you. speak! [after a pause.] not speak? explain then! clear it up then! move some of the miserable weight away that presses lower than the grave. not speak? some of the dead weight, mildred! ah, if i could bring myself to plainly make their charge against you! must i, mildred? silent still? [after a pause.] is there a gallant that has night by night admittance to your chamber? [after a pause.] then, his name! till now, i only had a thought for you: but now,--his name! mildred. thorold, do you devise fit expiation for my guilt, if fit there be! 'tis nought to say that i'll endure and bless you,--that my spirit yearns to purge her stains off in the fierce renewing fire: but do not plunge me into other guilt! oh, guilt enough! i cannot tell his name. tresham. then judge yourself! how should i act? pronounce! mildred. oh, thorold, you must never tempt me thus! to die here in this chamber by that sword would seem like punishment: so should i glide, like an arch-cheat, into extremest bliss! 'twere easily arranged for me: but you-- what would become of you? tresham. and what will now become of me? i'll hide your shame and mine from every eye; the dead must heave their hearts under the marble of our chapel-floor; they cannot rise and blast you. you may wed your paramour above our mother's tomb; our mother cannot move from 'neath your foot. we too will somehow wear this one day out: but with to-morrow hastens here--the earl! the youth without suspicion. face can come from heaven and heart from... whence proceed such hearts? i have dispatched last night at your command a missive bidding him present himself to-morrow--here--thus much is said; the rest is understood as if 'twere written down-- "his suit finds favor in your eyes." now dictate this morning's letter that shall countermand last night's--do dictate that! mildred. but, thorold--if i will receive him as i said? tresham. the earl? mildred. i will receive him. tresham [starting up]. ho there! guendolen! guendolen and austin enter and, austin, you are welcome, too! look there! the woman there! austin and guendolen. how? mildred? tresham. mildred once! now the receiver night by night, when sleep blesses the inmates of her father's house, --i say, the soft sly wanton that receives her guilt's accomplice 'neath this roof which holds you, guendolen, you, austin, and has held a thousand treshams--never one like her! no lighter of the signal-lamp her quick foul breath near quenches in hot eagerness to mix with breath as foul! no loosener o' the lattice, practised in the stealthy tread, the low voice and the noiseless come-and-go! not one composer of the bacchant's mien into--what you thought mildred's, in a word! know her! guendolen. oh, mildred, look to me, at least! thorold--she's dead, i'd say, but that she stands rigid as stone and whiter! tresham. you have heard... guendolen. too much! you must proceed no further. mildred. yes-- proceed! all's truth. go from me! tresham. all is truth, she tells you! well, you know, or ought to know, all this i would forgive in her. i'd con each precept the harsh world enjoins, i'd take our ancestors' stern verdicts one by one, i'd bind myself before then to exact the prescribed vengeance--and one word of hers, the sight of her, the bare least memory of mildred, my one sister, my heart's pride above all prides, my all in all so long, would scatter every trace of my resolve. what were it silently to waste away and see her waste away from this day forth, two scathed things with leisure to repent, and grow acquainted with the grave, and die tired out if not at peace, and be forgotten? it were not so impossible to bear. but this--that, fresh from last night's pledge renewed of love with the successful gallant there, she calmly bids me help her to entice, inveigle an unconscious trusting youth who thinks her all that's chaste and good and pure, --invites me to betray him... who so fit as honour's self to cover shame's arch-deed? --that she'll receive lord mertoun--(her own phrase)-- this, who could bear? why, you have heard of thieves, stabbers, the earth's disgrace, who yet have laughed, "talk not to me of torture--i'll betray no comrade i've pledged faith to!"--you have heard of wretched women--all but mildreds--tied by wild illicit ties to losels vile you'd tempt them to forsake; and they'll reply "gold, friends, repute, i left for him, i find in him, why should i leave him then, for gold, repute or friends?"--and you have felt your heart respond to such poor outcasts of the world as to so many friends; bad as you please, you've felt they were god's men and women still, so, not to be disowned by you. but she that stands there, calmly gives her lover up as means to wed the earl that she may hide their intercourse the surelier: and, for this, i curse her to her face before you all. shame hunt her from the earth! then heaven do right to both! it hears me now--shall judge her then! [as mildred faints and falls, tresham rushes out.] austin. stay, tresham, we'll accompany you! guendolen. we? what, and leave mildred? we? why, where's my place but by her side, and where yours but by mine? mildred--one word! only look at me, then! austin. no, guendolen! i echo thorold's voice. she is unworthy to behold... guendolen. us two? if you spoke on reflection, and if i approved your speech--if you (to put the thing at lowest) you the soldier, bound to make the king's cause yours and fight for it, and throw regard to others of its right or wrong, --if with a death-white woman you can help, let alone sister, let alone a mildred, you left her--or if i, her cousin, friend this morning, playfellow but yesterday, who said, or thought at least a thousand times, "i'd serve you if i could," should now face round and say, "ah, that's to only signify i'd serve you while you're fit to serve yourself: so long as fifty eyes await the turn of yours to forestall its yet half-formed wish, i'll proffer my assistance you'll not need-- when every tongue is praising you, i'll join the praisers' chorus--when you're hemmed about with lives between you and detraction--lives to be laid down if a rude voice, rash eye, rough hand should violate the sacred ring their worship throws about you,--then indeed, who'll stand up for you stout as i?" if so we said, and so we did,--not mildred there would be unworthy to behold us both, but we should be unworthy, both of us. to be beheld by--by--your meanest dog, which, if that sword were broken in your face before a crowd, that badge torn off your breast, and you cast out with hooting and contempt, --would push his way thro' all the hooters, gain your side, go off with you and all your shame to the next ditch you choose to die in! austin, do you love me? here's austin, mildred,--here's your brother says he does not believe half-- no, nor half that--of all he heard! he says, look up and take his hand! austin. look up and take my hand, dear mildred! mildred. i--i was so young! beside, i loved him, thorold--and i had no mother; god forgot me: so, i fell. guendolen. mildred! mildred. require no further! did i dream that i could palliate what is done? all's true. now, punish me! a woman takes my hand? let go my hand! you do not know, i see. i thought that thorold told you. guendolen. what is this? where start you to? mildred. oh, austin, loosen me! you heard the whole of it--your eyes were worse, in their surprise, than thorold's! oh, unless you stay to execute his sentence, loose my hand! has thorold gone, and are you here? guendolen. here, mildred, we two friends of yours will wait your bidding; be you silent, sleep or muse! only, when you shall want your bidding done, how can we do it if we are not by? here's austin waiting patiently your will! one spirit to command, and one to love and to believe in it and do its best, poor as that is, to help it--why, the world has been won many a time, its length and breadth, by just such a beginning! mildred. i believe if once i threw my arms about your neck and sunk my head upon your breast, that i should weep again. guendolen. let go her hand now, austin! wait for me. pace the gallery and think on the world's seemings and realities, until i call you. [austin goes.] mildred. no--i cannot weep. no more tears from this brain--no sleep--no tears! o guendolen, i love you! guendolen. yes: and "love" is a short word that says so very much! it says that you confide in me. mildred. confide! guendolen. your lover's name, then! i've so much to learn, ere i can work in your behalf! mildred. my friend, you know i cannot tell his name. guendolen. at least he is your lover? and you love him too? mildred. ah, do you ask me that,--but i am fallen so low! guendolen. you love him still, then? mildred. my sole prop against the guilt that crushes me! i say, each night ere i lie down, "i was so young-- i had no mother, and i loved him so!" and then god seems indulgent, and i dare trust him my soul in sleep. guendolen. how could you let us e'en talk to you about lord mertoun then? mildred. there is a cloud around me. guendolen. but you said you would receive his suit in spite of this? mildred. i say there is a cloud... guendolen. no cloud to me! lord mertoun and your lover are the same! mildred. what maddest fancy... guendolen [calling aloud.] austin! (spare your pains-- when i have got a truth, that truth i keep)-- mildred. by all you love, sweet guendolen, forbear! have i confided in you... guendolen. just for this! austin!--oh, not to guess it at the first! but i did guess it--that is, i divined, felt by an instinct how it was: why else should i pronounce you free from all that heap of sins which had been irredeemable? i felt they were not yours--what other way than this, not yours? the secret's wholly mine! mildred. if you would see me die before his face... guendolen. i'd hold my peace! and if the earl returns to-night? mildred. ah heaven, he's lost! guendolen. i thought so. austin! enter austin oh, where have you been hiding? austin. thorold's gone, i know not how, across the meadow-land. i watched him till i lost him in the skirts o' the beech-wood. guendolen. gone? all thwarts us. mildred. thorold too? guendolen. i have thought. first lead this mildred to her room. go on the other side; and then we'll seek your brother: and i'll tell you, by the way, the greatest comfort in the world. you said there was a clue to all. remember, sweet, he said there was a clue! i hold it. come! act iii scene i.--the end of the yew-tree avenue under mildred's window. a light seen through a central red pane enter tresham through the trees again here! but i cannot lose myself. the heath--the orchard--i have traversed glades and dells and bosky paths which used to lead into green wild-wood depths, bewildering my boy's adventurous step. and now they tend hither or soon or late; the blackest shade breaks up, the thronged trunks of the trees ope wide, and the dim turret i have fled from, fronts again my step; the very river put its arm about me and conducted me to this detested spot. why then, i'll shun their will no longer: do your will with me! oh, bitter! to have reared a towering scheme of happiness, and to behold it razed, were nothing: all men hope, and see their hopes frustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope anew. but i... to hope that from a line like ours no horrid prodigy like this would spring, were just as though i hoped that from these old confederates against the sovereign day, children of older and yet older sires, whose living coral berries dropped, as now on me, on many a baron's surcoat once, on many a beauty's whimple--would proceed no poison-tree, to thrust, from hell its root, hither and thither its strange snaky arms. why came i here? what must i do? [a bell strikes.] a bell? midnight! and 'tis at midnight... ah, i catch --woods, river, plains, i catch your meaning now, and i obey you! hist! this tree will serve. [he retires behind one of the trees. after a pause, enter mertoun cloaked as before.] mertoun. not time! beat out thy last voluptuous beat of hope and fear, my heart! i thought the clock i' the chapel struck as i was pushing through the ferns. and so i shall no more see rise my love-star! oh, no matter for the past! so much the more delicious task to watch mildred revive: to pluck out, thorn by thorn, all traces of the rough forbidden path my rash love lured her to! each day must see some fear of hers effaced, some hope renewed: then there will be surprises, unforeseen delights in store. i'll not regret the past. [the light is placed above in the purple pane.] and see, my signal rises, mildred's star! i never saw it lovelier than now it rises for the last time. if it sets, 'tis that the re-assuring sun may dawn. [as he prepares to ascend the last tree of the avenue, tresham arrests his arm.] unhand me--peasant, by your grasp! here's gold. 'twas a mad freak of mine. i said i'd pluck a branch from the white-blossomed shrub beneath the casement there. take this, and hold your peace. tresham. into the moonlight yonder, come with me! out of the shadow! mertoun. i am armed, fool! tresham. yes, or no? you'll come into the light, or no? my hand is on your throat--refuse!-- mertoun. that voice! where have i heard... no--that was mild and slow. i'll come with you. [they advance.] tresham. you're armed: that's well. declare your name: who are you? mertoun. (tresham!--she is lost!) tresham. oh, silent? do you know, you bear yourself exactly as, in curious dreams i've had how felons, this wild earth is full of, look when they're detected, still your kind has looked! the bravo holds an assured countenance, the thief is voluble and plausible, but silently the slave of lust has crouched when i have fancied it before a man. your name! mertoun. i do conjure lord tresham--ay, kissing his foot, if so i might prevail-- that he for his own sake forbear to ask my name! as heaven's above, his future weal or woe depends upon my silence! vain! i read your white inexorable face. know me, lord tresham! [he throws off his disguises.] tresham. mertoun! [after a pause.] draw now! mertoun. hear me but speak first! tresham. not one least word on your life! be sure that i will strangle in your throat the least word that informs me how you live and yet seem what you seem! no doubt 'twas you taught mildred still to keep that face and sin. we should join hands in frantic sympathy if you once taught me the unteachable, explained how you can live so and so lie. with god's help i retain, despite my sense, the old belief--a life like yours is still impossible. now draw! mertoun. not for my sake, do i entreat a hearing--for your sake, and most, for her sake! tresham. ha, ha, what should i know of your ways? a miscreant like yourself, how must one rouse his ire? a blow?--that's pride no doubt, to him! one spurns him, does one not? or sets the foot upon his mouth, or spits into his face! come! which, or all of these? mertoun. 'twixt him and me and mildred, heaven be judge! can i avoid this? have your will, my lord! [he draws and, after a few passes, falls.] tresham. you are not hurt? mertoun. you'll hear me now! tresham. but rise! mertoun. ah, tresham, say i not "you'll hear me now!" and what procures a man the right to speak in his defence before his fellow man, but--i suppose--the thought that presently he may have leave to speak before his god his whole defence? tresham. not hurt? it cannot be! you made no effort to resist me. where did my sword reach you? why not have returned my thrusts? hurt where? mertoun. my lord-- tresham. how young he is! mertoun. lord tresham, i am very young, and yet i have entangled other lives with mine. do let me speak, and do believe my speech! that when i die before you presently,-- tresham. can you stay here till i return with help? mertoun. oh, stay by me! when i was less than boy i did you grievous wrong and knew it not-- upon my honour, knew it not! once known, i could not find what seemed a better way to right you than i took: my life--you feel how less than nothing were the giving you the life you've taken! but i thought my way the better--only for your sake and hers: and as you have decided otherwise, would i had an infinity of lives to offer you! now say--instruct me--think! can you, from the brief minutes i have left, eke out my reparation? oh think--think! for i must wring a partial--dare i say, forgiveness from you, ere i die? tresham. i do forgive you. mertoun. wait and ponder that great word! because, if you forgive me, i shall hope to speak to you of--mildred! tresham. mertoun, haste and anger have undone us. 'tis not you should tell me for a novelty you're young, thoughtless, unable to recall the past. be but your pardon ample as my own! mertoun. ah, tresham, that a sword-stroke and a drop of blood or two, should bring all this about why, 'twas my very fear of you, my love of you--(what passion like a boy's for one like you?)--that ruined me! i dreamed of you-- you, all accomplished, courted everywhere, the scholar and the gentleman. i burned to knit myself to you: but i was young, and your surpassing reputation kept me so far aloof! oh, wherefore all that love? with less of love, my glorious yesterday of praise and gentlest words and kindest looks, had taken place perchance six months ago. even now, how happy we had been! and yet i know the thought of this escaped you, tresham! let me look up into your face; i feel 'tis changed above me: yet my eyes are glazed. where? where? [as he endeavours to raise himself, his eye catches the lamp.] ah, mildred! what will mildred do? tresham, her life is bound up in the life that's bleeding fast away! i'll live--must live, there, if you'll only turn me i shall live and save her! tresham--oh, had you but heard! had you but heard! what right was yours to set the thoughtless foot upon her life and mine, and then say, as we perish, "had i thought, all had gone otherwise"? we've sinned and die: never you sin, lord tresham! for you'll die, and god will judge you. tresham. yes, be satisfied! that process is begun. mertoun. and she sits there waiting for me! now, say you this to her-- you, not another--say, i saw him die as he breathed this, "i love her"--you don't know what those three small words mean! say, loving her lowers me down the bloody slope to death with memories... i speak to her, not you, who had no pity, will have no remorse, perchance intend her... die along with me, dear mildred! 'tis so easy, and you'll 'scape so much unkindness! can i lie at rest, with rude speech spoken to you, ruder deeds done to you?--heartless men shall have my heart, and i tied down with grave-clothes and the worm, aware, perhaps, of every blow--oh god!-- upon those lips--yet of no power to tear the felon stripe by stripe! die, mildred! leave their honourable world to them! for god we're good enough, though the world casts us out. [a whistle is heard.] tresham. ho, gerard! enter gerard, austin and guendolen, with lights no one speak! you see what's done. i cannot bear another voice. mertoun. there's light-- light all about me, and i move to it. tresham, did i not tell you--did you not just promise to deliver words of mine to mildred? tresham. i will bear those words to her. mertoun. now? tresham. now. lift you the body, and leave me the head. [as they have half raised mertoun, he turns suddenly.] mertoun. i knew they turned me: turn me not from her! there! stay you! there! [dies.] guendolen [after a pause]. austin, remain you here with thorold until gerard comes with help: then lead him to his chamber. i must go to mildred. tresham. guendolen, i hear each word you utter. did you hear him bid me give his message? did you hear my promise? i, and only i, see mildred. guendolen. she will die. tresham. oh no, she will not die! i dare not hope she'll die. what ground have you to think she'll die? why, austin's with you! austin. had we but arrived before you fought! tresham. there was no fight at all. he let me slaughter him--the boy! i'll trust the body there to you and gerard--thus! now bear him on before me. austin. whither bear him? tresham. oh, to my chamber! when we meet there next, we shall be friends. [they bear out the body of mertoun.] will she die, guendolen? guendolen. where are you taking me? tresham. he fell just here. now answer me. shall you in your whole life --you who have nought to do with mertoun's fate, now you have seen his breast upon the turf, shall you e'er walk this way if you can help? when you and austin wander arm-in-arm through our ancestral grounds, will not a shade be ever on the meadow and the waste-- another kind of shade than when the night shuts the woodside with all its whispers up? but will you ever so forget his breast as carelessly to cross this bloody turf under the black yew avenue? that's well! you turn your head: and i then?-- guendolen. what is done is done. my care is for the living. thorold, bear up against this burden: more remains to set the neck to! tresham. dear and ancient trees my fathers planted, and i loved so well! what have i done that, like some fabled crime of yore, lets loose a fury leading thus her miserable dance amidst you all? oh, never more for me shall winds intone with all your tops a vast antiphony, demanding and responding in god's praise! hers ye are now, not mine! farewell--farewell! scene ii.--mildred's chamber mildred alone he comes not! i have heard of those who seemed resourceless in prosperity,--you thought sorrow might slay them when she listed; yet did they so gather up their diffused strength at her first menace, that they bade her strike, and stood and laughed her subtlest skill to scorn. oh, 'tis not so with me! the first woe fell, and the rest fall upon it, not on me: else should i bear that henry comes not?--fails just this first night out of so many nights? loving is done with. were he sitting now, as so few hours since, on that seat, we'd love no more--contrive no thousand happy ways to hide love from the loveless, any more. i think i might have urged some little point in my defence, to thorold; he was breathless for the least hint of a defence: but no, the first shame over, all that would might fall. no henry! yet i merely sit and think the morn's deed o'er and o'er. i must have crept out of myself. a mildred that has lost her lover--oh, i dare not look upon such woe! i crouch away from it! 'tis she, mildred, will break her heart, not i! the world forsakes me: only henry's left me--left? when i have lost him, for he does not come, and i sit stupidly... oh heaven, break up this worse than anguish, this mad apathy, by any means or any messenger! tresham [without]. mildred! mildred. come in! heaven hears me! [enter tresham.] you? alone? oh, no more cursing! tresham. mildred, i must sit. there--you sit! mildred. say it, thorold--do not look the curse! deliver all you come to say! what must become of me? oh, speak that thought which makes your brow and cheeks so pale! tresham. my thought? mildred. all of it! tresham. how we waded years--ago-- after those water-lilies, till the plash, i know not how, surprised us; and you dared neither advance nor turn back: so, we stood laughing and crying until gerard came-- once safe upon the turf, the loudest too, for once more reaching the relinquished prize! how idle thoughts are, some men's, dying men's! mildred,-- mildred. you call me kindlier by my name than even yesterday: what is in that? tresham. it weighs so much upon my mind that i this morning took an office not my own! i might... of course, i must be glad or grieved, content or not, at every little thing that touches you. i may with a wrung heart even reprove you, mildred; i did more: will you forgive me? mildred. thorold? do you mock? oh no... and yet you bid me... say that word! tresham. forgive me, mildred!--are you silent, sweet? mildred [starting up]. why does not henry mertoun come to-night? are you, too, silent? [dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to his scabbard, which is empty.] ah, this speaks for you! you've murdered henry mertoun! now proceed! what is it i must pardon? this and all? well, i do pardon you--i think i do. thorold, how very wretched you must be! tresham. he bade me tell you... mildred. what i do forbid your utterance of! so much that you may tell and will not--how you murdered him... but, no! you'll tell me that he loved me, never more than bleeding out his life there: must i say "indeed," to that? enough! i pardon you. tresham. you cannot, mildred! for the harsh words, yes: of this last deed another's judge: whose doom i wait in doubt, despondency and fear. mildred. oh, true! there's nought for me to pardon! true! you loose my soul of all its cares at once. death makes me sure of him for ever! you tell me his last words? he shall tell me them, and take my answer--not in words, but reading himself the heart i had to read him late, which death... tresham. death? you are dying too? well said of guendolen! i dared not hope you'd die: but she was sure of it. mildred. tell guendolen i loved her, and tell austin... tresham. him you loved: and me? mildred. ah, thorold! was't not rashly done to quench that blood, on fire with youth and hope and love of me--whom you loved too, and yet suffered to sit here waiting his approach while you were slaying him? oh, doubtlessly you let him speak his poor confused boy's-speech --do his poor utmost to disarm your wrath and respite me!--you let him try to give the story of our love and ignorance, and the brief madness and the long despair-- you let him plead all this, because your code of honour bids you hear before you strike: but at the end, as he looked up for life into your eyes--you struck him down! tresham. no! no! had i but heard him--had i let him speak half the truth--less--had i looked long on him i had desisted! why, as he lay there, the moon on his flushed cheek, i gathered all the story ere he told it: i saw through the troubled surface of his crime and yours a depth of purity immovable, had i but glanced, where all seemed turbidest had gleamed some inlet to the calm beneath; i would not glance: my punishment's at hand. there, mildred, is the truth! and you--say on-- you curse me? mildred. as i dare approach that heaven which has not bade a living thing despair, which needs no code to keep its grace from stain, but bids the vilest worm that turns on it desist and be forgiven,--i--forgive not, but bless you, thorold, from my soul of souls! [falls on his neck.] there! do not think too much upon the past! the cloud that's broke was all the same a cloud while it stood up between my friend and you; you hurt him 'neath its shadow: but is that so past retrieve? i have his heart, you know; i may dispose of it: i give it you! it loves you as mine loves! confirm me, henry! [dies.] tresham. i wish thee joy, beloved! i am glad in thy full gladness! guendolen [without]. mildred! tresham! [entering with austin.] thorold, i could desist no longer. ah, she swoons! that's well. tresham. oh, better far than that! guendolen. she's dead! let me unlock her arms! tresham. she threw them thus about my neck, and blessed me, and then died: you'll let them stay now, guendolen! austin. leave her and look to him! what ails you, thorold? guendolen. white as she, and whiter! austin! quick--this side! austin. a froth is oozing through his clenched teeth; both lips, where they're not bitten through, are black: speak, dearest thorold! tresham. something does weigh down my neck beside her weight: thanks: i should fall but for you, austin, i believe!--there, there, 'twill pass away soon!--ah,--i had forgotten: i am dying. guendolen. thorold--thorold--why was this? tresham. i said, just as i drank the poison off, the earth would be no longer earth to me, the life out of all life was gone from me. there are blind ways provided, the fore-done heart-weary player in this pageant-world drops out by, letting the main masque defile by the conspicuous portal: i am through-- just through! guendolen. don't leave him, austin! death is close. tresham. already mildred's face is peacefuller, i see you, austin--feel you; here's my hand, put yours in it--you, guendolen, yours too! you're lord and lady now--you're treshams; name and fame are yours: you hold our 'scutcheon up. austin, no blot on it! you see how blood must wash one blot away: the first blot came and the first blood came. to the vain world's eye all's gules again: no care to the vain world, from whence the red was drawn! austin. no blot shall come! tresham. i said that: yet it did come. should it come, vengeance is god's, not man's. remember me! [dies.] guendolen [letting fall the pulseless arm]. ah, thorold, we can but--remember you! the end life and letters of robert browning by mrs. sutherland orr second edition preface such letters of mr. browning's as appear, whole or in part, in the present volume have been in most cases given to me by the persons to whom they were addressed, or copied by miss browning from the originals under her care; but i owe to the daughter of the rev. w. j. fox--mrs. bridell fox--those written to her father and to miss flower; the two interesting extracts from her father's correspondence with herself and mr. browning's note to mr. robertson. for my general material i have been largely indebted to miss browning. her memory was the only existing record of her brother's boyhood and youth. it has been to me an unfailing as well as always accessible authority for that subsequent period of his life which i could only know in disconnected facts or his own fragmentary reminiscences. it is less true, indeed, to say that she has greatly helped me in writing this short biography than that without her help it could never have been undertaken. i thank my friends mrs. r. courtenay bell and miss hickey for their invaluable assistance in preparing the book for, and carrying it through the press; and i acknowledge with real gratitude the advantages derived by it from mr. dykes campbell's large literary experience in his very careful final revision of the proofs. a. orr. april , . contents chapter origin of the browning family--robert browning's grandfather--his position and character--his first and second marriage--unkindness towards his eldest son, robert browning's father--alleged infusion of west indian blood through robert browning's grandmother--existing evidence against it--the grandmother's portrait. chapter robert browning's father--his position in life--comparison between him and his son--tenderness towards his son--outline of his habits and character--his death--significant newspaper paragraph--letter of mr. locker--lampson--robert browning's mother--her character and antecedents--their influence upon her son--nervous delicacy imparted to both her children--its special evidences in her son. chapter - birth of robert browning--his childhood and schooldays--restless temperament--brilliant mental endowments--incidental peculiarities--strong religious feeling--passionate attachment to his mother; grief at first separation--fondness for animals--experiences of school life--extensive reading--early attempts in verse--letter from his father concerning them--spurious poems in circulation--'incondita'--mr. fox--miss flower. chapter - first impressions of keats and shelley--prolonged influence of shelley--details of home education--its effects--youthful restlessness--counteracting love of home--early friendships: alfred domett, joseph arnould, the silverthornes--choice of poetry as a profession--alternative suggestions; mistaken rumours concerning them--interest in art--love of good theatrical performances--talent for acting--final preparation for literary life. chapter - 'pauline'--letters to mr. fox--publication of the poem; chief biographical and literary characteristics--mr. fox's review in the 'monthly repository'; other notices--russian journey--desired diplomatic appointment--minor poems; first sonnet; their mode of appearance--'the trifler'--m. de ripert-monclar--'paracelsus'--letters to mr. fox concerning it; its publication--incidental origin of 'paracelsus'; its inspiring motive; its relation to 'pauline'--mr. fox's review of it in the 'monthly repository'--article in the 'examiner' by john forster. chapter - removal to hatcham; some particulars--renewed intercourse with the second family of robert browning's grandfather--reuben browning--william shergold browning--visitors at hatcham--thomas carlyle--social life--new friends and acquaintance--introduction to macready--new year's eve at elm place--introduction to john forster--miss fanny haworth--miss martineau--serjeant talfourd--the 'ion' supper--'strafford'--relations with macready--performance of 'strafford'--letters concerning it from mr. browning and miss flower--personal glimpses of robert browning--rival forms of dramatic inspiration--relation of 'strafford' to 'sordello'--mr. robertson and the 'westminster review'. chapter - first italian journey--letters to miss haworth--mr. john kenyon--'sordello'--letter to miss flower--'pippa passes'--'bells and pomegranates'. chapter - 'a blot in the 'scutcheon'--letters to mr. frank hill; lady martin--charles dickens--other dramas and minor poems--letters to miss lee; miss haworth; miss flower--second italian journey; naples--e. j. trelawney--stendhal. chapter - introduction to miss barrett--engagement--motives for secrecy--marriage--journey to italy--extract of letter from mr. fox--mrs. browning's letters to miss mitford--life at pisa--vallombrosa--florence; mr. powers; miss boyle--proposed british mission to the vatican--father prout--palazzo guidi--fano; ancona--'a blot in the 'scutcheon' at sadler's wells. chapter - death of mr. browning's mother--birth of his son--mrs. browning's letters continued--baths of lucca--florence again--venice--margaret fuller ossoli--visit to england--winter in paris--carlyle--george sand--alfred de musset. chapter - m. joseph milsand--his close friendship with mr. browning; mrs. browning's impression of him--new edition of mr. browning's poems--'christmas eve and easter day'--'essay' on shelley--summer in london--dante gabriel rossetti--florence; secluded life--letters from mr. and mrs. browning--'colombe's birthday'--baths of lucca--mrs. browning's letters--winter in rome--mr. and mrs. story--mrs. sartoris--mrs. fanny kemble--summer in london--tennyson--ruskin. chapter - 'men and women'--'karshook'--'two in the campagna'--winter in paris; lady elgin--'aurora leigh'--death of mr. kenyon and mr. barrett--penini--mrs. browning's letters to miss browning--the florentine carnival--baths of lucca--spiritualism--mr. kirkup; count ginnasi--letter from mr. browning to mr. fox--havre. chapter - mrs. browning's illness--siena--letter from mr. browning to mr. leighton--mrs. browning's letters continued--walter savage landor--winter in rome--mr. val prinsep--friends in rome: mr. and mrs. cartwright--multiplying social relations--massimo d'azeglio--siena again--illness and death of mrs. browning's sister--mr. browning's occupations--madame du quaire--mrs. browning's last illness and death. chapter - miss blagden--letters from mr. browning to miss haworth and mr. leighton--his feeling in regard to funeral ceremonies--establishment in london--plan of life--letter to madame du quaire--miss arabel barrett--biarritz--letters to miss blagden--conception of 'the ring and the book'--biographical indiscretion--new edition of his works--mr. and mrs. procter. chapter - pornic--'james lee's wife'--meeting at mr. f. palgrave's--letters to miss blagden--his own estimate of his work--his father's illness and death; miss browning--le croisic--academic honours; letter to the master of balliol--death of miss barrett--audierne--uniform edition of his works--his rising fame--'dramatis personae'--'the ring and the book'; character of pompilia. chapter - lord dufferin; helen's tower--scotland; visit to lady ashburton--letters to miss blagden--st.-aubin; the franco-prussian war--'herve riel'--letter to mr. g. m. smith--'balaustion's adventure'; 'prince hohenstiel--schwangau'--'fifine at the fair'--mistaken theories of mr. browning's work--st.-aubin; 'red cotton nightcap country'. chapter - london life--love of music--miss egerton-smith--periodical nervous exhaustion--mers; 'aristophanes' apology'--'agamemnon'--'the inn album'--'pacchiarotto and other poems'--visits to oxford and cambridge--letters to mrs. fitz-gerald--st. andrews; letter from professor knight--in the savoyard mountains--death of miss egerton-smith--'la saisiaz'; 'the two poets of croisic'--selections from his works. chapter - he revisits italy; asolo; letters to mrs. fitz-gerald--venice--favourite alpine retreats--mrs. arthur bronson--life in venice--a tragedy at saint-pierre--mr. cholmondeley--mr. browning's patriotic feeling; extract from letter to mrs. charles skirrow--'dramatic idyls'--'jocoseria'--'ferishtah's fancies'. chapter - the browning society; mr. furnivall; miss e. h. hickey--his attitude towards the society; letter to mrs. fitz-gerald--mr. thaxter, mrs. celia thaxter--letter to miss hickey; 'strafford'--shakspere and wordsworth societies--letters to professor knight--appreciation in italy; professor nencioni--the goldoni sonnet--mr. barrett browning; palazzo manzoni--letters to mrs. charles skirrow--mrs. bloomfield moore--llangollen; sir theodore and lady martin--loss of old friends--foreign correspondent of the royal academy--'parleyings with certain people of importance in their day'. chapter constancy to habit--optimism--belief in providence--political opinions--his friendships--reverence for genius--attitude towards his public--attitude towards his work--habits of work--his reading--conversational powers--impulsiveness and reserve--nervous peculiarities--his benevolence--his attitude towards women. chapter - marriage of mr. barrett browning--removal to de vere gardens--symptoms of failing strength--new poems; new edition of his works--letters to mr. george bainton, mr. smith, and lady martin--primiero and venice--letters to miss keep--the last year in london--asolo--letters to mrs. fitz-gerald, mrs. skirrow, and mr. g. m. smith. chapter proposed purchase of land at asolo--venice--letter to mr. g. moulton-barrett--lines in the 'athenaeum'--letter to miss keep--illness--death--funeral ceremonial at venice--publication of 'asolando'--interment in poets' corner. conclusion index portrait of robert browning ( ) mr. browning's study in de vere gardens life and letters of robert browning chapter origin of the browning family--robert browning's grandfather--his position and character--his first and second marriage--unkindness towards his eldest son, robert browning's father--alleged infusion of west indian blood through robert browning's grandmother--existing evidence against it--the grandmother's portrait. a belief was current in mr. browning's lifetime that he had jewish blood in his veins. it received outward support from certain accidents of his life, from his known interest in the hebrew language and literature, from his friendship for various members of the jewish community in london. it might well have yielded to the fact of his never claiming the kinship, which could not have existed without his knowledge, and which, if he had known it, he would, by reason of these very sympathies, have been the last person to disavow. the results of more recent and more systematic inquiry have shown the belief to be unfounded. our poet sprang, on the father's side, from an obscure or, as family tradition asserts, a decayed branch, of an anglo-saxon stock settled, at an early period of our history, in the south, and probably also south-west, of england. a line of brownings owned the manors of melbury-sampford and melbury-osmond, in north-west dorsetshire; their last representative disappeared--or was believed to do so--in the time of henry vii., their manors passing into the hands of the earls of ilchester, who still hold them.* the name occurs after in different parts of the country: in two cases with the affix of 'esquire', in two also, though not in both coincidently, within twenty miles of pentridge, where the first distinct traces of the poet's family appear. its cradle, as he called it, was woodyates, in the parish of pentridge, on the wiltshire confines of dorsetshire; and there his ancestors, of the third and fourth generations, held, as we understand, a modest but independent social position. * i am indebted for these facts, as well as for some others referring to, or supplied by, mr. browning's uncles, to some notes made for the browning society by dr. furnivall. this fragment of history, if we may so call it, accords better with our impression of mr. browning's genius than could any pedigree which more palpably connected him with the 'knightly' and 'squirely' families whose name he bore. it supplies the strong roots of english national life to which we instinctively refer it. both the vivid originality of that genius and its healthy assimilative power stamp it as, in some sense, the product of virgin soil; and although the varied elements which entered into its growth were racial as well as cultural, and inherited as well as absorbed, the evidence of its strong natural or physical basis remains undisturbed. mr. browning, for his own part, maintained a neutral attitude in the matter. he neither claimed nor disclaimed the more remote genealogical past which had presented itself as a certainty to some older members of his family. he preserved the old framed coat-of-arms handed down to him from his grandfather; and used, without misgiving as to his right to do so, a signet-ring engraved from it, the gift of a favourite uncle, in years gone by. but, so long as he was young, he had no reason to think about his ancestors; and, when he was old, he had no reason to care about them; he knew himself to be, in every possible case, the most important fact in his family history. roi ne suis, ni prince aussi, suis le seigneur de conti, he wrote, a few years back, to a friend who had incidentally questioned him about it. our immediate knowledge of the family begins with mr. browning's grandfather, also a robert browning, who obtained through lord shaftesbury's influence a clerkship in the bank of england, and entered on it when barely twenty, in . he served fifty years, and rose to the position of principal of the bank stock office, then an important one, and which brought him into contact with the leading financiers of the day. he became also a lieutenant in the honourable artillery company, and took part in the defence of the bank in the gordon riots of . he was an able, energetic, and worldly man: an englishman, very much of the provincial type; his literary tastes being limited to the bible and 'tom jones', both of which he is said to have read through once a year. he possessed a handsome person and, probably, a vigorous constitution, since he lived to the age of eighty-four, though frequently tormented by gout; a circumstance which may help to account for his not having seen much of his grandchildren, the poet and his sister; we are indeed told that he particularly dreaded the lively boy's vicinity to his afflicted foot. he married, in , margaret, daughter of a mr. tittle by his marriage with miss seymour; and who was born in the west indies and had inherited property there. they had three children: robert, the poet's father; a daughter, who lived an uneventful life and plays no part in the family history; and another son who died an infant. the creole mother died also when her eldest boy was only seven years old, and passed out of his memory in all but an indistinct impression of having seen her lying in her coffin. five years later the widower married a miss smith, who gave him a large family. this second marriage of mr. browning's was a critical event in the life of his eldest son; it gave him, to all appearance, two step-parents instead of one. there could have been little sympathy between his father and himself, for no two persons were ever more unlike, but there was yet another cause for the systematic unkindness under which the lad grew up. mr. browning fell, as a hard man easily does, greatly under the influence of his second wife, and this influence was made by her to subserve the interests of a more than natural jealousy of her predecessor. an early instance of this was her banishing the dead lady's portrait to a garret, on the plea that her husband did not need two wives. the son could be no burden upon her because he had a little income, derived from his mother's brother; but this, probably, only heightened her ill-will towards him. when he was old enough to go to a university, and very desirous of going--when, moreover, he offered to do so at his own cost--she induced his father to forbid it, because, she urged, they could not afford to send their other sons to college. an earlier ambition of his had been to become an artist; but when he showed his first completed picture to his father, the latter turned away and refused to look at it. he gave himself the finishing stroke in the parental eyes, by throwing up a lucrative employment which he had held for a short time on his mother's west indian property, in disgust at the system of slave labour which was still in force there; and he paid for this unpractical conduct as soon as he was of age, by the compulsory reimbursement of all the expenses which his father, up to that date, had incurred for him; and by the loss of his mother's fortune, which, at the time of her marriage, had not been settled upon her. it was probably in despair of doing anything better, that, soon after this, in his twenty-second year, he also became a clerk in the bank of england. he married and settled in camberwell, in ; his son and daughter were born, respectively, in and . he became a widower in ; and when, four years later, he had completed his term of service at the bank, he went with his daughter to paris, where they resided until his death in . dr. furnivall has originated a theory, and maintains it as a conviction, that mr. browning's grandmother was more than a creole in the strict sense of the term, that of a person born of white parents in the west indies, and that an unmistakable dash of dark blood passed from her to her son and grandson. such an occurrence was, on the face of it, not impossible, and would be absolutely unimportant to my mind, and, i think i may add, to that of mr. browning's sister and son. the poet and his father were what we know them, and if negro blood had any part in their composition, it was no worse for them, and so much the better for the negro. but many persons among us are very averse to the idea of such a cross; i believe its assertion, in the present case, to be entirely mistaken; i prefer, therefore, touching on the facts alleged in favour of it, to passing them over in a silence which might be taken to mean indifference, but might also be interpreted into assent. we are told that mr. browning was so dark in early life, that a nephew who saw him in paris, in , mistook him for an italian. he neither had nor could have had a nephew; and he was not out of england at the time specified. it is said that when mr. browning senior was residing on his mother's sugar plantation at st. kitt's, his appearance was held to justify his being placed in church among the coloured members of the congregation. we are assured in the strongest terms that the story has no foundation, and this by a gentleman whose authority in all matters concerning the browning family dr. furnivall has otherwise accepted as conclusive. if the anecdote were true it would be a singular circumstance that mr. browning senior was always fond of drawing negro heads, and thus obviously disclaimed any unpleasant association with them. i do not know the exact physical indications by which a dark strain is perceived; but if they are to be sought in the colouring of eyes, hair, and skin, they have been conspicuously absent in the two persons who in the present case are supposed to have borne them. the poet's father had light blue eyes and, i am assured by those who knew him best, a clear, ruddy complexion. his appearance induced strangers passing him in the paris streets to remark, 'c'est un anglais!' the absolute whiteness of miss browning's skin was modified in her brother by a sallow tinge sufficiently explained by frequent disturbance of the liver; but it never affected the clearness of his large blue-grey eyes; and his hair, which grew dark as he approached manhood, though it never became black, is spoken of, by everyone who remembers him in childhood and youth, as golden. it is no less worthy of note that the daughter of his early friend mr. fox, who grew up in the little social circle to which he belonged, never even heard of the dark cross now imputed to him; and a lady who made his acquaintance during his twenty-fourth year, wrote a sonnet upon him, beginning with these words: thy brow is calm, young poet--pale and clear as a moonlighted statue. the suggestion of italian characteristics in the poet's face may serve, however, to introduce a curious fact, which can have no bearing on the main lines of his descent, but holds collateral possibilities concerning it. his mother's name wiedemann or wiedeman appears in a merely contracted form as that of one of the oldest families naturalized in venice. it became united by marriage with the rezzonico; and, by a strange coincidence, the last of these who occupied the palace now owned by mr. barrett browning was a widman-rezzonico. the present contessa widman has lately restored her own palace, which was falling into ruin. that portrait of the first mrs. browning, which gave so much umbrage to her husband's second wife, has hung for many years in her grandson's dining-room, and is well known to all his friends. it represents a stately woman with an unmistakably fair skin; and if the face or hair betrays any indication of possible dark blood, it is imperceptible to the general observer, and must be of too slight and fugitive a nature to enter into the discussion. a long curl touches one shoulder. one hand rests upon a copy of thomson's 'seasons', which was held to be the proper study and recreation of cultivated women in those days. the picture was painted by wright of derby. a brother of this lady was an adventurous traveller, and was said to have penetrated farther into the interior of africa than any other european of his time. his violent death will be found recorded in a singular experience of the poet's middle life. chapter robert browning's father--his position in life--comparison between him and his son--tenderness towards his son--outline of his habits and character--his death--significant newspaper paragraph--letter of mr. locker-lampson--robert browning's mother--her character and antecedents--their influence upon her son--nervous delicacy imparted to both her children--its special evidences in her son. it was almost a matter of course that robert browning's father should be disinclined for bank work. we are told, and can easily imagine, that he was not so good an official as the grandfather; we know that he did not rise so high, nor draw so large a salary. but he made the best of his position for his family's sake, and it was at that time both more important and more lucrative than such appointments have since become. its emoluments could be increased by many honourable means not covered by the regular salary. the working-day was short, and every additional hour's service well paid. to be enrolled on the night-watch was also very remunerative; there were enormous perquisites in pens, paper, and sealing-wax.* mr. browning availed himself of these opportunities of adding to his income, and was thus enabled, with the help of his private means, to gratify his scholarly and artistic tastes, and give his children the benefit of a very liberal education--the one distinct ideal of success in life which such a nature as his could form. constituted as he was, he probably suffered very little through the paternal unkindness which had forced him into an uncongenial career. its only palpable result was to make him a more anxiously indulgent parent when his own time came. * i have been told that, far from becoming careless in the use of these things from his practically unbounded command of them, he developed for them an almost superstitious reverence. he could never endure to see a scrap of writing- paper wasted. many circumstances conspired to secure to the coming poet a happier childhood and youth than his father had had. his path was to be smoothed not only by natural affection and conscientious care, but by literary and artistic sympathy. the second mr. browning differed, in certain respects, as much from the third as from the first. there were, nevertheless, strong points in which, if he did not resemble, he at least distinctly foreshadowed him; and the genius of the one would lack some possible explanation if we did not recognize in great measure its organized material in the other. much, indeed, that was genius in the son existed as talent in the father. the moral nature of the younger man diverged from that of the older, though retaining strong points of similarity; but the mental equipments of the two differed far less in themselves than in the different uses to which temperament and circumstances trained them. the most salient intellectual characteristic of mr. browning senior was his passion for reading. in his daughter's words, 'he read in season, and out of season;' and he not only read, but remembered. as a schoolboy, he knew by heart the first book of the 'iliad', and all the odes of horace; and it shows how deeply the classical part of his training must have entered into him, that he was wont, in later life, to soothe his little boy to sleep by humming to him an ode of anacreon. it was one of his amusements at school to organize homeric combats among the boys, in which the fighting was carried on in the manner of the greeks and trojans, and he and his friend kenyon would arm themselves with swords and shields, and hack at each other lustily, exciting themselves to battle by insulting speeches derived from the homeric text.* * this anecdote is partly quoted from mrs. andrew crosse, who has introduced it into her article 'john kenyon and his friends', 'temple bar', april . she herself received it from mr. dykes campbell. mr. browning had also an extraordinary power of versifying, and taught his son from babyhood the words he wished him to remember, by joining them to a grotesque rhyme; the child learned all his latin declensions in this way. his love of art had been proved by his desire to adopt it as a profession; his talent for it was evidenced by the life and power of the sketches, often caricatures, which fell from his pen or pencil as easily as written words. mr. barrett browning remembers gaining a very early elementary knowledge of anatomy from comic illustrated rhymes (now in the possession of their old friend, mrs. fraser corkran) through which his grandfather impressed upon him the names and position of the principal bones of the human body. even more remarkable than his delight in reading was the manner in which mr. browning read. he carried into it all the preciseness of the scholar. it was his habit when he bought a book--which was generally an old one allowing of this addition--to have some pages of blank paper bound into it. these he filled with notes, chronological tables, or such other supplementary matter as would enhance the interest, or assist the mastering, of its contents; all written in a clear and firm though by no means formal handwriting. more than one book thus treated by him has passed through my hands, leaving in me, it need hardly be said, a stronger impression of the owner's intellectual quality than the acquisition by him of the finest library could have conveyed. one of the experiences which disgusted him with st. kitt's was the frustration by its authorities of an attempt he was making to teach a negro boy to read, and the understanding that all such educative action was prohibited. in his faculties and attainments, as in his pleasures and appreciations, he showed the simplicity and genuineness of a child. he was not only ready to amuse, he could always identify himself with children, his love for whom never failed him in even his latest years. his more than childlike indifference to pecuniary advantages had been shown in early life. he gave another proof of it after his wife's death, when he declined a proposal, made to him by the bank of england, to assist in founding one of its branch establishments in liverpool. he never indeed, personally, cared for money, except as a means of acquiring old, i.e. rare books, for which he had, as an acquaintance declared, the scent of a hound and the snap of a bulldog. his eagerness to possess such treasures was only matched by the generosity with which he parted with them; and his daughter well remembers the feeling of angry suspicion with which she and her brother noted the periodical arrival of a certain visitor who would be closeted with their father for hours, and steal away before the supper time, when the family would meet, with some precious parcel of books or prints under his arm. it is almost superfluous to say that he was indifferent to creature comforts. miss browning was convinced that, if on any occasion she had said to him, 'there will be no dinner to-day,' he would only have looked up from his book to reply, 'all right, my dear, it is of no consequence.' in his bank-clerk days, when he sometimes dined in town, he left one restaurant with which he was not otherwise dissatisfied, because the waiter always gave him the trouble of specifying what he would have to eat. a hundred times that trouble would not have deterred him from a kindly act. of his goodness of heart, indeed, many distinct instances might be given; but even this scanty outline of his life has rendered them superfluous. mr. browning enjoyed splendid physical health. his early love of reading had not precluded a wholesome enjoyment of athletic sports; and he was, as a boy, the fastest runner and best base-ball player in his school. he died, like his father, at eighty-four (or rather, within a few days of eighty-five), but, unlike him, he had never been ill; a french friend exclaimed when all was over, 'il n'a jamais ete vieux.' his faculties were so unclouded up to the last moment that he could watch himself dying, and speculate on the nature of the change which was befalling him. 'what do you think death is, robert?' he said to his son; 'is it a fainting, or is it a pang?' a notice of his decease appeared in an american newspaper. it was written by an unknown hand, and bears a stamp of genuineness which renders the greater part of it worth quoting. 'he was not only a ruddy, active man, with fine hair, that retained its strength and brownness to the last, but he had a courageous spirit and a remarkably intelligent mind. he was a man of the finest culture, and was often, and never vainly, consulted by his son robert concerning the more recondite facts relating to the old characters, whose bones that poet liked so well to disturb. his knowledge of old french, spanish, and italian literature was wonderful. the old man went smiling and peaceful to his long rest, preserving his faculties to the last, insomuch that the physician, astonished at his continued calmness and good humour, turned to his daughter, and said in a low voice, "does this gentleman know that he is dying?" the daughter said in a voice which the father could hear, "he knows it;" and the old man said with a quiet smile, "death is no enemy in my eyes." his last words were spoken to his son robert, who was fanning him, "i fear i am wearying you, dear."' four years later one of his english acquaintances in paris, mr. frederick locker, now mr. locker-lampson, wrote to robert browning as follows: dec. , . my dear browning,--i have always thought that you or miss browning, or some other capable person, should draw up a sketch of your excellent father so that, hereafter, it might be known what an interesting man he was. i used often to meet you in paris, at lady elgin's. she had a genuine taste for poetry, and she liked being read to, and i remember you gave her a copy of keats' poems, and you used often to read his poetry to her. lady elgin died in , and i think it was in that year that lady charlotte and i saw the most of mr. browning.* he was then quite an elderly man, if years could make him so, but he had so much vivacity of manner, and such simplicity and freshness of mind, that it was difficult to think him old. * mr. locker was then married to lady charlotte bruce, lady elgin's daughter. i remember, he and your sister lived in an apartment in the rue de grenelle, st. germain, in quite a simple fashion, much in the way that most people live in paris, and in the way that all sensible people would wish to live all over the world. your father and i had at least one taste and affection in common. he liked hunting the old bookstalls on the 'quais', and he had a great love and admiration for hogarth; and he possessed several of hogarth's engravings, some in rare and early states of the plate; and he would relate with glee the circumstances under which he had picked them up, and at so small a price too! however, he had none of the 'petit-maitre' weakness of the ordinary collector, which is so common, and which i own to!--such as an infatuation for tall copies, and wide margins. i remember your father was fond of drawing in a rough and ready fashion; he had plenty of talent, i should think not very great cultivation; but quite enough to serve his purpose, and to amuse his friends. he had a thoroughly lively and _healthy_ interest in your poetry, and he showed me some of your boyish attempts at versification. taking your dear father altogether, i quite believe him to have been one of those men--interesting men--whom the world never hears of. perhaps he was shy--at any rate he was much less known than he ought to have been; and now, perhaps, he only remains in the recollection of his family, and of one or two superior people (like myself!) who were capable of appreciating him. my dear browning, i really hope you will draw up a slight sketch of your father before it is too late. yours, frederick locker. the judgments thus expressed twenty years ago are cordially re-stated in the letter in which mr. locker-lampson authorizes me to publish them. the desired memoir was never written; but the few details which i have given of the older mr. browning's life and character may perhaps stand for it. with regard to the 'strict dissent' with which her parents have been taxed, miss browning writes to me: 'my father was born and educated in the church of england, and, for many years before his death, lived in her communion. he became a dissenter in middle life, and my mother, born and brought up in the kirk of scotland, became one also; but they could not be called bigoted, since we always in the evening attended the preaching of the rev. henry melvill* (afterwards canon of st. paul's), whose sermons robert much admired.'** * at camden chapel, camberwell. ** mr. browning was much interested, in later years, in hearing canon, perhaps then already archdeacon, farrar extol his eloquence and ask whether he had known him. mr. ruskin also spoke of him with admiration. little need be said about the poet's mother. she was spoken of by carlyle as 'the true type of a scottish gentlewoman.' mr. kenyon declared that such as she had no need to go to heaven, because they made it wherever they were. but her character was all resumed in her son's words, spoken with the tremulous emotion which so often accompanied his allusion to those he had loved and lost: 'she was a divine woman.' she was scotch on the maternal side, and her kindly, gentle, but distinctly evangelical christianity must have been derived from that source. her father, william wiedemann, a ship-owner, was a hamburg german settled in dundee, and has been described by mr. browning as an accomplished draughtsman and musician. she herself had nothing of the artist about her, though we hear of her sometimes playing the piano; in all her goodness and sweetness she seems to have been somewhat matter-of-fact. but there is abundant indirect evidence of mr. browning's love of music having come to him through her, and we are certainly justified in holding the scottish-german descent as accountable, in great measure at least, for the metaphysical quality so early apparent in the poet's mind, and of which we find no evidence in that of his father. his strong religious instincts must have been derived from both parents, though most anxiously fostered by his mother. there is yet another point on which mrs. browning must have influenced the life and destinies of her son, that of physical health, or, at least, nervous constitution. she was a delicate woman, very anaemic during her later years, and a martyr to neuralgia, which was perhaps a symptom of this condition. the acute ailment reproduced itself in her daughter in spite of an otherwise vigorous constitution. with the brother, the inheritance of suffering was not less surely present, if more difficult to trace. we have been accustomed to speaking of him as a brilliantly healthy man; he was healthy, even strong, in many essential respects. until past the age of seventy he could take long walks without fatigue, and endure an amount of social and general physical strain which would have tried many younger men. he carried on until the last a large, if not always serious, correspondence, and only within the latest months, perhaps weeks of his life, did his letters even suggest that physical brain-power was failing him. he had, within the limits which his death has assigned to it, a considerable recuperative power. his consciousness of health was vivid, so long as he was well; and it was only towards the end that the faith in his probable length of days occasionally deserted him. but he died of no acute disease, more than seven years younger than his father, having long carried with him external marks of age from which his father remained exempt. till towards the age of forty he suffered from attacks of sore-throat, not frequent, but of an angry kind. he was constantly troubled by imperfect action of the liver, though no doctor pronounced the evil serious. i have spoken of this in reference to his complexion. during the last twenty years, if not for longer, he rarely spent a winter without a suffocating cold and cough; within the last five, asthmatic symptoms established themselves; and when he sank under what was perhaps his first real attack of bronchitis it was not because the attack was very severe, but because the heart was exhausted. the circumstances of his death recalled that of his mother; and we might carry the sad analogy still farther in his increasing pallor, and the slow and not strong pulse which always characterized him. this would perhaps be a mistake. it is difficult to reconcile any idea of bloodlessness with the bounding vitality of his younger body and mind. any symptom of organic disease could scarcely, in his case, have been overlooked. but so much is certain: he was conscious of what he called a nervousness of nature which neither father nor grandfather could have bequeathed to him. he imputed to this, or, in other words, to an undue physical sensitiveness to mental causes of irritation, his proneness to deranged liver, and the asthmatic conditions which he believed, rightly or wrongly, to be produced by it. he was perhaps mistaken in some of his inferences, but he was not mistaken in the fact. he had the pleasures as well as the pains of this nervous temperament; its quick response to every congenial stimulus of physical atmosphere, and human contact. it heightened the enjoyment, perhaps exaggerated the consciousness of his physical powers. it also certainly in his later years led him to overdraw them. many persons have believed that he could not live without society; a prolonged seclusion from it would, for obvious reasons, have been unsuited to him. but the excited gaiety which to the last he carried into every social gathering was often primarily the result of a moral and physical effort which his temperament prompted, but his strength could not always justify. nature avenged herself in recurrent periods of exhaustion, long before the closing stage had set in. i shall subsequently have occasion to trace this nervous impressibility through various aspects and relations of his life; all i now seek to show is that this healthiest of poets and most real of men was not compounded of elements of pure health, and perhaps never could have been so. it might sound grotesque to say that only a delicate woman could have been the mother of robert browning. the fact remains that of such a one, and no other, he was born; and we may imagine, without being fanciful, that his father's placid intellectual powers required for their transmutation into poetic genius just this infusion of a vital element not only charged with other racial and individual qualities, but physically and morally more nearly allied to pain. perhaps, even for his happiness as a man, we could not have wished it otherwise. chapter - birth of robert browning--his childhood and schooldays--restless temperament--brilliant mental endowments--incidental peculiarities--strong religious feeling--passionate attachment to his mother; grief at first separation--fondness for animals--experiences of school life--extensive reading--early attempts in verse--letter from his father concerning them--spurious poems in circulation--'incondita'--mr. fox--miss flower. robert browning was born, as has been often repeated, at camberwell, on may , , soon after a great comet had disappeared from the sky. he was a handsome, vigorous, fearless child, and soon developed an unresting activity and a fiery temper. he clamoured for occupation from the moment he could speak. his mother could only keep him quiet when once he had emerged from infancy by telling him stories--doubtless bible stories--while holding him on her knee. his energies were of course destructive till they had found their proper outlet; but we do not hear of his ever having destroyed anything for the mere sake of doing so. his first recorded piece of mischief was putting a handsome brussels lace veil of his mother's into the fire; but the motive, which he was just old enough to lisp out, was also his excuse: 'a pitty baze [pretty blaze], mamma.' imagination soon came to his rescue. it has often been told how he extemporized verse aloud while walking round and round the dining-room table supporting himself by his hands, when he was still so small that his head was scarcely above it. he remembered having entertained his mother in the very first walk he was considered old enough to take with her, by a fantastic account of his possessions in houses, &c., of which the topographical details elicited from her the remark, 'why, sir, you are quite a geographer.' and though this kind of romancing is common enough among intelligent children, it distinguishes itself in this case by the strong impression which the incident had left on his own mind. it seems to have been a first real flight of dramatic fancy, confusing his identity for the time being. the power of inventing did not, however, interfere with his readiness to learn, and the facility with which he acquired whatever knowledge came in his way had, on one occasion, inconvenient results. a lady of reduced fortunes kept a small elementary school for boys, a stone's-throw from his home; and he was sent to it as a day boarder at so tender an age that his parents, it is supposed, had no object in view but to get rid of his turbulent activity for an hour or two every morning and afternoon. nevertheless, his proficiency in reading and spelling was soon so much ahead of that of the biggest boy, that complaints broke out among the mammas, who were sure there was not fair play. mrs.----was neglecting her other pupils for the sake of 'bringing on master browning;' and the poor lady found it necessary to discourage master browning's attendance lest she should lose the remainder of her flock. this, at least, was the story as he himself remembered it. according to miss browning his instructress did not yield without a parting shot. she retorted on the discontented parents that, if she could give their children 'master browning's intellect', she would have no difficulty in satisfying them. after this came the interlude of home-teaching, in which all his elementary knowledge must have been gained. as an older child he was placed with two misses ready, who prepared boys for entering their brother's (the rev. thomas ready's) school; and in due time he passed into the latter, where he remained up to the age of fourteen. he seems in those early days to have had few playmates beyond his sister, two years younger than himself, and whom his irrepressible spirit must sometimes have frightened or repelled. nor do we hear anything of childish loves; and though an entry appeared in his diary one sunday in about the seventh or eighth year of his age, 'married two wives this morning,' it only referred to a vague imaginary appropriation of two girls whom he had just seen in church, and whose charm probably lay in their being much bigger than he. he was, however, capable of a self-conscious shyness in the presence of even a little girl; and his sense of certain proprieties was extraordinarily keen. he told a friend that on one occasion, when the merest child, he had edged his way by the wall from one point of his bedroom to another, because he was not fully clothed, and his reflection in the glass could otherwise have been seen through the partly open door.* * another anecdote, of a very different kind, belongs to an earlier period, and to that category of pure naughtiness which could not fail to be sometimes represented in the conduct of so gifted a child. an old lady who visited his mother, and was characterized in the family as 'aunt betsy', had irritated him by pronouncing the word 'lovers' with the contemptuous jerk which the typical old maid is sometimes apt to impart to it, when once the question had arisen why a certain 'lovers' walk' was so called. he was too nearly a baby to imagine what a 'lover' was; he supposed the name denoted a trade or occupation. but his human sympathy resented aunt betsy's manner as an affront; and he determined, after probably repeated provocation, to show her something worse than a 'lover', whatever this might be. so one night he slipped out of bed, exchanged his nightgown for what he considered the appropriate undress of a devil, completed this by a paper tail, and the ugliest face he could make, and rushed into the drawing-room, where the old lady and his mother were drinking tea. he was snatched up and carried away before he had had time to judge the effect of his apparition; but he did not think, looking back upon the circumstances in later life, that aunt betsy had deserved quite so ill of her fellow-creatures as he then believed. his imaginative emotions were largely absorbed by religion. the early biblical training had had its effect, and he was, to use his own words, 'passionately religious' in those nursery years; but during them and many succeeding ones, his mother filled his heart. he loved her so much, he has been heard to say, that even as a grown man he could not sit by her otherwise than with an arm round her waist. it is difficult to measure the influence which this feeling may have exercised on his later life; it led, even now, to a strange and touching little incident which had in it the incipient poet no less than the loving child. his attendance at miss ready's school only kept him from home from monday till saturday of every week; but when called upon to confront his first five days of banishment he felt sure that he would not survive them. a leaden cistern belonging to the school had in, or outside it, the raised image of a face. he chose the cistern for his place of burial, and converted the face into his epitaph by passing his hand over and over it to a continuous chant of: 'in memory of unhappy browning'--the ceremony being renewed in his spare moments, till the acute stage of the feeling had passed away. the fondness for animals for which through life he was noted, was conspicuous in his very earliest days. his urgent demand for 'something to do' would constantly include 'something to be caught' for him: 'they were to catch him an eft;' 'they were to catch him a frog.' he would refuse to take his medicine unless bribed by the gift of a speckled frog from among the strawberries; and the maternal parasol, hovering above the strawberry bed during the search for this object of his desires, remained a standing picture in his remembrance. but the love of the uncommon was already asserting itself; and one of his very juvenile projects was a collection of rare creatures, the first contribution to which was a couple of lady-birds, picked up one winter's day on a wall and immediately consigned to a box lined with cotton-wool, and labelled, 'animals found surviving in the depths of a severe winter.' nor did curiosity in this case weaken the power of sympathy. his passion for birds and beasts was the counterpart of his father's love of children, only displaying itself before the age at which child-love naturally appears. his mother used to read croxall's fables to his little sister and him. the story contained in them of a lion who was kicked to death by an ass affected him so painfully that he could no longer endure the sight of the book; and as he dared not destroy it, he buried it between the stuffing and the woodwork of an old dining-room chair, where it stood for lost, at all events for the time being. when first he heard the adventures of the parrot who insisted on leaving his cage, and who enjoyed himself for a little while and then died of hunger and cold, he--and his sister with him--cried so bitterly that it was found necessary to invent a different ending, according to which the parrot was rescued just in time and brought back to his cage to live peacefully in it ever after. as a boy, he kept owls and monkeys, magpies and hedgehogs, an eagle, and even a couple of large snakes, constantly bringing home the more portable creatures in his pockets, and transferring them to his mother for immediate care. i have heard him speak admiringly of the skilful tenderness with which she took into her lap a lacerated cat, washed and sewed up its ghastly wound, and nursed it back to health. the great intimacy with the life and habits of animals which reveals itself in his works is readily explained by these facts. mr. ready's establishment was chosen for him as the best in the neighbourhood; and both there and under the preparatory training of that gentleman's sisters, the young robert was well and kindly cared for. the misses ready especially concerned themselves with the spiritual welfare of their pupils. the periodical hair-brushings were accompanied by the singing, and fell naturally into the measure, of watts's hymns; and mr. browning has given his friends some very hearty laughs by illustrating with voice and gesture the ferocious emphasis with which the brush would swoop down in the accentuated syllables of the following lines: lord, 'tis a pleasant thing to stand in gardens planted by thy hand. . . . . . fools never raise their thoughts so high, like 'brutes' they live, like _brutes_ they die. he even compelled his mother to laugh at it, though it was sorely against her nature to lend herself to any burlesquing of piously intended things.* he had become a bigger boy since the episode of the cistern, and had probably in some degree outgrown the intense piety of his earlier childhood. this little incident seems to prove it. on the whole, however, his religious instincts did not need strengthening, though his sense of humour might get the better of them for a moment; and of secular instruction he seems to have received as little from the one set of teachers as from the other. i do not suppose that the mental training at mr. ready's was more shallow or more mechanical than that of most other schools of his own or, indeed, of a much later period; but the brilliant abilities of robert browning inspired him with a certain contempt for it, as also for the average schoolboy intelligence to which it was apparently adapted. it must be for this reason that, as he himself declared, he never gained a prize, although these rewards were showered in such profusion that the only difficulty was to avoid them; and if he did not make friends at school (for this also has been somewhere observed),** it can only be explained in the same way. he was at an intolerant age, and if his schoolfellows struck him as more backward or more stupid than they need be, he is not likely to have taken pains to conceal the impression. it is difficult, at all events, to think of him as unsociable, and his talents certainly had their amusing side. miss browning tells me that he made his schoolfellows act plays, some of which he had written for them; and he delighted his friends, not long ago, by mimicking his own solemn appearance on some breaking-up or commemorative day, when, according to programme, 'master browning' ascended a platform in the presence of assembled parents and friends, and, in best jacket, white gloves, and carefully curled hair, with a circular bow to the company and the then prescribed waving of alternate arms, delivered a high-flown rhymed address of his own composition. * in spite of this ludicrous association mr. browning always recognized great merit in watts's hymns, and still more in dr. watts himself, who had devoted to this comparatively humble work intellectual powers competent to far higher things. ** it was in no case literally true. william, afterwards sir william, channel was leaving mr. ready when browning went to him; but a friendly acquaintance began, and was afterwards continued, between the two boys; and a closer friendship, formed with a younger brother frank, was only interrupted by his death. another school friend or acquaintance recalled himself as such to the poet's memory some ten or twelve years ago. a man who has reached the age at which his boyhood becomes of interest to the world may even have survived many such relations. and during the busy idleness of his schooldays, or, at all events, in the holidays in which he rested from it, he was learning, as perhaps only those do learn whose real education is derived from home. his father's house was, miss browning tells me, literally crammed with books; and, she adds, 'it was in this way that robert became very early familiar with subjects generally unknown to boys.' he read omnivorously, though certainly not without guidance. one of the books he best and earliest loved was 'quarles' emblemes', which his father possessed in a seventeenth century edition, and which contains one or two very tentative specimens of his early handwriting. its quaint, powerful lines and still quainter illustrations combined the marvellous with what he believed to be true; and he seemed specially identified with its world of religious fancies by the fact that the soul in it was always depicted as a child. on its more general grounds his reading was at once largely literary and very historical; and it was in this direction that the paternal influence was most strongly revealed. 'quarles' emblemes' was only one of the large collection of old books which mr. browning possessed; and the young robert learnt to know each favourite author in the dress as well as the language which carried with it the life of his period. the first edition of 'robinson crusoe'; the first edition of milton's works, bought for him by his father; a treatise on astrology published twenty years after the introduction of printing; the original pamphlet 'killing no murder' ( ), which carlyle borrowed for his 'life of cromwell'; an equally early copy of bernard mandeville's 'bees'; very ancient bibles--are some of the instances which occur to me. among more modern publications, 'walpole's letters' were familiar to him in boyhood, as well as the 'letters of junius' and all the works of voltaire. ancient poets and poetry also played their necessary part in the mental culture superintended by robert browning's father: we can indeed imagine no case in which they would not have found their way into the boy's life. latin poets and greek dramatists came to him in their due time, though his special delight in the greek language only developed itself later. but his loving, lifelong familiarity with the elizabethan school, and indeed with the whole range of english poetry, seems to point to a more constant study of our national literature. byron was his chief master in those early poetic days. he never ceased to honour him as the one poet who combined a constructive imagination with the more technical qualities of his art; and the result of this period of aesthetic training was a volume of short poems produced, we are told, when he was only twelve, in which the byronic influence was predominant. the young author gave his work the title of 'incondita', which conveyed a certain idea of deprecation. he was, nevertheless, very anxious to see it in print; and his father and mother, poetry-lovers of the old school, also found in it sufficient merit to justify its publication. no publisher, however, could be found; and we can easily believe that he soon afterwards destroyed the little manuscript, in some mingled reaction of disappointment and disgust. but his mother, meanwhile, had shown it to an acquaintance of hers, miss flower, who herself admired its contents so much as to make a copy of them for the inspection of her friend, the well-known unitarian minister, mr. w. j. fox. the copy was transmitted to mr. browning after mr. fox's death by his daughter, mrs. bridell-fox; and this, if no other, was in existence in , when, at his urgent request, that lady also returned to him a fragment of verse contained in a letter from miss sarah flower. nor was it till much later that a friend, who had earnestly begged for a sight of it, definitely heard of its destruction. the fragment, which doubtless shared the same fate, was, i am told, a direct imitation of coleridge's 'fire, famine, and slaughter'. these poems were not mr. browning's first. it would be impossible to believe them such when we remember that he composed verses long before he could write; and a curious proof of the opposite fact has recently appeared. two letters of the elder mr. browning have found their way into the market, and have been bought respectively by mr. dykes campbell and sir f. leighton. i give the more important of them. it was addressed to mr. thomas powell: dear sir,--i hope the enclosed may be acceptable as curiosities. they were written by robert when quite a child. i once had nearly a hundred of them. but he has destroyed all that ever came in his way, having a great aversion to the practice of many biographers in recording every trifling incident that falls in their way. he has not the slightest suspicion that any of his very juvenile performances are in existence. i have several of the originals by me. they are all extemporaneous productions, nor has any one a single alteration. there was one amongst them 'on bonaparte'--remarkably beautiful--and had i not seen it in his own handwriting i never would have believed it to have been the production of a child. it is destroyed. pardon my troubling you with these specimens, and requesting you never to mention it, as robert would be very much hurt. i remain, dear sir, your obedient servant, r. browning. bank: march , . the letter was accompanied by a sheet of verses which have been sold and resold, doubtless in perfect good faith, as being those to which the writer alludes. but miss browning has recognized them as her father's own impromptu epigrams, well remembered in the family, together with the occasion on which they were written. the substitution may, from the first, have been accidental. we cannot think of all these vanished first-fruits of mr. browning's genius without a sense of loss, all the greater perhaps that there can have been little in them to prefigure its later forms. their faults seem to have lain in the direction of too great splendour of language and too little wealth of thought; and mr. fox, who had read 'incondita' and been struck by its promise, confessed afterwards to mr. browning that he had feared these tendencies as his future snare. but the imitative first note of a young poet's voice may hold a rapture of inspiration which his most original later utterances will never convey. it is the child sordello, singing against the lark. not even the poet's sister ever saw 'incondita'. it was the only one of his finished productions which miss browning did not read, or even help him to write out. she was then too young to be taken into his confidence. its writing, however, had one important result. it procured for the boy-poet a preliminary introduction to the valuable literary patron and friend mr. fox was subsequently to be. it also supplies the first substantial record of an acquaintance which made a considerable impression on his personal life. the miss flower, of whom mention has been made, was one of two sisters, both sufficiently noted for their artistic gifts to have found a place in the new dictionary of national biography. the elder, eliza or lizzie, was a musical composer; the younger, best known as sarah flower adams, a writer of sacred verse. her songs and hymns, including the well-known 'nearer, my god, to thee', were often set to music by her sister.* they sang, i am told, delightfully together, and often without accompaniment, their voices perfectly harmonizing with each other. both were, in their different ways, very attractive; both interesting, not only from their talents, but from their attachment to each other, and the delicacy which shortened their lives. they died of consumption, the elder in , at the age of forty-three; the younger a year later. they became acquainted with mrs. browning through a common friend, miss sturtevant; and the young robert conceived a warm admiration for miss flower's talents, and a boyish love for herself. she was nine years his senior; her own affections became probably engaged, and, as time advanced, his feeling seems to have subsided into one of warm and very loyal friendship. we hear, indeed, of his falling in love, as he was emerging from his teens, with a handsome girl who was on a visit at his father's house. but the fancy died out 'for want of root.' the admiration, even tenderness, for miss flower had so deep a 'root' that he never in latest life mentioned her name with indifference. in a letter to mr. dykes campbell, in , he spoke of her as 'a very remarkable person.' if, in spite of his denials, any woman inspired 'pauline', it can have been no other than she. he began writing to her at twelve or thirteen, probably on the occasion of her expressed sympathy with his first distinct effort at authorship; and what he afterwards called 'the few utterly insignificant scraps of letters and verse' which formed his part of the correspondence were preserved by her as long as she lived. but he recovered and destroyed them after his return to england, with all the other reminiscences of those early years. some notes, however, are extant, dated respectively, , , and , and will be given in their due place. * she also wrote a dramatic poem in five acts, entitled 'vivia perpetua', referred to by mrs. jameson in her 'sacred and legendary art', and by leigh hunt, when he spoke of her in 'blue-stocking revels', as 'mrs. adams, rare mistress of thought and of tears.' mr. fox was a friend of miss flower's father (benjamin flower, known as editor of the 'cambridge intelligencer'), and, at his death, in , became co-executor to his will, and a kind of guardian to his daughters, then both unmarried, and motherless from their infancy. eliza's principal work was a collection of hymns and anthems, originally composed for mr. fox's chapel, where she had assumed the entire management of the choral part of the service. her abilities were not confined to music; she possessed, i am told, an instinctive taste and judgment in literary matters which caused her opinion to be much valued by literary men. but mr. browning's genuine appreciation of her musical genius was probably the strongest permanent bond between them. we shall hear of this in his own words. chapter - first impressions of keats and shelley--prolonged influence of shelley--details of home education--its effects--youthful restlessness--counteracting love of home--early friendships: alfred domett, joseph arnould, the silverthornes--choice of poetry as a profession--alternative suggestions; mistaken rumours concerning them--interest in art--love of good theatrical performances--talent for acting--final preparation for literary life. at the period at which we have arrived, which is that of his leaving school and completing his fourteenth year, another and a significant influence was dawning on robert browning's life--the influence of the poet shelley. mr. sharp writes,* and i could only state the facts in similar words, 'passing a bookstall one day, he saw, in a box of second-hand volumes, a little book advertised as "mr. shelley's atheistical poem: very scarce."' . . . 'from vague remarks in reply to his inquiries, and from one or two casual allusions, he learned that there really was a poet called shelley; that he had written several volumes; that he was dead.' . . . 'he begged his mother to procure him shelley's works, a request not easily complied with, for the excellent reason that not one of the local booksellers had even heard of the poet's name. ultimately, however, mrs. browning learned that what she sought was procurable at the olliers', in vere street, london.' * 'life of browning', pp. , . mrs. browning went to messrs. ollier, and brought back 'most of shelley's writings, all in their first edition, with the exception of "the cenci".' she brought also three volumes of the still less known john keats, on being assured that one who liked shelley's works would like these also. keats and shelley must always remain connected in this epoch of mr. browning's poetic growth. they indeed came to him as the two nightingales which, he told some friends, sang together in the may-night which closed this eventful day: one in the laburnum in his father's garden, the other in a copper beech which stood on adjoining ground--with the difference indeed, that he must often have listened to the feathered singers before, while the two new human voices sounded from what were to him, as to so many later hearers, unknown heights and depths of the imaginative world. their utterance was, to such a spirit as his, the last, as in a certain sense the first, word of what poetry can say; and no one who has ever heard him read the 'ode to a nightingale', and repeat in the same subdued tones, as if continuing his own thoughts, some line from 'epipsychidion', can doubt that they retained a lasting and almost equal place in his poet's heart. but the two cannot be regarded as equals in their relation to his life, and it would be a great mistake to impute to either any important influence upon his genius. we may catch some fleeting echoes of keats's melody in 'pippa passes'; it is almost a commonplace that some measure of shelleyan fancy is recognizable in 'pauline'. but the poetic individuality of robert browning was stronger than any circumstance through which it could be fed. it would have found nourishment in desert air. with his first accepted work he threw off what was foreign to his poetic nature, to be thenceforward his own never-to-be-subdued and never-to-be-mistaken self. if shelley became, and long remained for him, the greatest poet of his age--of almost any age--it was not because he held him greatest in the poetic art, but because in his case, beyond all others, he believed its exercise to have been prompted by the truest spiritual inspiration. it is difficult to trace the process by which this conviction formed itself in the boy's mind; still more to account for the strong personal tenderness which accompanied it. the facts can have been scarcely known which were to present shelley to his imagination as a maligned and persecuted man. it is hard to judge how far such human qualities as we now read into his work, could be apparent to one who only approached him through it. but the extra-human note in shelley's genius irresistibly suggested to the browning of fourteen, as it still did to the browning of forty, the presence of a lofty spirit, one dwelling in the communion of higher things. there was often a deep sadness in his utterance; the consecration of an early death was upon him. and so the worship rooted itself and grew. it was to find its lyrical expression in 'pauline'; its rational and, from the writer's point of view, philosophic justification in the prose essay on shelley, published eighteen years afterwards. it may appear inconsistent with the nature of this influence that it began by appealing to him in a subversive form. the shelley whom browning first loved was the shelley of 'queen mab', the shelley who would have remodelled the whole system of religious belief, as of human duty and rights; and the earliest result of the new development was that he became a professing atheist, and, for two years, a practising vegetarian. he returned to his natural diet when he found his eyesight becoming weak. the atheism cured itself; we do not exactly know when or how. what we do know is, that it was with him a passing state of moral or imaginative rebellion, and not one of rational doubt. his mind was not so constituted that such doubt could fasten itself upon it; nor did he ever in after-life speak of this period of negation except as an access of boyish folly, with which his maturer self could have no concern. the return to religious belief did not shake his faith in his new prophet. it only made him willing to admit that he had misread him. this shelley period of robert browning's life--that which intervened between 'incondita' and 'pauline'--remained, nevertheless, one of rebellion and unrest, to which many circumstances may have contributed besides the influence of the one mind. it had been decided that he was to complete, or at all events continue, his education at home; and, knowing the elder mr. browning as we do, we cannot doubt that the best reasons, of kindness or expediency, led to his so deciding. it was none the less, probably, a mistake, for the time being. the conditions of home life were the more favourable for the young poet's imaginative growth; but there can rarely have been a boy whose moral and mental health had more to gain by the combined discipline and freedom of a public school. his home training was made to include everything which in those days went to the production of an accomplished gentleman, and a great deal therefore that was physically good. he learned music, singing, dancing, riding, boxing, and fencing, and excelled in the more active of these pursuits. the study of music was also serious, and carried on under two masters. mr. john relfe, author of a valuable work on counterpoint, was his instructor in thorough-bass; mr. abel, a pupil of moscheles, in execution. he wrote music for songs which he himself sang; among them donne's 'go and catch a falling star'; hood's 'i will not have the mad clytie'; peacock's 'the mountain sheep are sweeter'; and his settings, all of which he subsequently destroyed, were, i am told, very spirited. his education seems otherwise to have been purely literary. for two years, from the age of fourteen to that of sixteen, he studied with a french tutor, who, whether this was intended or not, imparted to him very little but a good knowledge of the french language and literature. in his eighteenth year he attended, for a term or two, a greek class at the london university. his classical and other reading was probably continued. but we hear nothing in the programme of mathematics, or logic--of any, in short, of those subjects which train, even coerce, the thinking powers, and which were doubly requisite for a nature in which the creative imagination was predominant over all the other mental faculties, great as these other faculties were. and, even as poet, he suffered from this omission: since the involutions and overlappings of thought and phrase, which occur in his earlier and again in his latest works, must have been partly due to his never learning to follow the processes of more normally constituted minds. it would be a great error to suppose that they ever arose from the absence of a meaning clearly felt, if not always clearly thought out, by himself. he was storing his memory and enriching his mind; but precisely in so doing he was nourishing the consciousness of a very vivid and urgent personality; and, under the restrictions inseparable from the life of a home-bred youth, it was becoming a burden to him. what outlet he found in verse we do not know, because nothing survives of what he may then have written. it is possible that the fate of his early poems, and, still more, the change of ideals, retarded the definite impulse towards poetic production. it would be a relief to him to sketch out and elaborate the plan of his future work--his great mental portrait gallery of typical men and women; and he was doing so during at least the later years which preceded the birth of 'pauline'. but even this must have been the result of some protracted travail with himself; because it was only the inward sense of very varied possibilities of existence which could have impelled him towards this kind of creation. no character he ever produced was merely a figment of the brain. it was natural, therefore, that during this time of growth he should have been, not only more restless, but less amiable than at any other. the always impatient temper assumed a quality of aggressiveness. he behaved as a youth will who knows himself to be clever, and believes that he is not appreciated, because the crude or paradoxical forms which his cleverness assumes do not recommend it to his elders' minds. he set the judgments of those about him at defiance, and gratuitously proclaimed himself everything that he was, and some things that he was not. all this subdued itself as time advanced, and the coming man in him could throw off the wayward child. it was all so natural that it might well be forgotten. but it distressed his mother, the one being in the world whom he entirely loved; and deserves remembering in the tender sorrow with which he himself remembered it. he was always ready to say that he had been worth little in his young days; indeed, his self-depreciation covered the greater part of his life. this was, perhaps, one reason of the difficulty of inducing him to dwell upon his past. 'i am better now,' he has said more than once, when its reminiscences have been invoked. one tender little bond maintained itself between his mother and himself so long as he lived under the paternal roof; it was his rule never to go to bed without giving her a good-night kiss. if he was out so late that he had to admit himself with a latch-key, he nevertheless went to her in her room. nor did he submit to this as a necessary restraint; for, except on the occasions of his going abroad, it is scarcely on record that he ever willingly spent a night away from home. it may not stand for much, or it may stand to the credit of his restlessness, that, when he had been placed with some gentleman in gower street, for the convenience of attending the university lectures, or for the sake of preparing for them, he broke through the arrangement at the end of a week; but even an agreeable visit had no power to detain him beyond a few days. this home-loving quality was in curious contrast to the natural bohemianism of youthful genius, and the inclination to wildness which asserted itself in his boyish days. it became the more striking as he entered upon the age at which no reasonable amount of freedom can have been denied to him. something, perhaps, must be allowed for the pecuniary dependence which forbade his forming any expensive habits of amusement; but he also claims the credit of having been unable to accept any low-life pleasures in place of them. i do not know how the idea can have arisen that he willingly sought his experience in the society of 'gipsies and tramps'. i remember nothing in his works which even suggests such association; and it is certain that a few hours spent at a fair would at all times have exhausted his capability of enduring it. in the most audacious imaginings of his later life, in the most undisciplined acts of his early youth, were always present curious delicacies and reserves. there was always latent in him the real goodness of heart which would not allow him to trifle consciously with other lives. work must also have been his safeguard when the habit of it had been acquired, and when imagination, once his master, had learned to serve him. one tangible cause of his youthful restlessness has been implied in the foregoing remarks, but deserves stating in his sister's words: 'the fact was, poor boy, he had outgrown his social surroundings. they were absolutely good, but they were narrow; it could not be otherwise; he chafed under them.' he was not, however, quite without congenial society even before the turning-point in his outward existence which was reached in the publication of 'pauline'; and one long friendly acquaintance, together with one lasting friendship, had their roots in these early camberwell days. the families of joseph arnould and alfred domett both lived at camberwell. these two young men were bred to the legal profession, and the former, afterwards sir joseph arnould, became a judge in bombay. but the father of alfred domett had been one of nelson's captains, and the roving sailor spirit was apparent in his son; for he had scarcely been called to the bar when he started for new zealand on the instance of a cousin who had preceded him, but who was drowned in the course of a day's surveying before he could arrive. he became a member of the new zealand parliament, and ultimately, for a short time, of its cabinet; only returning to england after an absence of thirty years. this mr. domett seems to have been a very modest man, besides a devoted friend of robert browning's, and on occasion a warm defender of his works. when he read the apostrophe to 'alfred, dear friend,' in the 'guardian angel', he had reached the last line before it occurred to him that the person invoked could be he. i do not think that this poem, and that directly addressed to him under the pseudonym of 'waring', were the only ones inspired by the affectionate remembrance which he had left in their author's mind. among his boy companions were also the three silverthornes, his neighbours at camberwell, and cousins on the maternal side. they appear to have been wild youths, and had certainly no part in his intellectual or literary life; but the group is interesting to his biographer. the three brothers were all gifted musicians; having also, probably, received this endowment from their mother's father. mr. browning conceived a great affection for the eldest, and on the whole most talented of the cousins; and when he had died--young, as they all did--he wrote 'may and death' in remembrance of him. the name of 'charles' stands there for the old, familiar 'jim', so often uttered by him in half-pitying, and all-affectionate allusion, in his later years. mrs. silverthorne was the aunt who paid for the printing of 'pauline'. it was at about the time of his short attendance at university college that the choice of poetry as his future profession was formally made. it was a foregone conclusion in the young robert's mind; and little less in that of his father, who took too sympathetic an interest in his son's life not to have seen in what direction his desires were tending. he must, it is true, at some time or other, have played with the thought of becoming an artist; but the thought can never have represented a wish. if he had entertained such a one, it would have met not only with no opposition on his father's part, but with a very ready assent, nor does the question ever seem to have been seriously mooted in the family councils. it would be strange, perhaps, if it had. mr. browning became very early familiar with the names of the great painters, and also learned something about their work; for the dulwich gallery was within a pleasant walk of his home, and his father constantly took him there. he retained through life a deep interest in art and artists, and became a very familiar figure in one or two london studios. some drawings made by him from the nude, in italy, and for which he had prepared himself by assiduous copying of casts and study of human anatomy, had, i believe, great merit. but painting was one of the subjects in which he never received instruction, though he modelled, under the direction of his friend mr. story; and a letter of his own will presently show that, in his youth at least, he never credited himself with exceptional artistic power. that he might have become an artist, and perhaps a great one, is difficult to doubt, in the face of his brilliant general ability and special gifts. the power to do a thing is, however, distinct from the impulse to do it, and proved so in the present case. more importance may be given to an idea of his father's that he should qualify himself for the bar. it would naturally coincide with the widening of the social horizon which his university college classes supplied; it was possibly suggested by the fact that the closest friends he had already made, and others whom he was perhaps now making, were barristers. but this also remained an idea. he might have been placed in the bank of england, where the virtual offer of an appointment had been made to him through his father; but the elder browning spontaneously rejected this, as unworthy of his son's powers. he had never, he said, liked bank work himself, and could not, therefore, impose it on him. we have still to notice another, and a more mistaken view of the possibilities of mr. browning's life. it has been recently stated, doubtless on the authority of some words of his own, that the church was a profession to which he once felt himself drawn. but an admission of this kind could only refer to that period of his childhood when natural impulse, combined with his mother's teaching and guidance, frequently caused his fancy and his feelings to assume a religious form. from the time when he was a free agent he ceased to be even a regular churchgoer, though religion became more, rather than less, an integral part of his inner life; and his alleged fondness for a variety of preachers meant really that he only listened to those who, from personal association or conspicuous merit, were interesting to him. i have mentioned canon melvill as one of these; the rev. thomas jones was, as will be seen, another. in venice he constantly, with his sister, joined the congregation of an italian minister of the little vaudois church there.* * mr. browning's memory recalled a first and last effort at preaching, inspired by one of his very earliest visits to a place of worship. he extemporized a surplice or gown, climbed into an arm-chair by way of pulpit, and held forth so vehemently that his scarcely more than baby sister was frightened and began to cry; whereupon he turned to an imaginary presence, and said, with all the sternness which the occasion required, 'pew-opener, remove that child.' it would be far less surprising if we were told, on sufficient authority, that he had been disturbed by hankerings for the stage. he was a passionate admirer of good acting, and would walk from london to richmond and back again to see edmund kean when he was performing there. we know how macready impressed him, though the finer genius of kean became very apparent to his retrospective judgment of the two; and it was impossible to see or hear him, as even an old man, in some momentary personation of one of shakespeare's characters, above all of richard iii., and not feel that a great actor had been lost in him. so few professions were thought open to gentlemen in robert browning's eighteenth year, that his father's acquiescence in that which he had chosen might seem a matter scarcely less of necessity than of kindness. but we must seek the kindness not only in this first, almost inevitable, assent to his son's becoming a writer, but in the subsequent unfailing readiness to support him in his literary career. 'paracelsus', 'sordello', and the whole of 'bells and pomegranates' were published at his father's expense, and, incredible as it appears, brought no return to him. this was vividly present to mr. browning's mind in what mrs. kemble so justly defines as those 'remembering days' which are the natural prelude to the forgetting ones. he declared, in the course of these, to a friend, that for it alone he owed more to his father than to anyone else in the world. words to this effect, spoken in conversation with his sister, have since, as it was right they should, found their way into print. the more justly will the world interpret any incidental admission he may ever have made, of intellectual disagreement between that father and himself. when the die was cast, and young browning was definitely to adopt literature as his profession, he qualified himself for it by reading and digesting the whole of johnson's dictionary. we cannot be surprised to hear this of one who displayed so great a mastery of words, and so deep a knowledge of the capacities of the english language. chapter - 'pauline'--letters to mr. fox--publication of the poem; chief biographical and literary characteristics--mr. fox's review in the 'monthly repository'; other notices--russian journey--desired diplomatic appointment--minor poems; first sonnet; their mode of appearance--'the trifler'--m. de ripert-monclar--'paracelsus'--letters to mr. fox concerning it; its publication--incidental origin of 'paracelsus'; its inspiring motive; its relation to 'pauline'--mr. fox's review of it in the 'monthly repository'--article in the 'examiner' by john forster. before mr. browning had half completed his twenty-first year he had written 'pauline, a fragment of a confession'. his sister was in the secret, but this time his parents were not. this is why his aunt, hearing that 'robert' had 'written a poem,' volunteered the sum requisite for its publication. even this first instalment of success did not inspire much hope in the family mind, and miss browning made pencil copies of her favourite passages for the event, which seemed only too possible, of her never seeing the whole poem again. it was, however, accepted by saunders and otley, and appeared anonymously in . meanwhile the young author had bethought himself of his early sympathizer, mr. fox, and he wrote to him as follows (the letter is undated): dear sir,--perhaps by the aid of the subjoined initials and a little reflection, you may recollect an oddish sort of boy, who had the honour of being introduced to you at hackney some years back--at that time a sayer of verse and a doer of it, and whose doings you had a little previously commended after a fashion--(whether in earnest or not god knows): that individual it is who takes the liberty of addressing one whose slight commendation then, was more thought of than all the gun drum and trumpet of praise would be now, and to submit to you a free and easy sort of thing which he wrote some months ago 'on one leg' and which comes out this week--having either heard or dreamed that you contribute to the 'westminster'. should it be found too insignificant for cutting up, i shall no less remain, dear sir, your most obedient servant, r. b. i have forgotten the main thing--which is to beg you not to spoil a loophole i have kept for backing out of the thing if necessary, 'sympathy of dear friends,' &c. &c., none of whom know anything about it. monday morning; rev.--fox. the answer was clearly encouraging, and mr. browning wrote again: dear sir,--in consequence of your kind permission i send, or will send, a dozen copies of 'pauline' and (to mitigate the infliction) shelley's poem--on account of what you mentioned this morning. it will perhaps be as well that you let me know their safe arrival by a line to r. b. junior, hanover cottage, southampton street, camberwell. you must not think me too encroaching, if i make the getting back 'rosalind and helen' an excuse for calling on you some evening--the said 'r. and h.' has, i observe, been well thumbed and sedulously marked by an acquaintance of mine, but i have not time to rub out his labour of love. i am, dear sir, yours very really, r. browning. camberwell: o'clock. at the left-hand corner of the first page of this note is written: 'the parcel--a "pauline" parcel--is come. i send one as a witness.' on the inner page is written: 'impromptu on hearing a sermon by the rev. t. r.--pronounced "heavy"-- 'a _heavy_ sermon!--sure the error's great, for not a word tom uttered _had its weight_.' a third letter, also undated, but post-marked march , , refers probably to the promise or announcement of a favourable notice. a fourth conveys mr. browning's thanks for the notice itself: my dear sir,--i have just received your letter, which i am desirous of acknowledging before any further mark of your kindness reaches me;--i can only offer you my simple thanks--but they are of the sort that one can give only once or twice in a life: all things considered, i think you are almost repaid, if you imagine what i must feel--and it will have been worth while to have made a fool of myself, only to have obtained a 'case' which leaves my fine fellow mandeville at a dead lock. as for the book--i hope ere long to better it, and to deserve your goodness. in the meantime i shall not forget the extent to which i am, dear sir, your most obliged and obedient servant r. b. s. & o.'s, conduit st., thursday m-g. i must intrude on your attention, my dear sir, once more than i had intended--but a notice like the one i have read will have its effect at all hazards. i can only say that i am very proud to feel as grateful as i do, and not altogether hopeless of justifying, by effort at least, your most generous 'coming forward'. hazlitt wrote his essays, as he somewhere tells us, mainly to send them to some one in the country who had 'always prophesied he would be something'!--i shall never write a line without thinking of the source of my first praise, be assured. i am, dear sir, yours most truly and obliged, robert browning. march , . mr. fox was then editor of a periodical called the 'monthly repository', which, as his daughter, mrs. bridell-fox, writes in her graceful article on robert browning, in the 'argosy' for february , he was endeavouring to raise from its original denominational character into a first-class literary and political journal. the articles comprised in the volume for are certainly full of interest and variety, at once more popular and more solid than those prescribed by the present fashion of monthly magazines. he reviewed 'pauline' favourably in its april number--that is, as soon as it had appeared; and the young poet thus received from him an introduction to what should have been, though it probably was not, a large circle of intelligent readers. the poem was characterized by its author, five years later, in a fantastic note appended to a copy of it, as 'the only remaining crab of the shapely tree of life in my fool's paradise.' this name is ill bestowed upon a work which, however wild a fruit of mr. browning's genius, contains, in its many lines of exquisite fancy and deep pathos, so much that is rich and sweet. it had also, to discard metaphor, its faults of exaggeration and confusion; and it is of these that mr. browning was probably thinking when he wrote his more serious apologetic preface to its reprint in . but these faults were partly due to his conception of the character which he had tried to depict; and partly to the inherent difficulty of depicting one so complex, in a succession of mental and moral states, irrespectively of the conditions of time, place, and circumstance which were involved in them. only a very powerful imagination could have inspired such an attempt. a still more conspicuous effort of creative genius reveals itself at its close. the moment chosen for the 'confession' has been that of a supreme moral or physical crisis. the exhaustion attendant on this is directly expressed by the person who makes it, and may also be recognized in the vivid, yet confusing, intensity of the reminiscences of which it consists. but we are left in complete doubt as to whether the crisis is that of approaching death or incipient convalescence, or which character it bears in the sufferer's mind; and the language used in the closing pages is such as to suggest, without the slightest break in poetic continuity, alternately the one conclusion and the other. this was intended by browning to assist his anonymity; and when the writer in 'tait's magazine' spoke of the poem as a piece of pure bewilderment, he expressed the natural judgment of the philistine, while proving himself such. if the notice by j. s. mill, which this criticism excluded, was indeed--as mr. browning always believed--much more sympathetic, i can only record my astonishment; for there never was a large and cultivated intelligence one can imagine less in harmony than his with the poetic excesses, or even the poetic qualities, of 'pauline'. but this is a digression. mr. fox, though an accomplished critic, made very light of the artistic blemishes of the work. his admiration for it was as generous as it was genuine; and, having recognized in it the hand of a rising poet, it was more congenial to him to hail that poet's advent than to register his shortcomings. 'the poem,' he says, 'though evidently a hasty and imperfect sketch, has truth and life in it, which gave us the thrill, and laid hold of us with the power, the sensation of which has never yet failed us as a test of genius.' but it had also, in his mind, a distinguishing characteristic, which raised it above the sphere of merely artistic criticism. the article continues: 'we have never read anything more purely confessional. the whole composition is of the spirit, spiritual. the scenery is in the chambers of thought; the agencies are powers and passions; the events are transitions from one state of spiritual existence to another.' and we learn from the context that he accepted this confessional and introspective quality as an expression of the highest emotional life--of the essence, therefore, of religion. on this point the sincerest admirers of the poem may find themselves at issue with mr. fox. its sentiment is warmly religious; it is always, in a certain sense, spiritual; but its intellectual activities are exercised on entirely temporal ground, and this fact would generally be admitted as the negation of spirituality in the religious sense of the word. no difference, however, of opinion as to his judgment of 'pauline' can lessen our appreciation of mr. fox's encouraging kindness to its author. no one who loved mr. browning in himself, or in his work, can read the last lines of this review without a throb of affectionate gratitude for the sympathy so ungrudgingly, and--as he wrote during his latest years--so opportunely given: 'in recognizing a poet we cannot stand upon trifles nor fret ourselves about such matters [as a few blemishes]. time enough for that afterwards, when larger works come before us. archimedes in the bath had many particulars to settle about specific gravities and hiero's crown, but he first gave a glorious leap and shouted 'eureka!'' many persons have discovered mr. browning since he has been known to fame. one only discovered him in his obscurity. next to that of mr. fox stands the name of john forster among the first spontaneous appreciators of mr. browning's genius; and his admiration was, in its own way, the more valuable for the circumstances which precluded in it all possible, even unconscious, bias of personal interest or sympathy. but this belongs to a somewhat later period of our history. i am dwelling at some length on this first experience of mr. browning's literary career, because the confidence which it gave him determined its immediate future, if not its ultimate course--because, also, the poem itself is more important to the understanding of his mind than perhaps any other of his isolated works. it was the earliest of his dramatic creations; it was therefore inevitably the most instinct with himself; and we may regard the 'confession' as to a great extent his own, without for an instant ignoring the imaginative element which necessarily and certainly entered into it. at one moment, indeed, his utterance is so emphatic that we should feel it to be direct, even if we did not know it to be true. the passage beginning, 'i am made up of an intensest life,' conveys something more than the writer's actual psychological state. the feverish desire of life became gradually modified into a more or less active intellectual and imaginative curiosity; but the sense of an individual, self-centred, and, as it presented itself to him, unconditioned existence, survived all the teachings of experience, and often indeed unconsciously imposed itself upon them. i have already alluded to that other and more pathetic fragment of distinct autobiography which is to be found in the invocation to the 'sun-treader'. mr. fox, who has quoted great part of it, justly declares that 'the fervency, the remembrance, the half-regret mingling with its exultation, are as true as its leading image is beautiful.' the 'exultation' is in the triumph of shelley's rising fame; the regret, for the lost privilege of worshipping in solitary tenderness at an obscure shrine. the double mood would have been characteristic of any period of mr. browning's life. the artistic influence of shelley is also discernible in the natural imagery of the poem, which reflects a fitful and emotional fancy instead of the direct poetic vision of the author's later work. 'pauline' received another and graceful tribute two months later than the review. in an article of the 'monthly repository', and in the course of a description of some luxuriant wood-scenery, the following passage occurs: 'shelley and tennyson are the best books for this place. . . . they are natives of this soil; literally so; and if planted would grow as surely as a crowbar in kentucky sprouts tenpenny nails. 'probatum est.' last autumn l----dropped a poem of shelley's down there in the wood,* amongst the thick, damp, rotting leaves, and this spring some one found a delicate exotic-looking plant, growing wild on the very spot, with 'pauline' hanging from its slender stalk. unripe fruit it may be, but of pleasant flavour and promise, and a mellower produce, it may be hoped, will follow.' * mr. browning's copy of 'rosalind and helen', which he had lent to miss flower, and which she lost in this wood on a picnic. this and a bald though well-meant notice in the 'athenaeum' exhaust its literary history for this period.* * not quite, it appears. since i wrote the above words, mr. dykes campbell has kindly copied for me the following extract from the 'literary gazette' of march , : 'pauline: a fragment of a confession', pp. . london, . saunders and otley. 'somewhat mystical, somewhat poetical, somewhat sensual, and not a little unintelligible,--this is a dreamy volume, without an object, and unfit for publication.' the anonymity of the poem was not long preserved; there was no reason why it should be. but 'pauline' was, from the first, little known or discussed beyond the immediate circle of the poet's friends; and when, twenty years later, dante gabriel rossetti unexpectedly came upon it in the library of the british museum, he could only surmise that it had been written by the author of 'paracelsus'. the only recorded event of the next two years was mr. browning's visit to russia, which took place in the winter of - . the russian consul-general, mr. benckhausen, had taken a great liking to him, and being sent to st. petersburg on some special mission, proposed that he should accompany him, nominally in the character of secretary. the letters written to his sister during this, as during every other absence, were full of graphic description, and would have been a mine of interest for the student of his imaginative life. they are, unfortunately, all destroyed, and we have only scattered reminiscences of what they had to tell; but we know how strangely he was impressed by some of the circumstances of the journey: above all, by the endless monotony of snow-covered pine-forest, through which he and his companion rushed for days and nights at the speed of six post-horses, without seeming to move from one spot. he enjoyed the society of st. petersburg, and was fortunate enough, before his return, to witness the breaking-up of the ice on the neva, and see the czar perform the yearly ceremony of drinking the first glass of water from it. he was absent about three months. the one active career which would have recommended itself to him in his earlier youth was diplomacy; it was that which he subsequently desired for his son. he would indeed not have been averse to any post of activity and responsibility not unsuited to the training of a gentleman. soon after his return from russia he applied for appointment on a mission which was to be despatched to persia; and the careless wording of the answer which his application received made him think for a moment that it had been granted. he was much disappointed when he learned, through an interview with the 'chief', that the place was otherwise filled. in he began a little series of contributions to the 'monthly repository', extending into - , and consisting of five poems. the earliest of these was a sonnet, not contained in any edition of mr. browning's works, and which, i believe, first reappeared in mr. gosse's article in the 'century magazine', december ; now part of his 'personalia'. the second, beginning 'a king lived long ago', was to be published, with alterations and additions, as one of 'pippa's' songs. 'porphyria's lover' and 'johannes agricola in meditation' were reprinted together in 'bells and pomegranates' under the heading of 'madhouse cells'. the fifth consisted of the lines beginning 'still ailing, wind? wilt be appeased or no?' afterwards introduced into the sixth section of 'james lee's wife'. the sonnet is not very striking, though hints of the poet's future psychological subtlety are not wanting in it; but his most essential dramatic quality reveals itself in the last three poems. this winter of - witnessed the birth, perhaps also the extinction, of an amateur periodical, established by some of mr. browning's friends; foremost among these the young dowsons, afterwards connected with alfred domett. the magazine was called the 'trifler', and published in monthly numbers of about ten pages each. it collapsed from lack of pocket-money on the part of the editors; but mr. browning had written for it one letter, february , signed with his usual initial z, and entitled 'some strictures on a late article in the 'trifler'.' this boyish production sparkles with fun, while affecting the lengthy quaintnesses of some obsolete modes of speech. the article which it attacks was 'a dissertation on debt and debtors', where the subject was, i imagine, treated in the orthodox way: and he expends all his paradox in showing that indebtedness is a necessary condition of human life, and all his sophistry in confusing it with the abstract sense of obligation. it is, perhaps, scarcely fair to call attention to such a mere argumentative and literary freak; but there is something so comical in a defence of debt, however transparent, proceeding from a man to whom never in his life a bill can have been sent in twice, and who would always have preferred ready-money payment to receiving a bill at all, that i may be forgiven for quoting some passages from it. for to be man is to be a debtor:--hinting but slightly at the grand and primeval debt implied in the idea of a creation, as matter too hard for ears like thine, (for saith not luther, what hath a cow to do with nutmegs?) i must, nevertheless, remind thee that all moralists have concurred in considering this our mortal sojourn as indeed an uninterrupted state of debt, and the world our dwelling-place as represented by nothing so aptly as by an inn, wherein those who lodge most commodiously have in perspective a proportionate score to reduce,* and those who fare least delicately, but an insignificant shot to discharge--or, as the tuneful quarles well phraseth it-- he's most in _debt_ who lingers out the day, who dies betimes has less and less to pay. so far, therefore, from these sagacious ethics holding that debt cramps the energies of the soul, &c. as thou pratest, 'tis plain that they have willed on the very outset to inculcate this truth on the mind of every man,--no barren and inconsequential dogma, but an effectual, ever influencing and productive rule of life,--that he is born a debtor, lives a debtor--aye, friend, and when thou diest, will not some judicious bystander,--no recreant as thou to the bonds of nature, but a good borrower and true--remark, as did his grandsire before him on like occasions, that thou hast 'paid the _debt_ of nature'? ha! i have thee 'beyond the rules', as one (a bailiff) may say! * miss hickey, on reading this passage, has called my attention to the fact that the sentiment which it parodies is identical with that expressed in these words of 'prospice', . . . in a minute pay glad life's arrears of pain, darkness, and cold. such performances supplied a distraction to the more serious work of writing 'paracelsus', which was to be concluded in march , and which occupied the foregoing winter months. we do not know to what extent mr. browning had remained in communication with mr. fox; but the following letters show that the friend of 'pauline' gave ready and efficient help in the strangely difficult task of securing a publisher for the new poem. the first is dated april , . dear sir,--i beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter:--sardanapalus 'could not go on multiplying kingdoms'--nor i protestations--but i thank you very much. you will oblige me indeed by forwarding the introduction to moxon. i merely suggested him in particular, on account of his good name and fame among author-folk, besides he has himself written--as the americans say--'more poetry 'an you can shake a stick at.' so i hope we shall come to terms. i also hope my poem will turn out not utterly unworthy your kind interest, and more deserving your favour than anything of mine you have as yet seen; indeed i all along proposed to myself such an endeavour, for it will never do for one so distinguished by past praise to prove nobody after all--'nous verrons'. i am, dear sir, yours most truly and obliged robt. browning. on april he wrote again as follows: dear sir, your communication gladdened the cockles of my heart. i lost no time in presenting myself to moxon, but no sooner was mr. clarke's letter perused than the moxonian visage loured exceedingly thereat--the moxonian accent grew dolorous thereupon:--'artevelde' has not paid expenses by about thirty odd pounds. tennyson's poetry is 'popular at cambridge', and yet of copies which were printed of his last, some only have gone off: mr. m. hardly knows whether he shall ever venture again, &c. &c., and in short begs to decline even inspecting, &c. &c. i called on saunders and otley at once, and, marvel of marvels, do really think there is some chance of our coming to decent terms--i shall know at the beginning of next week, but am not over-sanguine. you will 'sarve me out'? two words to that; being the man you are, you must need very little telling from me, of the real feeling i have of your criticism's worth, and if i have had no more of it, surely i am hardly to blame, who have in more than one instance bored you sufficiently: but not a particle of your article has been rejected or neglected by your observant humble servant, and very proud shall i be if my new work bear in it the marks of the influence under which it was undertaken--and if i prove not a fit compeer of the potter in horace who anticipated an amphora and produced a porridge-pot. i purposely keep back the subject until you see my conception of its capabilities--otherwise you would be planning a vase fit to give the go-by to evander's best crockery, which my cantharus would cut but a sorry figure beside--hardly up to the ansa. but such as it is, it is very earnest and suggestive--and likely i hope to do good; and though i am rather scared at the thought of a _fresh eye_ going over its , lines--discovering blemishes of all sorts which my one wit cannot avail to detect, fools treated as sages, obscure passages, slipshod verses, and much that worse is,--yet on the whole i am not much afraid of the issue, and i would give something to be allowed to read it some morning to you--for every rap o' the knuckles i should get a clap o' the back, i know. i have another affair on hand, rather of a more popular nature, i conceive, but not so decisive and explicit on a point or two--so i decide on trying the question with this:--i really shall _need_ your notice, on this account; i shall affix my name and stick my arms akimbo; there are a few precious bold bits here and there, and the drift and scope are awfully radical--i am 'off' for ever with the other side, but must by all means be 'on' with yours--a position once gained, worthier works shall follow--therefore a certain writer* who meditated a notice (it matters not laudatory or otherwise) on 'pauline' in the 'examiner', must be benignant or supercilious as he shall choose, but in no case an idle spectator of my first appearance on any stage (having previously only dabbled in private theatricals) and bawl 'hats off!' 'down in front!' &c., as soon as i get to the proscenium; and he may depend that tho' my 'now is the winter of our discontent' be rather awkward, yet there shall be occasional outbreaks of good stuff--that i shall warm as i get on, and finally wish 'richmond at the bottom of the seas,' &c. in the best style imaginable. * mr. john stuart mill. excuse all this swagger, i know you will, and (the signature has been cut off; evidently for an autograph.) mr. effingham wilson was induced to publish the poem, but more, we understand, on the ground of radical sympathies in mr. fox and the author than on that of its intrinsic worth. the title-page of 'paracelsus' introduces us to one of the warmest friendships of mr. browning's life. count de ripert-monclar was a young french royalist, one of those who had accompanied the duchesse de berri on her chouan expedition, and was then, for a few years, spending his summers in england; ostensibly for his pleasure, really--as he confessed to the browning family--in the character of private agent of communication between the royal exiles and their friends in france. he was four years older than the poet, and of intellectual tastes which created an immediate bond of union between them. in the course of one of their conversations, he suggested the life of paracelsus as a possible subject for a poem; but on second thoughts pronounced it unsuitable, because it gave no room for the introduction of love: about which, he added, every young man of their age thought he had something quite new to say. mr. browning decided, after the necessary study, that he would write a poem on paracelsus, but treating him in his own way. it was dedicated, in fulfilment of a promise, to the friend to whom its inspiration had been due. the count's visits to england entirely ceased, and the two friends did not meet for twenty years. then, one day, in a street in rome, mr. browning heard a voice behind him crying, 'robert!' he turned, and there was 'amedee'. both were, by that time, married; the count--then, i believe, marquis--to an english lady, miss jerningham. mrs. browning, to whom of course he was introduced, liked him very much.* * a minor result of the intimacy was that mr. browning became member, in , of the institut historique, and in of the societe francaise de statistique universelle, to both of which learned bodies his friend belonged. mr. browning did treat paracelsus in his own way; and in so doing produced a character--at all events a history--which, according to recent judgments, approached far nearer to the reality than any conception which had until then been formed of it. he had carefully collected all the known facts of the great discoverer's life, and interpreted them with a sympathy which was no less an intuition of their truth than a reflection of his own genius upon them. we are enabled in some measure to judge of this by a paper entitled 'paracelsus, the reformer of medicine', written by dr. edward berdoe for the browning society, and read at its october meeting in ; and in the difficulty which exists for most of us of verifying the historical data of mr. browning's poem, it becomes a valuable guide to, as well as an interesting comment upon it. dr. berdoe reminds us that we cannot understand the real paracelsus without reference to the occult sciences so largely cultivated in his day, as also to the mental atmosphere which produced them; and he quotes in illustration a passage from the writings of that bishop of spanheim who was the instructor of paracelsus, and who appears as such in the poem. the passage is a definition of divine magic, which is apparently another term for alchemy; and lays down the great doctrine of all mediaeval occultism, as of all modern theosophy--of a soul-power equally operative in the material and the immaterial, in nature and in the consciousness of man. the same clue will guide us, as no other can, through what is apparently conflicting in the aims and methods, anomalous in the moral experience, of the paracelsus of the poem. his feverish pursuit, among the things of nature, of an ultimate of knowledge, not contained, even in fragments, in her isolated truths; the sense of failure which haunts his most valuable attainments; his tampering with the lower or diabolic magic, when the divine has failed; the ascetic exaltation in which he begins his career; the sudden awakening to the spiritual sterility which has been consequent on it; all these find their place, if not always their counterpart, in the real life. the language of mr. browning's paracelsus, his attitude towards himself and the world, are not, however, quite consonant with the alleged facts. they are more appropriate to an ardent explorer of the world of abstract thought than to a mystical scientist pursuing the secret of existence. he preserves, in all his mental vicissitudes, a loftiness of tone and a unity of intention, difficult to connect, even in fancy, with the real man, in whom the inherited superstitions and the prognostics of true science must often have clashed with each other. dr. berdoe's picture of the 'reformer' drawn more directly from history, conveys this double impression. mr. browning has rendered him more simple by, as it were, recasting him in the atmosphere of a more modern time, and of his own intellectual life. this poem still, therefore, belongs to the same group as 'pauline', though, as an effort of dramatic creation, superior to it. we find the poet with still less of dramatic disguise in the deathbed revelation which forms so beautiful a close to the story. it supplies a fitter comment to the errors of the dramatic paracelsus, than to those of the historical, whether or not its utterance was within the compass of historical probability, as dr. berdoe believes. in any case it was the direct product of mr. browning's mind, and expressed what was to be his permanent conviction. it might then have been an echo of german pantheistic philosophies. from the point of view of science--of modern science at least--it was prophetic; although the prophecy of one for whom evolution could never mean less or more than a divine creation operating on this progressive plan. the more striking, perhaps, for its personal quality are the evidences of imaginative sympathy, even direct human insight, in which the poem abounds. festus is, indeed, an essentially human creature: the man--it might have been the woman--of unambitious intellect and large intelligence of the heart, in whom so many among us have found comfort and help. we often feel, in reading 'pauline', that the poet in it was older than the man. the impression is more strongly and more definitely conveyed by this second work, which has none of the intellectual crudeness of 'pauline', though it still belongs to an early phase of the author's intellectual life. not only its mental, but its moral maturity, seems so much in advance of his uncompleted twenty-third year. to the first edition of 'paracelsus' was affixed a preface, now long discarded, but which acquires fresh interest in a retrospect of the author's completed work; for it lays down the constant principle of dramatic creation by which that work was to be inspired. it also anticipates probable criticism of the artistic form which on this, and so many subsequent occasions, he selected for it. 'i am anxious that the reader should not, at the very outset--mistaking my performance for one of a class with which it has nothing in common--judge it by principles on which it was never moulded, and subject it to a standard to which it was never meant to conform. i therefore anticipate his discovery, that it is an attempt, probably more novel than happy, to reverse the method usually adopted by writers whose aim it is to set forth any phenomenon of the mind or the passions, by the operation of persons and events; and that, instead of having recourse to an external machinery of incidents to create and evolve the crisis i desire to produce, i have ventured to display somewhat minutely the mood itself in its rise and progress, and have suffered the agency by which it is influenced and determined, to be generally discernible in its effects alone, and subordinate throughout, if not altogether excluded: and this for a reason. i have endeavoured to write a poem, not a drama: the canons of the drama are well known, and i cannot but think that, inasmuch as they have immediate regard to stage representation, the peculiar advantages they hold out are really such only so long as the purpose for which they were at first instituted is kept in view. i do not very well understand what is called a dramatic poem, wherein all those restrictions only submitted to on account of compensating good in the original scheme are scrupulously retained, as though for some special fitness in themselves--and all new facilities placed at an author's disposal by the vehicle he selects, as pertinaciously rejected. . . .' mr. fox reviewed this also in the 'monthly repository'. the article might be obtained through the kindness of mrs. bridell-fox; but it will be sufficient for my purpose to refer to its closing paragraph, as given by her in the 'argosy' of february . it was a final expression of what the writer regarded as the fitting intellectual attitude towards a rising poet, whose aims and methods lay so far beyond the range of the conventional rules of poetry. the great event in the history of 'paracelsus' was john forster's article on it in the 'examiner'. mr. forster had recently come to town. he could barely have heard mr. browning's name, and, as he afterwards told him, was perplexed in reading the poem by the question of whether its author was an old or a young man; but he knew that a writer in the 'athenaeum' had called it rubbish, and he had taken it up as a probable subject for a piece of slashing criticism. what he did write can scarcely be defined as praise. it was the simple, ungrudging admission of the unequivocal power, as well as brilliant promise, which he recognized in the work. this mutual experience was the introduction to a long and, certainly on mr. browning's part, a sincere friendship. chapter - removal to hatcham; some particulars--renewed intercourse with the second family of robert browning's grandfather--reuben browning--william shergold browning--visitors at hatcham--thomas carlyle--social life--new friends and acquaintance--introduction to macready--new year's eve at elm place--introduction to john forster--miss fanny haworth--miss martineau--serjeant talfourd--the 'ion' supper--'strafford'--relations with macready--performance of 'strafford'--letters concerning it from mr. browning and miss flower--personal glimpses of robert browning--rival forms of dramatic inspiration--relation of 'strafford' to 'sordello'--mr. robertson and the 'westminster review'. it was soon after this time, though the exact date cannot be recalled, that the browning family moved from camberwell to hatcham. some such change had long been in contemplation, for their house was now too small; and the finding one more suitable, in the latter place, had decided the question. the new home possessed great attractions. the long, low rooms of its upper storey supplied abundant accommodation for the elder mr. browning's six thousand books. mrs. browning was suffering greatly from her chronic ailment, neuralgia; and the large garden, opening on to the surrey hills, promised her all the benefits of country air. there were a coach-house and stable, which, by a curious, probably old-fashioned, arrangement, formed part of the house, and were accessible from it. here the 'good horse', york, was eventually put up; and near this, in the garden, the poet soon had another though humbler friend in the person of a toad, which became so much attached to him that it would follow him as he walked. he visited it daily, where it burrowed under a white rose tree, announcing himself by a pinch of gravel dropped into its hole; and the creature would crawl forth, allow its head to be gently tickled, and reward the act with that loving glance of the soft full eyes which mr. browning has recalled in one of the poems of 'asolando'. this change of residence brought the grandfather's second family, for the first time, into close as well as friendly contact with the first. mr. browning had always remained on outwardly friendly terms with his stepmother; and both he and his children were rewarded for this forbearance by the cordial relations which grew up between themselves and two of her sons. but in the earlier days they lived too far apart for frequent meeting. the old mrs. browning was now a widow, and, in order to be near her relations, she also came to hatcham, and established herself there in close neighbourhood to them. she had then with her only a son and a daughter, those known to the poet's friends as uncle reuben and aunt jemima; respectively nine years, and one year, older than he. 'aunt jemima' married not long afterwards, and is chiefly remembered as having been very amiable, and, in early youth, to use her nephew's words, 'as beautiful as the day;' but kindly, merry 'uncle reuben', then clerk in the rothschilds' london bank,* became a conspicuous member of the family circle. this does not mean that the poet was ever indebted to him for pecuniary help; and it is desirable that this should be understood, since it has been confidently asserted that he was so. so long as he was dependent at all, he depended exclusively on his father. even the use of his uncle's horse, which might have been accepted as a friendly concession on mr. reuben's part, did not really represent one. the animal stood, as i have said, in mr. browning's stable, and it was groomed by his gardener. the promise of these conveniences had induced reuben browning to buy a horse instead of continuing to hire one. he could only ride it on a few days of the week, and it was rather a gain than a loss to him that so good a horseman as his nephew should exercise it during the interval. * this uncle's name, and his business relations with the great jewish firm, have contributed to the mistaken theory of the poet's descent. uncle reuben was not a great appreciator of poetry--at all events of his nephew's; and an irreverent remark on 'sordello', imputed to a more eminent contemporary, proceeded, under cover of a friend's name, from him. but he had his share of mental endowments. we are told that he was a good linguist, and that he wrote on finance under an assumed name. he was also, apparently, an accomplished classic. lord beaconsfield is said to have declared that the inscription on a silver inkstand, presented to the daughter of lionel rothschild on her marriage, by the clerks at new court, 'was the most appropriate thing he had ever come across;' and that whoever had selected it must be one of the first latin scholars of the day. it was mr. reuben browning. another favourite uncle was william shergold browning, though less intimate with his nephew and niece than he would have become if he had not married while they were still children, and settled in paris, where his father's interest had placed him in the rothschild house. he is known by his 'history of the huguenots', a work, we are told, 'full of research, with a reference to contemporary literature for almost every occurrence mentioned or referred to.' he also wrote the 'provost of paris', and 'hoel morven', historical novels, and 'leisure hours', a collection of miscellanies; and was a contributor for some years to the 'gentleman's magazine'. it was chiefly from this uncle that miss browning and her brother heard the now often-repeated stories of their probable ancestors, micaiah browning, who distinguished himself at the siege of derry, and that commander of the ship 'holy ghost' who conveyed henry v. to france before the battle of agincourt, and received the coat-of-arms, with its emblematic waves, in reward for his service. robert browning was also indebted to him for the acquaintance of m. de ripert-monclar; for he was on friendly terms with the uncle of the young count, the marquis de fortia, a learned man and member of the institut, and gave a letter of introduction--actually, i believe, to his brother reuben--at the marquis's request.* * a grandson of william shergold, robert jardine browning, graduated at lincoln college, was called to the bar, and is now crown prosecutor in new south wales; where his name first gave rise to a report that he was mr. browning's son, while the announcement of his marriage was, for a moment, connected with mr. browning himself. he was also intimate with the poet and his sister, who liked him very much. the friendly relations with carlyle, which resulted in his high estimate of the poet's mother, also began at hatcham. on one occasion he took his brother, the doctor, with him to dine there. an earlier and much attached friend of the family was captain pritchard, cousin to the noted physician dr. blundell. he enabled the young robert, whom he knew from the age of sixteen, to attend some of dr. blundell's lectures; and this aroused in him a considerable interest in the sciences connected with medicine, though, as i shall have occasion to show, no knowledge of either disease or its treatment ever seems to have penetrated into his life. a captain lloyd is indirectly associated with 'the flight of the duchess'. that poem was not completed according to its original plan; and it was the always welcome occurrence of a visit from this gentleman which arrested its completion. mr. browning vividly remembered how the click of the garden gate, and the sight of the familiar figure advancing towards the house, had broken in upon his work and dispelled its first inspiration. the appearance of 'paracelsus' did not give the young poet his just place in popular judgment and public esteem. a generation was to pass before this was conceded to him. but it compelled his recognition by the leading or rising literary men of the day; and a fuller and more varied social life now opened before him. the names of serjeant talfourd, horne, leigh hunt, barry cornwall (procter), monckton milnes (lord houghton), eliot warburton, dickens, wordsworth, and walter savage landor, represent, with that of forster, some of the acquaintances made, or the friendships begun, at this period. prominent among the friends that were to be, was also archer gurney, well known in later life as the rev. archer gurney, and chaplain to the british embassy in paris. his sympathies were at present largely absorbed by politics. he was contesting the representation of some county, on the conservative side; but he took a very vivid interest in mr. browning's poems; and this perhaps fixes the beginning of the intimacy at a somewhat later date; since a pretty story by which it was illustrated connects itself with the publication of 'bells and pomegranates'. he himself wrote dramas and poems. sir john, afterwards lord, hanmer was also much attracted by the young poet, who spent a pleasant week with him at bettisfield park. he was the author of a volume entitled 'fra cipollo and other poems', from which the motto of 'colombe's birthday' was subsequently taken. the friends, old and new, met in the informal manner of those days, at afternoon dinners, or later suppers, at the houses of mr. fox, serjeant talfourd, and, as we shall see, mr. macready; and mr. fox's daughter, then only a little girl, but intelligent and observant for her years, well remembers the pleasant gatherings at which she was allowed to assist, when first performances of plays, or first readings of plays and poems, had brought some of the younger and more ardent spirits together. miss flower, also, takes her place in the literary group. her sister had married in , and left her free to live for her own pursuits and her own friends; and mr. browning must have seen more of her then than was possible in his boyish days. none, however, of these intimacies were, at the time, so important to him as that formed with the great actor macready. they were introduced to each other by mr. fox early in the winter of - ; the meeting is thus chronicled in macready's diary, november .* * 'macready's reminiscences', edited by sir frederick pollock; . 'went from chambers to dine with rev. william fox, bayswater. . . . mr. robert browning, the author of 'paracelsus', came in after dinner; i was very much pleased to meet him. his face is full of intelligence. . . . i took mr. browning on, and requested to be allowed to improve my acquaintance with him. he expressed himself warmly, as gratified by the proposal, wished to send me his book; we exchanged cards and parted.' on december he writes: 'read 'paracelsus', a work of great daring, starred with poetry of thought, feeling, and diction, but occasionally obscure; the writer can scarcely fail to be a leading spirit of his time. . . .' he invited mr. browning to his country house, elm place, elstree, for the last evening of the year; and again refers to him under date of december . '. . . our other guests were miss henney, forster, cattermole, browning, and mr. munro. mr. browning was very popular with the whole party; his simple and enthusiastic manner engaged attention, and won opinions from all present; he looks and speaks more like a youthful poet than any man i ever saw.' this new-year's-eve visit brought browning and forster together for the first time. the journey to elstree was then performed by coach, and the two young men met at the 'blue posts', where, with one or more of mr. macready's other guests, they waited for the coach to start. they eyed each other with interest, both being striking in their way, and neither knowing who the other was. when the introduction took place at macready's house, mr. forster supplemented it by saying: 'did you see a little notice of you i wrote in the 'examiner'?' the two names will now be constantly associated in macready's diary, which, except for mr. browning's own casual utterances, is almost our only record of his literary and social life during the next two years. it was at elm place that mr. browning first met miss euphrasia fanny haworth, then a neighbour of mr. macready, residing with her mother at barham lodge. miss haworth was still a young woman, but her love and talent for art and literature made her a fitting member of the genial circle to which mr. browning belonged; and she and the poet soon became fast friends. her first name appears as 'eyebright' in 'sordello'. his letters to her, returned after her death by her brother, mr. frederick haworth, supply valuable records of his experiences and of his feelings at one very interesting, and one deeply sorrowful, period of his history. she was a thoroughly kindly, as well as gifted woman, and much appreciated by those of the poet's friends who knew her as a resident in london during her last years. a portrait which she took of him in is considered by some persons very good. at about this time also, and probably through miss haworth, he became acquainted with miss martineau. soon after his introduction to macready, if not before, mr. browning became busy with the thought of writing for the stage. the diary has this entry for february , : 'forster and browning called, and talked over the plot of a tragedy, which browning had begun to think of: the subject, narses. he said that i had _bit_ him by my performance of othello, and i told him i hoped i should make the blood come. it would indeed be some recompense for the miseries, the humiliations, the heart-sickening disgusts which i have endured in my profession, if, by its exercise, i had awakened a spirit of poetry whose influence would elevate, ennoble, and adorn our degraded drama. may it be!' but narses was abandoned, and the more serious inspiration and more definite motive were to come later. they connect themselves with one of the pleasant social occurrences which must have lived in the young poet's memory. on may 'ion' had been performed for the first time and with great success, mr. macready sustaining the principal part; and the great actor and a number of their common friends had met at supper at serjeant talfourd's house to celebrate the occasion. the party included wordsworth and landor, both of whom mr. browning then met for the first time. toasts flew right and left. mr. browning's health was proposed by serjeant talfourd as that of the youngest poet of england, and wordsworth responded to the appeal with very kindly courtesy. the conversation afterwards turned upon plays, and macready, who had ignored a half-joking question of miss mitford, whether, if she wrote one, he would act in it, overtook browning as they were leaving the house, and said, 'write a play, browning, and keep me from going to america.' the reply was, 'shall it be historical and english; what do you say to a drama on strafford?' this ready response on the poet's part showed that strafford, as a dramatic subject, had been occupying his thoughts. the subject was in the air, because forster was then bringing out a life of that statesman, with others belonging to the same period. it was more than in the air, so far as browning was concerned, because his friend had been disabled, either through sickness or sorrow, from finishing this volume by the appointed time, and he, as well he might, had largely helped him in its completion. it was, however, not till august that macready wrote in his diary: 'forster told me that browning had fixed on strafford for the subject of a tragedy; he could not have hit upon one that i could have more readily concurred in.' a previous entry of may , the occasion of which is only implied, shows with how high an estimate of mr. browning's intellectual importance macready's professional relations to him began. 'arriving at chambers, i found a note from browning. what can i say upon it? it was a tribute which remunerated me for the annoyances and cares of years: it was one of the very highest, may i not say the highest, honour i have through life received.' the estimate maintained itself in reference to the value of mr. browning's work, since he wrote on march , : 'read before dinner a few pages of 'paracelsus', which raises my wonder the more i read it. . . . looked over two plays, which it was not possible to read, hardly as i tried. . . . read some scenes in 'strafford', which restore one to the world of sense and feeling once again.' but as the day of the performance drew near, he became at once more anxious and more critical. an entry of april comments somewhat sharply on the dramatic faults of 'strafford', besides declaring the writer's belief that the only chance for it is in the acting, which, 'by possibility, might carry it to the end without disapprobation,' though he dares not hope without opposition. it is quite conceivable that his first complete study of the play, and first rehearsal of it, brought to light deficiencies which had previously escaped him; but so complete a change of sentiment points also to private causes of uneasiness and irritation; and, perhaps, to the knowledge that its being saved by collective good acting was out of the question. 'strafford' was performed at covent garden theatre on may . mr. browning wrote to mr. fox after one of the last rehearsals: may day, lincoln's inn fields. dear sir,--all my endeavours to procure a copy before this morning have been fruitless. i send the first book of the first bundle. _pray_ look over it--the alterations to-night will be considerable. the complexion of the piece is, i grieve to say, 'perfect gallows' just now--our _king_, mr. dale, being . . . but you'll see him, and, i fear, not much applaud. your unworthy son, in things literary, robert browning. p.s. (in pencil).--a most unnecessary desire, but urged on me by messrs. longman: no notice on str. in to-night's true sun,* lest the other papers be jealous!!! * mr. fox reviewed 'strafford' in the 'true sun'. a second letter, undated, but evidently written a day or two later, refers to the promised notice, which had then appeared. tuesday night. no words can express my feelings: i happen to be much annoyed and unwell--but your most generous notice has almost made 'my soul well and happy now.' i thank you, my most kind, most constant friend, from my heart for your goodness--which is brave enough, just now. i am ever and increasingly yours, robert browning. you will be glad to see me on the earliest occasion, will you not? i shall certainly come. a letter from miss flower to miss sarah fox (sister to the rev. william fox), at norwich, contains the following passage, which evidently continues a chapter of london news: 'then 'strafford'; were you not pleased to hear of the success of one you must, i think, remember a very little boy, years ago. if not, you have often heard us speak of robert browning: and it is a great deal to have accomplished a successful tragedy, although he seems a good deal annoyed at the go of things behind the scenes, and declares he will never write a play again, as long as he lives. you have no idea of the ignorance and obstinacy of the whole set, with here and there an exception; think of his having to write out the meaning of the word 'impeachment', as some of them thought it meant 'poaching'.' on the first night, indeed, the fate of 'strafford' hung in the balance; it was saved by macready and miss helen faucit. after this they must have been better supported, as it was received on the second night with enthusiasm by a full house. the catastrophe came after the fifth performance, with the desertion of the actor who had sustained the part of pym. we cannot now judge whether, even under favourable circumstances, the play would have had as long a run as was intended; but the casting vote in favour of this view is given by the conduct of mr. osbaldistone, the manager, when it was submitted to him. the diary says, march , that he caught at it with avidity, and agreed to produce it without delay. the terms he offered to the author must also have been considered favourable in those days. the play was published in april by longman, this time not at the author's expense; but it brought no return either to him or to his publisher. it was dedicated 'in all affectionate admiration' to william c. macready. we gain some personal glimpses of the browning of - ; one especially through mrs. bridell-fox, who thus describes her first meeting with him: 'i remember . . . when mr. browning entered the drawing-room, with a quick light step; and on hearing from me that my father was out, and in fact that nobody was at home but myself, he said: "it's my birthday to-day; i'll wait till they come in," and sitting down to the piano, he added: "if it won't disturb you, i'll play till they do." and as he turned to the instrument, the bells of some neighbouring church suddenly burst out with a frantic merry peal. it seemed, to my childish fancy, as if in response to the remark that it was his birthday. he was then slim and dark, and very handsome; and--may i hint it--just a trifle of a dandy, addicted to lemon-coloured kid-gloves and such things: quite "the glass of fashion and the mould of form." but full of ambition, eager for success, eager for fame, and, what's more, determined to conquer fame and to achieve success.' i do not think his memory ever taxed him with foppishness, though he may have had the innocent personal vanity of an attractive young man at his first period of much seeing and being seen; but all we know of him at that time bears out the impression mrs. fox conveys, of a joyous, artless confidence in himself and in life, easily depressed, but quickly reasserting itself; and in which the eagerness for new experiences had freed itself from the rebellious impatience of boyish days. the self-confidence had its touches of flippancy and conceit; but on this side it must have been constantly counteracted by his gratitude for kindness, and by his enthusiastic appreciation of the merits of other men. his powers of feeling, indeed, greatly expended themselves in this way. he was very attractive to women and, as we have seen, warmly loved by very various types of men; but, except in its poetic sense, his emotional nature was by no means then in the ascendant: a fact difficult to realize when we remember the passion of his childhood's love for mother and home, and the new and deep capabilities of affection to be developed in future days. the poet's soul in him was feeling its wings; the realities of life had not yet begun to weight them. we see him again at the 'ion' supper, in the grace and modesty with which he received the honours then adjudged to him. the testimony has been said to come from miss mitford, but may easily have been supplied by miss haworth, who was also present on this occasion. mr. browning's impulse towards play-writing had not, as we have seen, begun with 'strafford'. it was still very far from being exhausted. and though he had struck out for himself another line of dramatic activity, his love for the higher theatrical life, and the legitimate inducements of the more lucrative and not necessarily less noble form of composition, might ultimately in some degree have prevailed with him if circumstances had been such as to educate his theatrical capabilities, and to reward them. his first acted drama was, however, an interlude to the production of the important group of poems which was to be completed by 'sordello'; and he alludes to this later work in an also discarded preface to 'strafford', as one on which he had for some time been engaged. he even characterizes the tragedy as an attempt 'to freshen a jaded mind by diverting it to the healthy natures of a grand epoch.' 'sordello' again occupied him during the remainder of and the beginning of ; and by the spring of this year he must have been thankful to vary the scene and mode of his labours by means of a first visit to italy. he announces his impending journey, with its immediate plan and purpose, in the following note: to john robertson, esq. good friday, . dear sir,--i was not fortunate enough to find you the day before yesterday--and must tell you very hurriedly that i sail this morning for venice--intending to finish my poem among the scenes it describes. i shall have your good wishes i know. believe me, in return, dear sir, yours faithfully and obliged, robert browning. mr. john robertson had influence with the 'westminster review', either as editor, or member of its staff. he had been introduced to mr. browning by miss martineau; and, being a great admirer of 'paracelsus', had promised careful attention for 'sordello'; but, when the time approached, he made conditions of early reading, &c., which mr. browning thought so unfair towards other magazines that he refused to fulfil them. he lost his review, and the goodwill of its intending writer; and even miss martineau was ever afterwards cooler towards him, though his attitude in the matter had been in some degree prompted by a chivalrous partisanship for her. chapter - first italian journey--letters to miss haworth--mr. john kenyon--'sordello'--letter to miss flower--'pippa passes'--'bells and pomegranates'. mr. browning sailed from london with captain davidson of the 'norham castle', a merchant vessel bound for trieste, on which he found himself the only passenger. a striking experience of the voyage, and some characteristic personal details, are given in the following letter to miss haworth. it is dated , and was probably written before that year's summer had closed. tuesday evening. dear miss haworth,--do look at a fuchsia in full bloom and notice the clear little honey-drop depending from every flower. i have just found it out to my no small satisfaction,--a bee's breakfast. i only answer for the long-blossomed sort, though,--indeed, for this plant in my room. taste and be titania; you can, that is. all this while i forget that you will perhaps never guess the good of the discovery: i have, you are to know, such a love for flowers and leaves--some leaves--that i every now and then, in an impatience at being able to possess myself of them thoroughly, to see them quite, satiate myself with their scent,--bite them to bits--so there will be some sense in that. how i remember the flowers--even grasses--of places i have seen! some one flower or weed, i should say, that gets some strangehow connected with them. snowdrops and tilsit in prussia go together; cowslips and windsor park, for instance; flowering palm and some place or other in holland. now to answer what can be answered in the letter i was happy to receive last week. i am quite well. i did not expect you would write,--for none of your written reasons, however. you will see 'sordello' in a trice, if the fagging fit holds. i did not write six lines while absent (except a scene in a play, jotted down as we sailed thro' the straits of gibraltar)--but i did hammer out some four, two of which are addressed to you, two to the queen*--the whole to go in book iii--perhaps. i called you 'eyebright'--meaning a simple and sad sort of translation of "euphrasia" into my own language: folks would know who euphrasia, or fanny, was--and i should not know ianthe or clemanthe. not that there is anything in them to care for, good or bad. shall i say 'eyebright'? * i know no lines directly addressed to the queen. i was disappointed in one thing, canova. what companions should i have? the story of the ship must have reached you 'with a difference' as ophelia says; my sister told it to a mr. dow, who delivered it to forster, i suppose, who furnished macready with it, who made it over &c., &c., &c.--as short as i can tell, this way it happened: the captain woke me one bright sunday morning to say there was a ship floating keel uppermost half a mile off; they lowered a boat, made ropes fast to some floating canvas, and towed her towards our vessel. both met halfway, and the little air that had risen an hour or two before, sank at once. our men made the wreck fast in high glee at having 'new trousers out of the sails,' and quite sure she was a french boat, broken from her moorings at algiers, close by. ropes were next hove (hang this sea-talk!) round her stanchions, and after a quarter of an hour's pushing at the capstan, the vessel righted suddenly, one dead body floating out; five more were in the forecastle, and had probably been there a month under a blazing african sun--don't imagine the wretched state of things. they were, these six, the 'watch below'--(i give you the result of the day's observation)--the rest, some eight or ten, had been washed overboard at first. one or two were algerines, the rest spaniards. the vessel was a smuggler bound for gibraltar; there were two stupidly disproportionate guns, taking up the whole deck, which was convex and--nay, look you! (a rough pen-and-ink sketch of the different parts of the wreck is here introduced) these are the gun-rings, and the black square the place where the bodies lay. (all the 'bulwarks' or sides of the top, carried away by the waves.) well, the sailors covered up the hatchway, broke up the aft-deck, hauled up tobacco and cigars, such heaps of them, and then bale after bale of prints and chintz, don't you call it, till the captain was half-frightened--he would get at the ship's papers, he said; so these poor fellows were pulled up, piecemeal, and pitched into the sea, the very sailors calling to each other to 'cover the faces',--no papers of importance were found, however, but fifteen swords, powder and ball enough for a dozen such boats, and bundles of cotton, &c., that would have taken a day to get out, but the captain vowed that after five o'clock she should be cut adrift: accordingly she was cast loose, not a third of her cargo having been touched; and you hardly can conceive the strange sight when the battered hulk turned round, actually, and looked at us, and then reeled off, like a mutilated creature from some scoundrel french surgeon's lecture-table, into the most gorgeous and lavish sunset in the world: there; only thank me for not taking you at your word, and giving you the whole 'story'.--'what i did?' i went to trieste, then venice--then through treviso and bassano to the mountains, delicious asolo, all my places and castles, you will see. then to vicenza, padua, and venice again. then to verona, trent, innspruck (the tyrol), munich, salzburg in franconia, frankfort and mayence; down the rhine to cologne, then to aix-la-chapelle, liege and antwerp--then home. shall you come to town, anywhere near town, soon? i shall be off again as soon as my book is out, whenever that will be. i never read that book of miss martineau's, so can't understand what you mean. macready is looking well; i just saw him the other day for a minute after the play; his kitely was kitely--superb from his flat cap down to his shining shoes. i saw very few italians, 'to know', that is. those i did see i liked. your friend pepoli has been lecturing here, has he not? i shall be vexed if you don't write soon, a long elstree letter. what are you doing, writing--drawing? ever yours truly r. b. to miss haworth, barham lodge, elstree. miss browning's account of this experience, supplied from memory of her brother's letters and conversations, contains some vivid supplementary details. the drifting away of the wreck put probably no effective distance between it and the ship; hence the necessity of 'sailing away' from it. 'of the dead pirates, one had his hands clasped as if praying; another, a severe gash in his head. the captain burnt disinfectants and blew gunpowder, before venturing on board, but even then, he, a powerful man, turned very sick with the smell and sight. they stayed one whole day by the side, but the sailors, in spite of orders, began to plunder the cigars, &c. the captain said privately to robert, "i cannot restrain my men, and they will bring the plague into our ship, so i mean quietly in the night to sail away." robert took two cutlasses and a dagger; they were of the coarsest workmanship, intended for use. at the end of one of the sheaths was a heavy bullet, so that it could be used as a sling. the day after, to their great relief, a heavy rain fell and cleansed the ship. captain davidson reported the sight of the wreck and its condition as soon as he arrived at trieste.' miss browning also relates that the weather was stormy in the bay of biscay, and for the first fortnight her brother suffered terribly. the captain supported him on to the deck as they passed through the straits of gibraltar, that he might not lose the sight. he recovered, as we know, sufficiently to write 'how they brought the good news from ghent to aix'; but we can imagine in what revulsion of feeling towards firm land and healthy motion this dream of a headlong gallop was born in him. the poem was pencilled on the cover of bartoli's "de' simboli trasportati al morale", a favourite book and constant companion of his; and, in spite of perfect effacement as far as the sense goes, the pencil dints are still visible. the little poem 'home thoughts from the sea' was written at the same time, and in the same manner. by the time they reached trieste, the captain, a rough north-countryman, had become so attached to mr. browning that he offered him a free passage to constantinople; and after they had parted, carefully preserved, by way of remembrance, a pair of very old gloves worn by him on deck. mr. browning might, on such an occasion, have dispensed with gloves altogether; but it was one of his peculiarities that he could never endure to be out of doors with uncovered hands. the captain also showed his friendly feeling on his return to england by bringing to miss browning, whom he had heard of through her brother, a present of six bottles of attar of roses. the inspirations of asolo and venice appear in 'pippa passes' and 'in a gondola'; but the latter poem showed, to mr. browning's subsequent vexation, that venice had been imperfectly seen; and the magnetism which asolo was to exercise upon him, only fully asserted itself at a much later time. a second letter to miss haworth is undated, but may have been written at any period of this or the ensuing year. i have received, a couple of weeks since, a present--an album large and gaping, and as cibber's richard says of the 'fair elizabeth': 'my heart is empty--she shall fill it'--so say i (impudently?) of my grand trouble-table, which holds a sketch or two by my fine fellow monclar, one lithograph--his own face of faces,--'all the rest was amethyst.' f. h. everywhere! not a soul beside 'in the chrystal silence there,' and it locks, this album; now, don't shower drawings on m., who has so many advantages over me as it is: or at least don't bid _me_ of all others say what he is to have. the 'master' is somebody you don't know, w. j. fox, a magnificent and poetical nature, who used to write in reviews when i was a boy, and to whom my verses, a bookful, written at the ripe age of twelve and thirteen, were shown: which verses he praised not a little; which praise comforted me not a little. then i lost sight of him for years and years; then i published _anonymously_ a little poem--which he, to my inexpressible delight, praised and expounded in a gallant article in a magazine of which he was the editor; then i found him out again; he got a publisher for 'paracelsus' (i read it to him in manuscript) and is in short 'my literary father'. pretty nearly the same thing did he for miss martineau, as she has said somewhere. god knows i forget what the 'talk', table-talk was about--i think she must have told you the results of the whole day we spent tete-a-tete at ascot, and that day's, the dinner-day's morning at elstree and st. albans. she is to give me advice about my worldly concerns, and not before i need it! i cannot say or sing the pleasure your way of writing gives me--do go on, and tell me all sorts of things, 'the story' for a beginning; but your moralisings on 'your age' and the rest, are--now what _are_ they? not to be reasoned on, disputed, laughed at, grieved about: they are 'fanny's crotchets'. i thank thee, jew (lia), for teaching me that word. i don't know that i shall leave town for a month: my friend monclar looks piteous when i talk of such an event. i can't bear to leave him; he is to take my portrait to-day (a famous one he _has_ taken!) and very like he engages it shall be. i am going to town for the purpose. . . . now, then, do something for me, and see if i'll ask miss m----to help you! i am going to begin the finishing 'sordello'--and to begin thinking a tragedy (an historical one, so i shall want heaps of criticisms on 'strafford') and i want to have _another_ tragedy in prospect, i write best so provided: i had chosen a splendid subject for it, when i learned that a magazine for next, this, month, will have a scene founded on my story; vulgarizing or doing no good to it: and i accordingly throw it up. i want a subject of the most wild and passionate love, to contrast with the one i mean to have ready in a short time. i have many half-conceptions, floating fancies: give me your notion of a thorough self-devotement, self-forgetting; should it be a woman who loves thus, or a man? what circumstances will best draw out, set forth this feeling? . . . the tragedies in question were to be 'king victor and king charles', and 'the return of the druses'. this letter affords a curious insight into mr. browning's mode of work; it is also very significant of the small place which love had hitherto occupied in his life. it was evident, from his appeal to miss haworth's 'notion' on the subject, that he had as yet no experience, even imaginary, of a genuine passion, whether in woman or man. the experience was still distant from him in point of time. in circumstance he was nearer to it than he knew; for it was in that he became acquainted with mr. kenyon. when dining one day at serjeant talfourd's, he was accosted by a pleasant elderly man, who, having, we conclude, heard who he was, asked leave to address to him a few questions: 'was his father's name robert? had he gone to school at the rev. mr. bell's at cheshunt, and was he still alive?' on receiving affirmative answers, he went on to say that mr. browning and he had been great chums at school, and though they had lost sight of each other in after-life, he had never forgotten his old playmate, but even alluded to him in a little book which he had published a few years before.* * the volume is entitled 'rhymed plea for tolerance' ( ), and contains a reference to mr. kenyon's schooldays, and to the classic fights which mr. browning had instituted. the next morning the poet asked his father if he remembered a schoolfellow named john kenyon. he replied, 'certainly! this is his face,' and sketched a boy's head, in which his son at once recognized that of the grown man. the acquaintance was renewed, and mr. kenyon proved ever afterwards a warm friend. mr. browning wrote of him, in a letter to professor knight of st. andrews, jan. , : 'he was one of the best of human beings, with a general sympathy for excellence of every kind. he enjoyed the friendship of wordsworth, of southey, of landor, and, in later days, was intimate with most of my contemporaries of eminence.' it was at mr. kenyon's house that the poet saw most of wordsworth, who always stayed there when he came to town. in 'sordello' appeared. it was, relatively to its length, by far the slowest in preparation of mr. browning's poems. this seemed, indeed, a condition of its peculiar character. it had lain much deeper in the author's mind than the various slighter works which were thrown off in the course of its inception. we know from the preface to 'strafford' that it must have been begun soon after 'paracelsus'. its plan may have belonged to a still earlier date; for it connects itself with 'pauline' as the history of a poetic soul; with both the earlier poems, as the manifestation of the self-conscious spiritual ambitions which were involved in that history. this first imaginative mood was also outgrowing itself in the very act of self-expression; for the tragedies written before the conclusion of 'sordello' impress us as the product of a different mental state--as the work of a more balanced imagination and a more mature mind. it would be interesting to learn how mr. browning's typical poet became embodied in this mediaeval form: whether the half-mythical character of the real sordello presented him as a fitting subject for imaginative psychological treatment, or whether the circumstances among which he moved seemed the best adapted to the development of the intended type. the inspiration may have come through the study of dante, and his testimony to the creative influence of sordello on their mother-tongue. that period of italian history must also have assumed, if it did not already possess, a great charm for mr. browning's fancy, since he studied no less than thirty works upon it, which were to contribute little more to his dramatic picture than what he calls 'decoration', or 'background'. but the one guide which he has given us to the reading of the poem is his assertion that its historical circumstance is only to be regarded as background; and the extent to which he identified himself with the figure of sordello has been proved by his continued belief that its prominence was throughout maintained. he could still declare, so late as , in his preface to the reprint of the work, that his 'stress' in writing it had lain 'on the incidents in the development of a soul, little else' being to his mind 'worth study'. i cannot therefore help thinking that recent investigations of the life and character of the actual poet, however in themselves praiseworthy and interesting, have been often in some degree a mistake; because, directly or indirectly, they referred mr. browning's sordello to an historical reality, which his author had grasped, as far as was then possible, but to which he was never intended to conform. sordello's story does exhibit the development of a soul; or rather, the sudden awakening of a self-regarding nature to the claims of other men--the sudden, though slowly prepared, expansion of the narrower into the larger self, the selfish into the sympathetic existence; and this takes place in accordance with mr. browning's here expressed belief that poetry is the appointed vehicle for all lasting truths; that the true poet must be their exponent. the work is thus obviously, in point of moral utterance, an advance on 'pauline'. its metaphysics are, also, more distinctly formulated than those of either 'pauline' or 'paracelsus'; and the frequent use of the term will in its metaphysical sense so strongly points to german associations that it is difficult to realize their absence, then and always, from mr. browning's mind. but he was emphatic in his assurance that he knew neither the german philosophers nor their reflection in coleridge, who would have seemed a likely medium between them and him. miss martineau once said to him that he had no need to study german thought, since his mind was german enough--by which she possibly meant too german--already. the poem also impresses us by a gothic richness of detail,* the picturesque counterpart of its intricacy of thought, and, perhaps for this very reason, never so fully displayed in any subsequent work. mr. browning's genuinely modest attitude towards it could not preclude the consciousness of the many imaginative beauties which its unpopular character had served to conceal; and he was glad to find, some years ago, that 'sordello' was represented in a collection of descriptive passages which a friend of his was proposing to make. 'there is a great deal of that in it,' he said, 'and it has always been overlooked.' * the term gothic has been applied to mr. browning's work, i believe, by mr. james thomson, in writing of 'the ring and the book', and i do not like to use it without saying so. but it is one of those which must have spontaneously suggested themselves to many other of mr. browning's readers. it was unfortunate that new difficulties of style should have added themselves on this occasion to those of subject and treatment; and the reason of it is not generally known. mr. john sterling had made some comments on the wording of 'paracelsus'; and miss caroline fox, then quite a young woman, repeated them, with additions, to miss haworth, who, in her turn, communicated them to mr. browning, but without making quite clear to him the source from which they sprang. he took the criticism much more seriously than it deserved, and condensed the language of this his next important publication into what was nearly its present form. in leaving 'sordello' we emerge from the self-conscious stage of mr. browning's imagination, and his work ceases to be autobiographic in the sense in which, perhaps erroneously, we have hitherto felt it to be. 'festus' and 'salinguerra' have already given promise of the world of 'men and women' into which he will now conduct us. they will be inspired by every variety of conscious motive, but never again by the old (real or imagined) self-centred, self-directing will. we have, indeed, already lost the sense of disparity between the man and the poet; for the browning of 'sordello' was growing older, while the defects of the poem were in many respects those of youth. in 'pippa passes', published one year later, the poet and the man show themselves full-grown. each has entered on the inheritance of the other. neither the imagination nor the passion of what mr. gosse so fitly calls this 'lyrical masque'* gives much scope for tenderness; but the quality of humour is displayed in it for the first time; as also a strongly marked philosophy of life--or more properly, of association--from which its idea and development are derived. in spite, however, of these evidences of general maturity, mr. browning was still sometimes boyish in personal intercourse, if we may judge from a letter to miss flower written at about the same time. * these words, and a subsequent paragraph, are quoted from mr. gosse's 'personalia'. monday night, march (? ). my dear miss flower,--i have this moment received your very kind note--of course, i understand your objections. how else? but they are somewhat lightened already (confess--nay 'confess' is vile--you will be rejoiced to holla from the house-top)--will go on, or rather go off, lightening, and will be--oh, where _will_ they be half a dozen years hence? meantime praise what you can praise, do me all the good you can, you and mr. fox (as if you will not!) for i have a head full of projects--mean to song-write, play-write forthwith,--and, believe me, dear miss flower, yours ever faithfully, robert browning. by the way, you speak of 'pippa'--could we not make some arrangement about it? the lyrics _want_ your music--five or six in all--how say you? when these three plays are out i hope to build a huge ode--but 'all goeth by god's will.' the loyal alfred domett now appears on the scene with a satirical poem, inspired by an impertinent criticism on his friend. i give its first two verses: on a certain critique on 'pippa passes'. (query--passes what?--the critic's comprehension.) ho! everyone that by the nose is led, automatons of which the world is full, ye myriad bodies, each without a head, that dangle from a critic's brainless skull, come, hearken to a deep discovery made, a mighty truth now wondrously displayed. a black squat beetle, vigorous for his size, pushing tail-first by every road that's wrong the dung-ball of his dirty thoughts along his tiny sphere of grovelling sympathies-- has knocked himself full-butt, with blundering trouble, against a mountain he can neither double nor ever hope to scale. so like a free, pert, self-conceited scarabaeus, he takes it into his horny head to swear there's no such thing as any mountain there. the writer lived to do better things from a literary point of view; but these lines have a fine ring of youthful indignation which must have made them a welcome tribute to friendship. there seems to have been little respectful criticism of 'pippa passes'; it is less surprising that there should have been very little of 'sordello'. mr. browning, it is true, retained a limited number of earnest appreciators, foremost of whom was the writer of an admirable notice of these two works, quoted from an 'eclectic review' of , in dr. furnivall's 'bibliography'. i am also told that the series of poems which was next to appear was enthusiastically greeted by some poets and painters of the pre-raphaelite school; but he was now entering on a period of general neglect, which covered nearly twenty years of his life, and much that has since become most deservedly popular in his work. 'pippa passes' had appeared as the first instalment of 'bells and pomegranates', the history of which i give in mr. gosse's words. this poem, and the two tragedies, 'king victor and king charles' and 'the return of the druses'--first christened 'mansoor, the hierophant'--were lying idle in mr. browning's desk. he had not found, perhaps not very vigorously sought, a publisher for them. 'one day, as the poet was discussing the matter with mr. edward moxon, the publisher, the latter remarked that at that time he was bringing out some editions of the old elizabethan dramatists in a comparatively cheap form, and that if mr. browning would consent to print his poems as pamphlets, using this cheap type, the expense would be very inconsiderable. the poet jumped at the idea, and it was agreed that each poem should form a separate brochure of just one sheet--sixteen pages in double columns--the entire cost of which should not exceed twelve or fifteen pounds. in this fashion began the celebrated series of 'bells and pomegranates', eight numbers of which, a perfect treasury of fine poetry, came out successively between and . 'pippa passes' led the way, and was priced first at sixpence; then, the sale being inconsiderable, at a shilling, which greatly encouraged the sale; and so, slowly, up to half-a-crown, at which the price of each number finally rested.' mr. browning's hopes and intentions with respect to this series are announced in the following preface to 'pippa passes', of which, in later editions, only the dedicatory words appear: 'two or three years ago i wrote a play, about which the chief matter i care to recollect at present is, that a pit-full of good-natured people applauded it:--ever since, i have been desirous of doing something in the same way that should better reward their attention. what follows i mean for the first of a series of dramatical pieces, to come out at intervals, and i amuse myself by fancying that the cheap mode in which they appear will for once help me to a sort of pit-audience again. of course, such a work must go on no longer than it is liked; and to provide against a certain and but too possible contingency, let me hasten to say now--what, if i were sure of success, i would try to say circumstantially enough at the close--that i dedicate my best intentions most admiringly to the author of "ion"--most affectionately to serjeant talfourd.' a necessary explanation of the general title was reserved for the last number: and does something towards justifying the popular impression that mr. browning exacted a large measure of literary insight from his readers. 'here ends my first series of "bells and pomegranates": and i take the opportunity of explaining, in reply to inquiries, that i only meant by that title to indicate an endeavour towards something like an alternation, or mixture, of music with discoursing, sound with sense, poetry with thought; which looks too ambitious, thus expressed, so the symbol was preferred. it is little to the purpose, that such is actually one of the most familiar of the many rabbinical (and patristic) acceptations of the phrase; because i confess that, letting authority alone, i supposed the bare words, in such juxtaposition, would sufficiently convey the desired meaning. "faith and good works" is another fancy, for instance, and perhaps no easier to arrive at: yet giotto placed a pomegranate fruit in the hand of dante, and raffaelle crowned his theology (in the 'camera della segnatura') with blossoms of the same; as if the bellari and vasari would be sure to come after, and explain that it was merely "simbolo delle buone opere--il qual pomogranato fu pero usato nelle vesti del pontefice appresso gli ebrei."' the dramas and poems contained in the eight numbers of 'bells and pomegranates' were: i. pippa passes. . ii. king victor and king charles. . iii. dramatic lyrics. . cavalier tunes; i. marching along; ii. give a rouse; iii. my wife gertrude. ['boot and saddle'.] italy and france; i. italy; ii. france. camp and cloister; i. camp (french); ii. cloister (spanish). in a gondola. artemis prologuizes. waring; i.; ii. queen worship; i. rudel and the lady of tripoli; ii. cristina. madhouse cells; i. [johannes agricola.]; ii. [porphyria.] through the metidja to abd-el-kadr. . the pied piper of hamelin; a child's story. iv. the return of the druses. a tragedy, in five acts. . v. a blot in the 'scutcheon. a tragedy, in three acts. . [second edition, same year.] vi. colombe's birthday. a play, in five acts. . vii. dramatic romances and lyrics. . 'how they brought the good news from ghent to aix. ( --.)' pictor ignotus. (florence, --.) italy in england. england in italy. (piano di sorrento.) the lost leader. the lost mistress. home thoughts, from abroad. the tomb at st. praxed's: (rome, --.) garden fancies; i. the flower's name; ii. sibrandus schafnaburgensis. france and spain; i. the laboratory (ancien regime); ii. spain--the confessional. the flight of the duchess. earth's immortalities. song. ('nay but you, who do not love her.') the boy and the angel. night and morning; i. night; ii. morning. claret and tokay. saul. (part i.) time's revenges. the glove. (peter ronsard loquitur.) viii. and last. luria; and a soul's tragedy. . this publication has seemed entitled to a detailed notice, because it is practically extinct, and because its nature and circumstance confer on it a biographical interest not possessed by any subsequent issue of mr. browning's works. the dramas and poems of which it is composed belong to that more mature period of the author's life, in which the analysis of his work ceases to form a necessary part of his history. some few of them, however, are significant to it; and this is notably the case with 'a blot in the 'scutcheon'. chapter - 'a blot in the 'scutcheon'--letters to mr. frank hill; lady martin--charles dickens--other dramas and minor poems--letters to miss lee; miss haworth; miss flower--second italian journey; naples--e. j. trelawney--stendhal. 'a blot in the 'scutcheon' was written for macready, who meant to perform the principal part; and we may conclude that the appeal for it was urgent, since it was composed in the space of four or five days. macready's journals must have contained a fuller reference to both the play and its performance (at drury lane, february ) than appears in published form; but considerable irritation had arisen between him and mr. browning, and he possibly wrote something which his editor, sir frederick pollock, as the friend of both, thought it best to omit. what occurred on this occasion has been told in some detail by mr. gosse, and would not need repeating if the question were only of re-telling it on the same authority, in another person's words; but, through the kindness of mr. and mrs. frank hill, i am able to give mr. browning's direct statement of the case, as also his expressed judgment upon it. the statement was made more than forty years later than the events to which it refers, but will, nevertheless, be best given in its direct connection with them. the merits, or demerits, of 'a blot in the 'scutcheon' had been freshly brought under discussion by its performance in london through the action of the browning society, and in washington by mr. laurence barrett; and it became the subject of a paragraph in one of the theatrical articles prepared for the 'daily news'. mr. hill was then editor of the paper, and when the article came to him for revision, he thought it right to submit to mr. browning the passages devoted to his tragedy, which embodied some then prevailing, but, he strongly suspected, erroneous impressions concerning it. the results of this kind and courteous proceeding appear in the following letter. , warwick crescent: december , . my dear mr. hill,--it was kind and considerate of you to suppress the paragraph which you send me,--and of which the publication would have been unpleasant for reasons quite other than as regarding my own work,--which exists to defend or accuse itself. you will judge of the true reasons when i tell you the facts--so much of them as contradicts the statements of your critic--who, i suppose, has received a stimulus from the notice, in an american paper which arrived last week, of mr. laurence barrett's intention 'shortly to produce the play' in new york--and subsequently in london: so that 'the failure' of forty-one years ago might be duly influential at present--or two years hence perhaps. the 'mere amateurs' are no high game. macready received and accepted the play, while he was engaged at the haymarket, and retained it for drury lane, of which i was ignorant that he was about to become the manager: he accepted it 'at the instigation' of nobody,--and charles dickens was not in england when he did so: it was read to him after his return, by forster--and the glowing letter which contains his opinion of it, although directed by him to be shown to myself, was never heard of nor seen by me till printed in forster's book some thirty years after. when the drury lane season began, macready informed me that he should act the play when he had brought out two others--'the patrician's daughter', and 'plighted troth': having done so, he wrote to me that the former had been unsuccessful in money-drawing, and the latter had 'smashed his arrangements altogether': but he would still produce my play. i had--in my ignorance of certain symptoms better understood by macready's professional acquaintances--i had no notion that it was a proper thing, in such a case, to 'release him from his promise'; on the contrary, i should have fancied that such a proposal was offensive. soon after, macready begged that i would call on him: he said the play had been read to the actors the day before, 'and laughed at from beginning to end': on my speaking my mind about this, he explained that the reading had been done by the prompter, a grotesque person with a red nose and wooden leg, ill at ease in the love scenes, and that he would himself make amends by reading the play next morning--which he did, and very adequately--but apprised me that, in consequence of the state of his mind, harassed by business and various trouble, the principal character must be taken by mr. phelps; and again i failed to understand,--what forster subsequently assured me was plain as the sun at noonday,--that to allow at macready's theatre any other than macready to play the principal part in a new piece was suicidal,--and really believed i was meeting his exigencies by accepting the substitution. at the rehearsal, macready announced that mr. phelps was ill, and that he himself would read the part: on the third rehearsal, mr. phelps appeared for the first time, and sat in a chair while macready more than read, rehearsed the part. the next morning mr. phelps waylaid me at the stage-door to say, with much emotion, that it never was intended that _he_ should be instrumental in the success of a new tragedy, and that macready would play tresham on the ground that himself, phelps, was unable to do so. he added that he could not expect me to waive such an advantage,--but that, if i were prepared to waive it, 'he would take ether, sit up all night, and have the words in his memory by next day.' i bade him follow me to the green-room, and hear what i decided upon--which was that as macready had given him the part, he should keep it: this was on a thursday; he rehearsed on friday and saturday,--the play being acted the same evening,--_of the fifth day after the 'reading' by macready_. macready at once wished to reduce the importance of the 'play',--as he styled it in the bills,--tried to leave out so much of the text, that i baffled him by getting it printed in four-and-twenty hours, by moxon's assistance. he wanted me to call it 'the sister'!--and i have before me, while i write, the stage-acting copy, with two lines of his own insertion to avoid the tragical ending--tresham was to announce his intention of going into a monastery! all this, to keep up the belief that macready, and macready alone, could produce a veritable 'tragedy', unproduced before. not a shilling was spent on scenery or dresses--and a striking scene which had been used for the 'patrician's daughter', did duty a second time. if your critic considers this treatment of the play an instance of 'the failure of powerful and experienced actors' to ensure its success,--i can only say that my own opinion was shown by at once breaking off a friendship of many years--a friendship which had a right to be plainly and simply told that the play i had contributed as a proof of it, would through a change of circumstances, no longer be to my friend's advantage,--all i could possibly care for. only recently, when by the publication of macready's journals the extent of his pecuniary embarrassments at that time was made known, could i in a measure understand his motives for such conduct--and less than ever understand why he so strangely disguised and disfigured them. if 'applause' means success, the play thus maimed and maltreated was successful enough: it 'made way' for macready's own benefit, and the theatre closed a fortnight after. having kept silence for all these years, in spite of repeated explanations, in the style of your critic's, that the play 'failed in spite of the best endeavours' &c. i hardly wish to revive a very painful matter: on the other hand,--as i have said; my play subsists, and is as open to praise or blame as it was forty-one years ago: is it necessary to search out what somebody or other,--not improbably a jealous adherent of macready, 'the only organizer of theatrical victories', chose to say on the subject? if the characters are 'abhorrent' and 'inscrutable'--and the language conformable,--they were so when dickens pronounced upon them, and will be so whenever the critic pleases to re-consider them--which, if he ever has an opportunity of doing, apart from the printed copy, i can assure you is through no motion of mine. this particular experience was sufficient: but the play is out of my power now; though amateurs and actors may do what they please. of course, this being the true story, i should desire that it were told _thus_ and no otherwise, if it must be told at all: but _not_ as a statement of mine,--the substance of it has been partly stated already by more than one qualified person, and if i have been willing to let the poor matter drop, surely there is no need that it should be gone into now when macready and his athenaeum upholder are no longer able to speak for themselves: this is just a word to you, dear mr. hill, and may be brought under the notice of your critic if you think proper--but only for the facts--not as a communication for the public. yes, thank you, i am in full health, as you wish--and i wish you and mrs. hill, i assure you, all the good appropriate to the season. my sister has completely recovered from her illness, and is grateful for your enquiries. with best regards to mrs. hill, and an apology for this long letter, which however,--when once induced to write it,--i could not well shorten,--believe me, yours truly ever robert browning. i well remember mr. browning's telling me how, when he returned to the green-room, on that critical day, he drove his hat more firmly on to his head, and said to macready, 'i beg pardon, sir, but you have given the part to mr. phelps, and i am satisfied that he should act it;' and how macready, on hearing this, crushed up the ms., and flung it on to the ground. he also admitted that his own manner had been provocative; but he was indignant at what he deemed the unjust treatment which mr. phelps had received. the occasion of the next letter speaks for itself. december , . my dear mr. hill,--your goodness must extend to letting me have the last word--one of sincere thanks. you cannot suppose i doubted for a moment of a good-will which i have had abundant proof of. i only took the occasion your considerate letter gave me, to tell the simple truth which my forty years' silence is a sign i would only tell on compulsion. i never thought your critic had any less generous motive for alluding to the performance as he did than that which he professes: he doubtless heard the account of the matter which macready and his intimates gave currency to at the time; and which, being confined for a while to their limited number, i never chose to notice. but of late years i have got to _read_,--not merely _hear_,--of the play's failure 'which all the efforts of my friend the great actor could not avert;' and the nonsense of this untruth gets hard to bear. i told you the principal facts in the letter i very hastily wrote: i could, had it been worth while, corroborate them by others in plenty, and refer to the living witnesses--lady martin, mrs. stirling, and (i believe) mr. anderson: it was solely through the admirable loyalty of the two former that . . . a play . . . deprived of every advantage, in the way of scenery, dresses, and rehearsing--proved--what macready himself declared it to be--'a complete success'. _so_ he sent a servant to tell me, 'in case there was a call for the author at the end of the act'--to which i replied that the author had been too sick and sorry at the whole treatment of his play to do any such thing. such a call there truly _was_, and mr. anderson had to come forward and 'beg the author to come forward if he were in the house--a circumstance of which he was not aware:' whereat the author laughed at him from a box just opposite. . . . i would submit to anybody drawing a conclusion from one or two facts past contradiction, whether that play could have thoroughly failed which was not only not withdrawn at once but acted three nights in the same week, and years afterwards, reproduced at his own theatre, during my absence in italy, by mr. phelps--the person most completely aware of the untoward circumstances which stood originally in the way of success. why not enquire how it happens that, this second time, there was no doubt of the play's doing as well as plays ordinarily do? for those were not the days of a 'run'. . . . . . . . . this 'last word' has indeed been an aristophanic one of fifty syllables: but i have spoken it, relieved myself, and commend all that concerns me to the approved and valued friend of whom i am proud to account myself in corresponding friendship, his truly ever robert browning. mr. browning also alludes to mr. phelps's acting as not only not having been detrimental to the play, but having helped to save it, in the conspiracy of circumstances which seemed to invoke its failure. this was a mistake, since macready had been anxious to resume the part, and would have saved it, to say the least, more thoroughly. it must, however, be remembered that the irritation which these letters express was due much less to the nature of the facts recorded in them than to the manner in which they had been brought before mr. browning's mind. writing on the subject to lady martin in february , he had spoken very temperately of macready's treatment of his play, while deprecating the injustice towards his own friendship which its want of frankness involved: and many years before this, the touch of a common sorrow had caused the old feeling, at least momentarily, to well up again. the two met for the first time after these occurrences when mr. browning had returned, a widower, from italy. mr. macready, too, had recently lost his wife; and mr. browning could only start forward, grasp the hand of his old friend, and in a voice choked with emotion say, 'o macready!' lady martin has spoken to me of the poet's attitude on the occasion of this performance as being full of generous sympathy for those who were working with him, as well as of the natural anxiety of a young author for his own success. she also remains convinced that this sympathy led him rather to over-than to under-rate the support he received. she wrote concerning it in 'blackwood's magazine', march : 'it seems but yesterday that i sat by his [mr. elton's] side in the green-room at the reading of robert browning's beautiful drama, 'a blot in the 'scutcheon'. as a rule mr. macready always read the new plays. but owing, i suppose, to some press of business, the task was entrusted on this occasion to the head prompter,--a clever man in his way, but wholly unfitted to bring out, or even to understand, mr. browning's meaning. consequently, the delicate, subtle lines were twisted, perverted, and sometimes even made ridiculous in his hands. my "cruel father" [mr. elton] was a warm admirer of the poet. he sat writhing and indignant, and tried by gentle asides to make me see the real meaning of the verse. but somehow the mischief proved irreparable, for a few of the actors during the rehearsals chose to continue to misunderstand the text, and never took the interest in the play which they would have done had mr. macready read it.' looking back on the first appearance of his tragedy through the widening perspectives of nearly forty years, mr. browning might well declare as he did in the letter to lady martin to which i have just referred, that her '_perfect_ behaviour as a woman' and her 'admirable playing as an actress' had been (or at all events were) to him 'the one gratifying circumstance connected with it.' he also felt it a just cause of bitterness that the letter from charles dickens,* which conveyed his almost passionate admiration of 'a blot in the 'scutcheon', and was clearly written to mr. forster in order that it might be seen, was withheld for thirty years from his knowledge, and that of the public whose judgment it might so largely have influenced. nor was this the only time in the poet's life that fairly earned honours escaped him. * see forster's 'life of dickens'. 'colombe's birthday' was produced in at the haymarket;* and afterwards in the provinces, under the direction of miss helen faucit, who created the principal part. it was again performed for the browning society in ,** and although miss alma murray, as colombe, was almost entirely supported by amateurs, the result fully justified miss mary robinson (now madame james darmesteter) in writing immediately afterwards in the boston 'literary world':*** * also in or at boston. ** it had been played by amateurs, members of the browning society, and their friends, at the house of mr. joseph king, in january . *** december , ; quoted in mr. arthur symons' 'introduction to the study of browning'. '"colombe's birthday" is charming on the boards, clearer, more direct in action, more full of delicate surprises than one imagines it in print. with a very little cutting it could be made an excellent acting play.' mr. gosse has seen a first edition copy of it marked for acting, and alludes in his 'personalia' to the greatly increased knowledge of the stage which its minute directions displayed. they told also of sad experience in the sacrifice of the poet which the play-writer so often exacts: since they included the proviso that unless a very good valence could be found, a certain speech of his should be left out. that speech is very important to the poetic, and not less to the moral, purpose of the play: the triumph of unworldly affections. it is that in which valence defies the platitudes so often launched against rank and power, and shows that these may be very beautiful things--in which he pleads for his rival, and against his own heart. he is the better man of the two, and colombe has fallen genuinely in love with him. but the instincts of sovereignty are not outgrown in one day however eventful, and the young duchess has shown herself amply endowed with them. the prince's offer promised much, and it held still more. the time may come when she will need that crowning memory of her husband's unselfishness and truth, not to regret what she has done. 'king victor and king charles' and 'the return of the druses' are both admitted by competent judges to have good qualifications for the stage; and mr. browning would have preferred seeing one of these acted to witnessing the revival of 'strafford' or 'a blot in the 'scutcheon', from neither of which the best amateur performance could remove the stigma of past, real or reputed, failure; and when once a friend belonging to the browning society told him she had been seriously occupied with the possibility of producing the eastern play, he assented to the idea with a simplicity that was almost touching, 'it _was_ written for the stage,' he said, 'and has only one scene.' he knew, however, that the single scene was far from obviating all the difficulties of the case, and that the society, with its limited means, did the best it could. i seldom hear any allusion to a passage in 'king victor and king charles' which i think more than rivals the famous utterance of valence, revealing as it does the same grasp of non-conventional truth, while its occasion lends itself to a far deeper recognition of the mystery, the frequent hopeless dilemma of our moral life. it is that in which polixena, the wife of charles, entreats him for _duty's_ sake to retain the crown, though he will earn, by so doing, neither the credit of a virtuous deed nor the sure, persistent consciousness of having performed one. four poems of the 'dramatic lyrics' had appeared, as i have said, in the 'monthly repository'. six of those included in the 'dramatic lyrics and romances' were first published in 'hood's magazine' from june to april , a month before hood's death. these poems were, 'the laboratory', 'claret and tokay', 'garden fancies', 'the boy and the angel', 'the tomb at st. praxed's', and 'the flight of the duchess'. mr. hood's health had given way under stress of work, and mr. browning with other friends thus came forward to help him. the fact deserves remembering in connection with his subsequent unbroken rule never to write for magazines. he might always have made exceptions for friendly or philanthropic objects; the appearance of 'herve riel' in the 'cornhill magazine', , indeed proves that it was so. but the offer of a blank cheque would not have tempted him, for his own sake, to this concession, as he would have deemed it, of his integrity of literary purpose. 'in a gondola' grew out of a single verse extemporized for a picture by maclise, in what circumstances we shall hear in the poet's own words. the first proof of 'artemis prologuizes' had the following note: 'i had better say perhaps that the above is nearly all retained of a tragedy i composed, much against my endeavour, while in bed with a fever two years ago--it went farther into the story of hippolytus and aricia; but when i got well, putting only thus much down at once, i soon forgot the remainder.'* * when mr. browning gave me these supplementary details for the 'handbook', he spoke as if his illness had interrupted the work, not preceded its conception. the real fact is, i think, the more striking. mr. browning would have been very angry with himself if he had known he ever wrote 'i _had_ better'; and the punctuation of this note, as well as of every other unrevised specimen which we possess of his early writing, helps to show by what careful study of the literary art he must have acquired his subsequent mastery of it. 'cristina' was addressed in fancy to the spanish queen. it is to be regretted that the poem did not remain under its original heading of 'queen worship': as this gave a practical clue to the nature of the love described, and the special remoteness of its object. 'the pied piper of hamelin' and another poem were written in may for mr. macready's little eldest son, willy, who was confined to the house by illness, and who was to amuse himself by illustrating the poems as well as reading them;* and the first of these, though not intended for publication, was added to the 'dramatic lyrics', because some columns of that number of 'bells and pomegranates' still required filling. it is perhaps not known that the second was 'crescentius, the pope's legate': now included in 'asolando'. * miss browning has lately found some of the illustrations, and the touching childish letter together with which her brother received them. mr. browning's father had himself begun a rhymed story on the subject of 'the pied piper'; but left it unfinished when he discovered that his son was writing one. the fragment survives as part of a letter addressed to mr. thomas powell, and which i have referred to as in the possession of mr. dykes campbell. 'the lost leader' has given rise to periodical questionings continued until the present day, as to the person indicated in its title. mr. browning answered or anticipated them fifteen years ago in a letter to miss lee, of west peckham, maidstone. it was his reply to an application in verse made to him in their very young days by herself and two other members of her family, the manner of which seems to have unusually pleased him. villers-sur-mer, calvados, france: september , ' . dear friends,--your letter has made a round to reach me--hence the delay in replying to it--which you will therefore pardon. i have been asked the question you put to me--tho' never asked so poetically and so pleasantly--i suppose a score of times: and i can only answer, with something of shame and contrition, that i undoubtedly had wordsworth in my mind--but simply as 'a model'; you know, an artist takes one or two striking traits in the features of his 'model', and uses them to start his fancy on a flight which may end far enough from the good man or woman who happens to be 'sitting' for nose and eye. i thought of the great poet's abandonment of liberalism, at an unlucky juncture, and no repaying consequence that i could ever see. but--once call my fancy-portrait 'wordsworth'--and how much more ought one to say,--how much more would not i have attempted to say! there is my apology, dear friends, and your acceptance of it will confirm me truly yours, robert browning. some fragments of correspondence, not all very interesting, and his own allusion to an attack of illness, are our only record of the poet's general life during the interval which separated the publication of 'pippa passes' from his second italian journey. an undated letter to miss haworth probably refers to the close of . '. . . i am getting to love painting as i did once. do you know i was a young wonder (as are eleven out of the dozen of us) at drawing? my father had faith in me, and over yonder in a drawer of mine lies, i well know, a certain cottage and rocks in lead pencil and black currant jam-juice (paint being rank poison, as they said when i sucked my brushes) with his (my father's) note in one corner, "r. b., aetat. two years three months." "how fast, alas, our days we spend--how vain they be, how soon they end!" i am going to print "victor", however, by february, and there is one thing not so badly painted in there--oh, let me tell you. i chanced to call on forster the other day, and he pressed me into committing verse on the instant, not the minute, in maclise's behalf, who has wrought a divine venetian work, it seems, for the british institution. forster described it well--but i could do nothing better, than this wooden ware--(all the "properties", as we say, were given, and the problem was how to catalogue them in rhyme and unreason). i send my heart up to thee, all my heart in this my singing! for the stars help me, and the sea bears part; the very night is clinging closer to venice' streets to leave me space above me, whence thy face may light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place. singing and stars and night and venice streets and joyous heart, are properties, do you please to see. and now tell me, is this below the average of catalogue original poetry? tell me--for to that end of being told, i write. . . . i dined with dear carlyle and his wife (catch me calling people "dear" in a hurry, except in letter-beginnings!) yesterday. i don't know any people like them. there was a son of burns there, major burns whom macready knows--he sung "of all the airts", "john anderson", and another song of his father's. . . .' in the course of he wrote the following note to miss flower, evidently relating to the publication of her 'hymns and anthems'. new cross, hatcham, surrey: tuesday morning. dear miss flower,--i am sorry for what must grieve mr. fox; for myself, i beg him earnestly not to see me till his entire convenience, however pleased i shall be to receive the letter you promise on his part. and how can i thank you enough for this good news--all this music i shall be so thoroughly gratified to hear? ever yours faithfully, robert browning. his last letter to her was written in ; the subject being a concert of her own sacred music which she was about to give; and again, although more slightly, i anticipate the course of events, in order to give it in its natural connection with the present one. mr. browning was now engaged to be married, and the last ring of youthful levity had disappeared from his tone; but neither the new happiness nor the new responsibility had weakened his interest in his boyhood's friend. miss flower must then have been slowly dying, and the closing words of the letter have the solemnity of a last farewell. sunday. dear miss flower,--i was very foolishly surprized at the sorrowful finical notice you mention: foolishly; for, god help us, how else is it with all critics of everything--don't i hear them talk and see them write? i dare-say he admires you as he said. for me, i never had another feeling than entire admiration for your music--entire admiration--i put it apart from all other english music i know, and fully believe in it as _the_ music we all waited for. of your health i shall not trust myself to speak: you must know what is unspoken. i should have been most happy to see you if but for a minute--and if next wednesday, i might take your hand for a moment.-- but you would concede that, if it were right, remembering what is now very old friendship. may god bless you for ever (the signature has been cut off.) in the autumn of mr. browning set forth for italy, taking ship, it is believed, direct to naples. here he made the acquaintance of a young neapolitan gentleman who had spent most of his life in paris; and they became such good friends that they proceeded to rome together. mr. scotti was an invaluable travelling companion, for he engaged their conveyance, and did all such bargaining in their joint interest as the habits of his country required. 'as i write,' mr. browning said in a letter to his sister, 'i hear him disputing our bill in the next room. he does not see why we should pay for six wax candles when we have used only two.' at rome they spent most of their evenings with an old acquaintance of mr. browning's, then countess carducci, and she pronounced mr. scotti the handsomest man she had ever seen. he certainly bore no appearance of being the least prosperous. but he blew out his brains soon after he and his new friend had parted; and i do not think the act was ever fully accounted for. it must have been on his return journey that mr. browning went to leghorn to see edward john trelawney, to whom he carried a letter of introduction. he described the interview long afterwards to mr. val prinsep, but chiefly in his impressions of the cool courage which mr. trelawney had displayed during its course. a surgeon was occupied all the time in probing his leg for a bullet which had been lodged there some years before, and had lately made itself felt; and he showed himself absolutely indifferent to the pain of the operation. mr. browning's main object in paying the visit had been, naturally, to speak with one who had known byron and been the last to see shelley alive; but we only hear of the two poets that they formed in part the subject of their conversation. he reached england, again, we suppose, through germany--since he avoided paris as before. it has been asserted by persons otherwise well informed, that on this, if not on his previous italian journey, mr. browning became acquainted with stendhal, then french consul at civita vecchia, and that he imbibed from the great novelist a taste for curiosities of italian family history, which ultimately led him in the direction of the franceschini case. it is certain that he profoundly admired this writer, and if he was not, at some time or other, introduced to him it was because the opportunity did not occur. but there is abundant evidence that no introduction took place, and quite sufficient proof that none was possible. stendhal died in paris in march ; and granting that he was at civita vecchia when the poet made his earlier voyage--no certainty even while he held the appointment--the ship cannot have touched there on its way to trieste. it is also a mistake to suppose that mr. browning was specially interested in ancient chronicles, as such. this was one of the points on which he distinctly differed from his father. he took his dramatic subjects wherever he found them, and any historical research which they ultimately involved was undertaken for purposes of verification. 'sordello' alone may have been conceived on a rather different plan, and i have no authority whatever for admitting that it was so. the discovery of the record of the franceschini case was, as its author has everywhere declared, an accident. a single relic exists for us of this visit to the south--a shell picked up, according to its inscription, on one of the syren isles, october , ; but many of its reminiscences are embodied in that vivid and charming picture 'the englishman in italy', which appeared in the 'bells and pomegranates' number for the following year. naples always remained a bright spot in the poet's memory; and if it had been, like asolo, his first experience of italy, it must have drawn him in later years the more powerfully of the two. at one period, indeed, he dreamed of it as a home for his declining days. chapter - introduction to miss barrett--engagement--motives for secrecy--marriage--journey to italy--extract of letter from mr. fox--mrs. browning's letters to miss mitford--life at pisa--vallombrosa--florence; mr. powers; miss boyle--proposed british mission to the vatican--father prout--palazzo guidi--fano; ancona--'a blot in the 'scutcheon' at sadler's wells. during his recent intercourse with the browning family mr. kenyon had often spoken of his invalid cousin, elizabeth barrett,* and had given them copies of her works; and when the poet returned to england, late in , he saw the volume containing 'lady geraldine's courtship', which had appeared during his absence. on hearing him express his admiration of it, mr. kenyon begged him to write to miss barrett, and himself tell her how the poems had impressed him; 'for,' he added, 'my cousin is a great invalid, and sees no one, but great souls jump at sympathy.' mr. browning did write, and, a few months, probably, after the correspondence had been established, begged to be allowed to visit her. she at first refused this, on the score of her delicate health and habitual seclusion, emphasizing the refusal by words of such touching humility and resignation that i cannot refrain from quoting them. 'there is nothing to see in me, nothing to hear in me. i am a weed fit for the ground and darkness.' but her objections were overcome, and their first interview sealed mr. browning's fate. * properly e. barrett moulton-barrett. the first of these surnames was that originally borne by the family, but dropped on the annexation of the second. it has now for some years been resumed. there is no cause for surprize in the passionate admiration with which miss barrett so instantly inspired him. to begin with, he was heart-whole. it would be too much to affirm that, in the course of his thirty-two years, he had never met with a woman whom he could entirely love; but if he had, it was not under circumstances which favoured the growth of such a feeling. she whom he now saw for the first time had long been to him one of the greatest of living poets; she was learned as women seldom were in those days. it must have been apparent, in the most fugitive contact, that her moral nature was as exquisite as her mind was exceptional. she looked much younger than her age, which he only recently knew to have been six years beyond his own; and her face was filled with beauty by the large, expressive eyes. the imprisoned love within her must unconsciously have leapt to meet his own. it would have been only natural that he should grow into the determination to devote his life to hers, or be swept into an offer of marriage by a sudden impulse which his after-judgment would condemn. neither of these things occurred. the offer was indeed made under a sudden and overmastering impulse. but it was persistently repeated, till it had obtained a conditional assent. no sane man in mr. browning's position could have been ignorant of the responsibilities he was incurring. he had, it is true, no experience of illness. of its nature, its treatment, its symptoms direct and indirect, he remained pathetically ignorant to his dying day. he did not know what disqualifications for active existence might reside in the fragile, recumbent form, nor in the long years lived without change of air or scene beyond the passage, not always even allowed, from bed-room to sitting-room, from sofa to bed again. but he did know that miss barrett received him lying down, and that his very ignorance of her condition left him without security for her ever being able to stand. a strong sense of sympathy and pity could alone entirely justify or explain his act--a strong desire to bring sunshine into that darkened life. we might be sure that these motives had been present with him if we had no direct authority for believing it; and we have this authority in his own comparatively recent words: 'she had so much need of care and protection. there was so much pity in what i felt for her!' the pity was, it need hardly be said, at no time a substitute for love, though the love in its full force only developed itself later; but it supplied an additional incentive. miss barrett had made her acceptance of mr. browning's proposal contingent on her improving in health. the outlook was therefore vague. but under the influence of this great new happiness she did gain some degree of strength. they saw each other three times a week; they exchanged letters constantly, and a very deep and perfect understanding established itself between them. mr. browning never mentioned his visits except to his own family, because it was naturally feared that if miss barrett were known to receive one person, other friends, or even acquaintances, would claim admittance to her; and mr. kenyon, who was greatly pleased by the result of his introduction, kept silence for the same reason. in this way the months slipped by till the summer of was drawing to its close, and miss barrett's doctor then announced that her only chance of even comparative recovery lay in spending the coming winter in the south. there was no rational obstacle to her acting on this advice, since more than one of her brothers was willing to escort her; but mr. barrett, while surrounding his daughter with every possible comfort, had resigned himself to her invalid condition and expected her also to acquiesce in it. he probably did not believe that she would benefit by the proposed change. at any rate he refused his consent to it. there remained to her only one alternative--to break with the old home and travel southwards as mr. browning's wife. when she had finally assented to this course, she took a preparatory step which, in so far as it was known, must itself have been sufficiently startling to those about her: she drove to regent's park, and when there, stepped out of the carriage and on to the grass. i do not know how long she stood--probably only for a moment; but i well remember hearing that when, after so long an interval, she felt earth under her feet and air about her, the sensation was almost bewilderingly strange. they were married, with strict privacy, on september , , at st. pancras church. the engaged pair had not only not obtained mr. barrett's sanction to their marriage; they had not even invoked it; and the doubly clandestine character thus forced upon the union could not be otherwise than repugnant to mr. browning's pride; but it was dictated by the deepest filial affection on the part of his intended wife. there could be no question in so enlightened a mind of sacrificing her own happiness with that of the man she loved; she was determined to give herself to him. but she knew that her father would never consent to her doing so; and she preferred marrying without his knowledge to acting in defiance of a prohibition which, once issued, he would never have revoked, and which would have weighed like a portent of evil upon her. she even kept the secret of her engagement from her intimate friend miss mitford, and her second father, mr. kenyon, that they might not be involved in its responsibility. and mr. kenyon, who, probably of all her circle, best understood the case, was grateful to her for this consideration. mr. barrett was one of those men who will not part with their children; who will do anything for them except allow them to leave the parental home. we have all known fathers of this type. he had nothing to urge against robert browning. when mr. kenyon, later, said to him that he could not understand his hostility to the marriage, since there was no man in the world to whom he would more gladly have given his daughter if he had been so fortunate as to possess one,* he replied: 'i have no objection to the young man, but my daughter should have been thinking of another world;' and, given his conviction that miss barrett's state was hopeless, some allowance must be made for the angered sense of fitness which her elopement was calculated to arouse in him. but his attitude was the same, under the varying circumstances, with all his daughters and sons alike. there was no possible husband or wife whom he would cordially have accepted for one of them. * mr. kenyon had been twice married, but he had no children. mr. browning had been willing, even at that somewhat late age, to study for the bar, or accept, if he could obtain it, any other employment which might render him less ineligible from a pecuniary point of view. but miss barrett refused to hear of such a course; and the subsequent necessity for her leaving england would have rendered it useless. for some days after their marriage mr. and mrs. browning returned to their old life. he justly thought that the agitation of the ceremony had been, for the moment, as much as she could endure, and had therefore fixed for it a day prior by one week to that of their intended departure from england. the only difference in their habits was that he did not see her; he recoiled from the hypocrisy of asking for her under her maiden name; and during this passive interval, fortunately short, he carried a weight of anxiety and of depression which placed it among the most painful periods of his existence. in the late afternoon or evening of september , mrs. browning, attended by her maid and her dog, stole away from her father's house. the family were at dinner, at which meal she was not in the habit of joining them; her sisters henrietta and arabel had been throughout in the secret of her attachment and in full sympathy with it; in the case of the servants, she was also sure of friendly connivance. there was no difficulty in her escape, but that created by the dog, which might be expected to bark its consciousness of the unusual situation. she took him into her confidence. she said: 'o flush, if you make a sound, i am lost.' and flush understood, as what good dog would not?--and crept after his mistress in silence. i do not remember where her husband joined her; we may be sure it was as near her home as possible. that night they took the boat to havre, on their way to paris. only a short time elapsed before mr. barrett became aware of what had happened. it is not necessary to dwell on his indignation, which at that moment, i believe, was shared by all his sons. nor were they the only persons to be agitated by the occurrence. if there was wrath in the barrett family, there was consternation in that of mr. browning. he had committed a crime in the eyes of his wife's father; but he had been guilty, in the judgment of his own parents, of one of those errors which are worse. a hundred times the possible advantages of marrying a miss barrett could never have balanced for them the risks and dangers he had incurred in wresting to himself the guardianship of that frail life which might perish in his hands, leaving him to be accused of having destroyed it; and they must have awaited the event with feelings never to be forgotten. it was soon to be apparent that in breaking the chains which bound her to a sick room, mr. browning had not killed his wife, but was giving her a new lease of existence. his parents and sister soon loved her dearly, for her own sake as well as her husband's; and those who, if in a mistaken manner, had hitherto cherished her, gradually learned, with one exception, to value him for hers. it would, however, be useless to deny that the marriage was a hazardous experiment, involving risks of suffering quite other than those connected with mrs. browning's safety: the latent practical disparities of an essentially vigorous and an essentially fragile existence; and the time came when these were to make themselves felt. mrs. browning had been a delicate infant. she had also outgrown this delicacy and developed into a merry, and, in the harmless sense, mischief-loving child. the accident which subsequently undermined her life could only have befallen a very active and healthy girl.* her condition justified hope and, to a great extent, fulfilled it. she rallied surprisingly and almost suddenly in the sunshine of her new life, and remained for several years at the higher physical level: her natural and now revived spirits sometimes, i imagine, lifting her beyond it. but her ailments were too radical for permanent cure, as the weak voice and shrunken form never ceased to attest. they renewed themselves, though in slightly different conditions; and she gradually relapsed, during the winters at least, into something like the home-bound condition of her earlier days. it became impossible that she should share the more active side of her husband's existence. it had to be alternately suppressed and carried on without her. the deep heart-love, the many-sided intellectual sympathy, preserved their union in rare beauty to the end. but to say that it thus maintained itself as if by magic, without effort of self-sacrifice on his part or of resignation on hers, would be as unjust to the noble qualities of both, as it would be false to assert that its compensating happiness had ever failed them. * her family at that time lived in the country. she was a constant rider, and fond of saddling her pony; and one day, when she was about fourteen, she overbalanced herself in lifting the saddle, and fell backward, inflicting injuries on her head, or rather spine, which caused her great suffering, but of which the nature remained for some time undiscovered. mr. browning's troubles did not, even for the present, exhaust themselves in that week of apprehension. they assumed a deeper reality when his delicate wife first gave herself into his keeping, and the long hours on steamboat and in diligence were before them. what she suffered in body, and he in mind, during the first days of that wedding-journey is better imagined than told. in paris they either met, or were joined by, a friend, mrs. anna jameson (then also en route for italy), and mrs. browning was doubly cared for till she and her husband could once more put themselves on their way. at genoa came the long-needed rest in southern land. from thence, in a few days, they went on to pisa, and settled there for the winter. even so great a friend as john forster was not in the secret of mr. browning's marriage; we learn this through an amusing paragraph in a letter from mr. fox, written soon after it had taken place: 'forster never heard of the browning marriage till the proof of the newspaper ('examiner') notice was sent; when he went into one of his great passions at the supposed hoax, ordered up the compositor to have a swear at him, and demanded to see the ms. from which it was taken: so it was brought, and he instantly recognised the hand of browning's sister. next day came a letter from r. b., saying he had often meant to tell him or write of it, but hesitated between the two, and neglected both. 'she was better, and a winter in italy had been recommended some months ago. 'it seems as if made up by their poetry rather than themselves.' many interesting external details of mr. browning's married life must have been lost to us through the wholesale destruction of his letters to his family, of which mention has been already made, and which he carried out before leaving warwick crescent about four years ago; and mrs. browning's part in the correspondence, though still preserved, cannot fill the gap, since for a long time it chiefly consisted of little personal outpourings, inclosed in her husband's letters and supplementary to them. but she also wrote constantly to miss mitford; and, from the letters addressed to her, now fortunately in mr. barrett browning's hands, it has been possible to extract many passages of a sufficiently great, and not too private, interest for our purpose. these extracts--in some cases almost entire letters--indeed constitute a fairly complete record of mr. and mrs. browning's joint life till the summer of , when miss mitford's death was drawing near, and the correspondence ceased. their chronological order is not always certain, because mrs. browning never gave the year in which her letters were written, and in some cases the postmark is obliterated; but the missing date can almost always be gathered from their contents. the first letter is probably written from paris. oct. (' ). '. . . and he, as you say, had done everything for me--he loved me for reasons which had helped to weary me of myself--loved me heart to heart persistently--in spite of my own will . . . drawn me back to life and hope again when i had done with both. my life seemed to belong to him and to none other, at last, and i had no power to speak a word. have faith in me, my dearest friend, till you know him. the intellect is so little in comparison to all the rest--to the womanly tenderness, the inexhaustible goodness, the high and noble aspiration of every hour. temper, spirits, manners--there is not a flaw anywhere. i shut my eyes sometimes and fancy it all a dream of my guardian angel. only, if it had been a dream, the pain of some parts of it would have wakened me before now--it is not a dream. . . .' the three next speak for themselves. pisa: (' ). '. . . for pisa, we both like it extremely. the city is full of beauty and repose,--and the purple mountains gloriously seem to beckon us on deeper into the vine land. we have rooms close to the duomo, and leaning down on the great collegio built by facini. three excellent bed-rooms and a sitting-room matted and carpeted, looking comfortable even for england. for the last fortnight, except the last few sunny days, we have had rain; but the climate is as mild as possible, no cold with all the damp. delightful weather we had for the travelling. mrs. jameson says she won't call me improved but transformed rather. . . . i mean to know something about pictures some day. robert does, and i shall get him to open my eyes for me with a little instruction--in this place are to be seen the first steps of art. . . .' pisa: dec. (' ). '. . . within these three or four days we have had frost--yes, and a little snow--for the first time, say the pisans, within five years. robert says the mountains are powdered towards lucca. . . .' feb. (' ). '. . . robert is a warm admirer of balzac and has read most of his books, but certainly he does not in a general way appreciate our french people quite with my warmth. he takes too high a standard, i tell him, and won't listen to a story for a story's sake--i can bear, you know, to be amused without a strong pull on my admiration. so we have great wars sometimes--i put up dumas' flag or soulie's or eugene sue's (yet he was properly impressed by the 'mysteres de paris'), and carry it till my arms ache. the plays and vaudevilles he knows far more of than i do, and always maintains they are the happiest growth of the french school. setting aside the 'masters', observe; for balzac and george sand hold all their honours. then we read together the other day 'rouge et noir', that powerful work of stendhal's, and he observed that it was exactly like balzac 'in the raw'--in the material and undeveloped conception . . . we leave pisa in april, and pass through florence towards the north of italy . . .' (she writes out a long list of the 'comedie humaine' for miss mitford.) mr. and mrs. browning must have remained in florence, instead of merely passing through it; this is proved by the contents of the two following letters: aug. (' ). '. . . we have spent one of the most delightful of summers notwithstanding the heat, and i begin to comprehend the possibility of st. lawrence's ecstasies on the gridiron. very hot certainly it has been and is, yet there have been cool intermissions, and as we have spacious and airy rooms, as robert lets me sit all day in my white dressing-gown without a single masculine criticism, and as we can step out of the window on a sort of balcony terrace which is quite private, and swims over with moonlight in the evenings, and as we live upon water-melons and iced water and figs and all manner of fruit, we bear the heat with an angelic patience. we tried to make the monks of vallombrosa let us stay with them for two months, but the new abbot said or implied that wilson and i stank in his nostrils, being women. so we were sent away at the end of five days. so provoking! such scenery, such hills, such a sea of hills looking alive among the clouds--which rolled, it was difficult to discern. such fine woods, supernaturally silent, with the ground black as ink. there were eagles there too, and there was no road. robert went on horseback, and wilson and i were drawn on a sledge--(i.e. an old hamper, a basket wine-hamper--without a wheel) by two white bullocks, up the precipitous mountains. think of my travelling in those wild places at four o'clock in the morning! a little frightened, dreadfully tired, but in an ecstasy of admiration. it was a sight to see before one died and went away into another world. but being expelled ignominiously at the end of five days, we had to come back to florence to find a new apartment cooler than the old, and wait for dear mr. kenyon, and dear mr. kenyon does not come after all. and on the th of september we take up our knapsacks and turn our faces towards rome, creeping slowly along, with a pause at arezzo, and a longer pause at perugia, and another perhaps at terni. then we plan to take an apartment we have heard of, over the tarpeian rock, and enjoy rome as we have enjoyed florence. more can scarcely be. this florence is unspeakably beautiful . . .' oct. (' ). '. . . very few acquaintances have we made in florence, and very quietly lived out our days. mr. powers, the sculptor, is our chief friend and favourite. a most charming, simple, straightforward, genial american--as simple as the man of genius he has proved himself to be. he sometimes comes to talk and take coffee with us, and we like him much. the sculptor has eyes like a wild indian's, so black and full of light--you would scarcely marvel if they clove the marble without the help of his hands. we have seen, besides, the hoppners, lord byron's friends at venice; and miss boyle, a niece of the earl of cork, an authoress and poetess on her own account, having been introduced to robert in london at lady morgan's, has hunted us out, and paid us a visit. a very vivacious little person, with sparkling talk enough . . .' in this year, , the question arose of a british mission to the vatican; and mr. browning wrote to mr. monckton milnes begging him to signify to the foreign office his more than willingness to take part in it. he would be glad and proud, he said, to be secretary to such an embassy, and to work like a horse in his vocation. the letter is given in the lately published biography of lord houghton, and i am obliged to confess that it has been my first intimation of the fact recorded there. when once his 'paracelsus' had appeared, and mr. browning had taken rank as a poet, he renounced all idea of more active work; and the tone and habits of his early married life would have seemed scarcely consistent with a renewed impulse towards it. but the fact was in some sense due to the very circumstances of that life: among them, his wife's probable incitement to, and certain sympathy with, the proceeding. the projected winter in rome had been given up, i believe against the doctor's advice, on the strength of the greater attractions of florence. our next extract is dated from thence, dec. , . '. . . think what we have done since i last wrote to you. taken two houses, that is, two apartments, each for six months, presigning the contract. you will set it down to excellent poet's work in the way of domestic economy, but the fault was altogether mine, as usual. my husband, to please me, took rooms which i could not be pleased with three days through the absence of sunshine and warmth. the consequence was that we had to pay heaps of guineas away, for leave to go away ourselves--any alternative being preferable to a return of illness--and i am sure i should have been ill if we had persisted in staying there. you can scarcely fancy the wonderful difference which the sun makes in italy. so away we came into the blaze of him in the piazza pitti; precisely opposite the grand duke's palace; i with my remorse, and poor robert without a single reproach. any other man, a little lower than the angels, would have stamped and sworn a little for the mere relief of the thing--but as to _his_ being angry with _me_ for any cause except not eating enough dinner, the said sun would turn the wrong way first. so here we are in the pitti till april, in small rooms yellow with sunshine from morning till evening, and most days i am able to get out into the piazza and walk up and down for twenty minutes without feeling a breath of the actual winter . . . and miss boyle, ever and anon, comes at night, at nine o'clock, to catch us at hot chestnuts and mulled wine, and warm her feet at our fire--and a kinder, more cordial little creature, full of talent and accomplishment never had the world's polish on it. very amusing she is too, and original; and a good deal of laughing she and robert make between them. and this is nearly all we see of the face divine--i can't make robert go out a single evening. . . .' we have five extracts for . one of these, not otherwise dated, describes an attack of sore-throat which was fortunately mr. browning's last; and the letter containing it must have been written in the course of the summer. '. . . my husband was laid up for nearly a month with fever and relaxed sore-throat. quite unhappy i have been over those burning hands and languid eyes--the only unhappiness i ever had by him. and then he wouldn't see a physician, and if it had not been that just at the right moment mr. mahoney, the celebrated jesuit, and "father prout" of fraser, knowing everything as those jesuits are apt to do, came in to us on his way to rome, pointed out to us that the fever got ahead through weakness, and mixed up with his own kind hand a potion of eggs and port wine; to the horror of our italian servant, who lifted up his eyes at such a prescription for fever, crying, "o inglesi! inglesi!" the case would have been far worse, i have no kind of doubt, for the eccentric prescription gave the power of sleeping, and the pulse grew quieter directly. i shall always be grateful to father prout--always.'* * it had not been merely a case of relaxed sore-throat. there was an abscess, which burst during this first night of sleep. may . '. . . and now i must tell you what we have done since i wrote last, little thinking of doing so. you see our problem was, to get to england as much in summer as possible, the expense of the intermediate journeys making it difficult of solution. on examination of the whole case, it appeared manifest that we were throwing money into the arno, by our way of taking furnished rooms, while to take an apartment and furnish it would leave us a clear return of the furniture at the end of the first year in exchange for our outlay, and all but a free residence afterwards, the cheapness of furniture being quite fabulous at the present crisis. . . . in fact we have really done it magnificently, and planted ourselves in the guidi palace in the favourite suite of the last count (his arms are in scagliola on the floor of my bedroom). though we have six beautiful rooms and a kitchen, three of them quite palace rooms and opening on a terrace, and though such furniture as comes by slow degrees into them is antique and worthy of the place, we yet shall have saved money by the end of this year. . . . now i tell you all this lest you should hear dreadful rumours of our having forsaken our native land, venerable institutions and all, whereas we remember it so well (it's a dear land in many senses), that we have done this thing chiefly in order to make sure of getting back comfortably, . . . a stone's throw, too, it is from the pitti, and really in my present mind i would hardly exchange with the grand duke himself. by the bye, as to street, we have no spectators in windows in just the grey wall of a church called san felice for good omen. 'now, have you heard enough of us? what i claimed first, in way of privilege, was a spring-sofa to loll upon, and a supply of rain water to wash in, and you shall see what a picturesque oil-jar they have given us for the latter purpose; it would just hold the captain of the forty thieves. as for the chairs and tables, i yield the more especial interest in them to robert; only you would laugh to hear us correct one another sometimes. "dear, you get too many drawers, and not enough washing-stands. pray don't let us have any more drawers when we've nothing more to put in them." there was no division on the necessity of having six spoons--some questions passed themselves. . . .' july. '. . . i am quite well again and strong. robert and i go out often after tea in a wandering walk to sit in the loggia and look at the perseus, or, better still, at the divine sunsets on the arno, turning it to pure gold under the bridges. after more than twenty months of marriage, we are happier than ever. . . .' aug. '. . . as for ourselves we have hardly done so well--yet well--having enjoyed a great deal in spite of drawbacks. murray, the traitor, sent us to fano as "a delightful summer residence for an english family," and we found it uninhabitable from the heat, vegetation scorched into paleness, the very air swooning in the sun, and the gloomy looks of the inhabitants sufficiently corroborative of their words that no drop of rain or dew ever falls there during the summer. a "circulating library" which "does not give out books," and "a refined and intellectual italian society" (i quote murray for that phrase) which "never reads a book through" (i quote mrs. wiseman, dr. wiseman's mother, who has lived in fano seven years) complete the advantages of the place. yet the churches are very beautiful, and a divine picture of guercino's is worth going all that way to see. . . . we fled from fano after three days, and finding ourselves cheated out of our dream of summer coolness, resolved on substituting for it what the italians call "un bel giro". so we went to ancona--a striking sea city, holding up against the brown rocks, and elbowing out the purple tides--beautiful to look upon. an exfoliation of the rock itself you would call the houses that seem to grow there--so identical is the colour and character. i should like to visit ancona again when there is a little air and shadow. we stayed a week, as it was, living upon fish and cold water. . . .' the one dated florence, december , is interesting with reference to mr. browning's attitude when he wrote the letters to mr. frank hill which i have recently quoted. 'we have been, at least i have been, a little anxious lately about the fate of the 'blot in the 'scutcheon' which mr. phelps applied for my husband's permission to revive at sadler's. of course putting the request was mere form, as he had every right to act the play--only it made me anxious till we heard the result--and we both of us are very grateful to dear mr. chorley, who not only made it his business to be at the theatre the first night, but, before he slept, sat down like a true friend to give us the story of the result, and never, he says, was a more legitimate success. the play went straight to the hearts of the audience, it seems, and we hear of its continuance on the stage, from the papers. you may remember, or may not have heard, how macready brought it out and put his foot on it, in the flush of a quarrel between manager and author; and phelps, knowing the whole secret and feeling the power of the play, determined on making a revival of it in his own theatre. mr. chorley called his acting "fine". . . .' chapter - death of mr. browning's mother--birth of his son--mrs. browning's letters continued--baths of lucca--florence again--venice--margaret fuller ossoli--visit to england--winter in paris--carlyle--george sand--alfred de musset. on march , , mr. browning's son was born. with the joy of his wife's deliverance from the dangers of such an event came also his first great sorrow. his mother did not live to receive the news of her grandchild's birth. the letter which conveyed it found her still breathing, but in the unconsciousness of approaching death. there had been no time for warning. the sister could only break the suddenness of the shock. a letter of mrs. browning's tells what was to be told. florence: april (' ). '. . . this is the first packet of letters, except one to wimpole street, which i have written since my confinement. you will have heard how our joy turned suddenly into deep sorrow by the death of my husband's mother. an unsuspected disease (ossification of the heart) terminated in a fatal way--and she lay in the insensibility precursive of the grave's when the letter written with such gladness by my poor husband and announcing the birth of his child, reached her address. "it would have made her heart bound," said her daughter to us. poor tender heart--the last throb was too near. the medical men would not allow the news to be communicated. the next joy she felt was to be in heaven itself. my husband has been in the deepest anguish, and indeed, except for the courageous consideration of his sister who wrote two letters of preparation, saying "she was not well" and she "was very ill" when in fact all was over, i am frightened to think what the result would have been to him. he has loved his mother as such passionate natures only can love, and i never saw a man so bowed down in an extremity of sorrow--never. even now, the depression is great--and sometimes when i leave him alone a little and return to the room, i find him in tears. i do earnestly wish to change the scene and air--but where to go? england looks terrible now. he says it would break his heart to see his mother's roses over the wall and the place where she used to lay her scissors and gloves--which i understand so thoroughly that i can't say "let us go to england." we must wait and see what his father and sister will choose to do, or choose us to do--for of course a duty plainly seen would draw us anywhere. my own dearest sisters will be painfully disappointed by any change of plan--only they are too good and kind not to understand the difficulty--not to see the motive. so do you, i am certain. it has been very, very painful altogether, this drawing together of life and death. robert was too enraptured at my safety and with his little son, and the sudden reaction was terrible. . . .' bagni di lucca. '. . . we have been wandering in search of cool air and a cool bough among all the olive trees to build our summer nest on. my husband has been suffering beyond what one could shut one's eyes to, in consequence of the great mental shock of last march--loss of appetite, loss of sleep--looks quite worn and altered. his spirits never rallied except with an effort, and every letter from new cross threw him back into deep depression. i was very anxious, and feared much that the end of it all would be (the intense heat of florence assisting) nervous fever or something similar; and i had the greatest difficulty in persuading him to leave florence for a month or two. he who generally delights in travelling, had no mind for change or movement. i had to say and swear that baby and i couldn't bear the heat, and that we must and would go away. "ce que femme veut, _homme_ veut," if the latter is at all amiable, or the former persevering. at last i gained the victory. it was agreed that we two should go on an exploring journey, to find out where we could have most shadow at least expense; and we left our child with his nurse and wilson, while we were absent. we went along the coast to spezzia, saw carrara with the white marble mountains, passed through the olive-forests and the vineyards, avenues of acacia trees, chestnut woods, glorious surprises of the most exquisite scenery. i say olive-forests advisedly--the olive grows like a forest-tree in those regions, shading the ground with tints of silvery network. the olive near florence is but a shrub in comparison, and i have learnt to despise a little too the florentine vine, which does not swing such portcullises of massive dewy green from one tree to another as along the whole road where we travelled. beautiful indeed it was. spezzia wheels the blue sea into the arms of the wooded mountains; and we had a glance at shelley's house at lerici. it was melancholy to me, of course. i was not sorry that the lodgings we inquired about were far above our means. we returned on our steps (after two days in the dirtiest of possible inns), saw seravezza, a village in the mountains, where rock river and wood enticed us to stay, and the inhabitants drove us off by their unreasonable prices. it is curious--but just in proportion to the want of civilization the prices rise in italy. if you haven't cups and saucers, you are made to pay for plate. well--so finding no rest for the soles of our feet, i persuaded robert to go to the baths of lucca, only to see them. we were to proceed afterwards to san marcello, or some safer wilderness. we had both of us, but he chiefly, the strongest prejudice against the baths of lucca; taking them for a sort of wasp's nest of scandal and gaming, and expecting to find everything trodden flat by the continental english--yet, i wanted to see the place, because it is a place to see, after all. so we came, and were so charmed by the exquisite beauty of the scenery, by the coolness of the climate, and the absence of our countrymen--political troubles serving admirably our private requirements, that we made an offer for rooms on the spot, and returned to florence for baby and the rest of our establishment without further delay. here we are then. we have been here more than a fortnight. we have taken an apartment for the season--four months, paying twelve pounds for the whole term, and hoping to be able to stay till the end of october. the living is cheaper than even in florence, so that there has been no extravagance in coming here. in fact florence is scarcely tenable during the summer from the excessive heat by day and night, even if there were no particular motive for leaving it. we have taken a sort of eagle's nest in this place--the highest house of the highest of the three villages which are called the bagni di lucca, and which lie at the heart of a hundred mountains sung to continually by a rushing mountain stream. the sound of the river and of the cicale is all the noise we hear. austrian drums and carriage-wheels cannot vex us, god be thanked for it! the silence is full of joy and consolation. i think my husband's spirits are better already, and his appetite improved. certainly little babe's great cheeks are growing rosier and rosier. he is out all day when the sun is not too strong, and wilson will have it that he is prettier than the whole population of babies here. . . . then my whole strength has wonderfully improved--just as my medical friends prophesied,--and it seems like a dream when i find myself able to climb the hills with robert, and help him to lose himself in the forests. ever since my confinement i have been growing stronger and stronger, and where it is to stop i can't tell really. i can do as much or more than at any point of my life since i arrived at woman's estate. the air of the place seems to penetrate the heart, and not the lungs only: it draws you, raises you, excites you. mountain air without its keenness--sheathed in italian sunshine--think what that must be! and the beauty and the solitude--for with a few paces we get free of the habitations of men--all is delightful to me. what is peculiarly beautiful and wonderful, is the variety of the shapes of the mountains. they are a multitude--and yet there is no likeness. none, except where the golden mist comes and transfigures them into one glory. for the rest, the mountain there wrapt in the chestnut forest is not like that bare peak which tilts against the sky--nor like the serpent-twine of another which seems to move and coil in the moving coiling shadow. . . .' she writes again: bagni di lucca: oct. (' ). '. . . i have performed a great exploit--ridden on a donkey five miles deep into the mountain, to an almost inaccessible volcanic ground not far from the stars. robert on horseback, and wilson and the nurse (with baby) on other donkies,--guides of course. we set off at eight in the morning, and returned at six p.m. after dining on the mountain pinnacle, i dreadfully tired, but the child laughing as usual, burnt brick colour for all bad effect. no horse or ass untrained for the mountains could have kept foot a moment where we penetrated, and even as it was, one could not help the natural thrill. no road except the bed of exhausted torrents--above and through the chestnut forests precipitous beyond what you would think possible for ascent or descent. ravines tearing the ground to pieces under your feet. the scenery, sublime and wonderful, satisfied us wholly, as we looked round on the world of innumerable mountains, bound faintly with the grey sea--and not a human habitation. . . .' the following fragment, which i have received quite without date, might refer to this or to a somewhat later period. 'if he is vain about anything in the world it is about my improved health, and i say to him, "but you needn't talk so much to people, of how your wife walked here with you, and there with you, as if a wife with a pair of feet was a miracle of nature."' florence: feb. (' ). '. . . you can scarcely imagine to yourself the retired life we live, and how we have retreated from the kind advances of the english society here. now people seem to understand that we are to be left alone. . . .' florence: april (' ). '. . . we drive day by day through the lovely cascine, just sweeping through the city. just such a window where bianca capello looked out to see the duke go by--and just such a door where tasso stood and where dante drew his chair out to sit. strange to have all that old world life about us, and the blue sky so bright. . . .' venice: june (probably ' ). '. . . i have been between heaven and earth since our arrival at venice. the heaven of it is ineffable--never had i touched the skirts of so celestial a place. the beauty of the architecture, the silver trails of water up between all that gorgeous colour and carving, the enchanting silence, the music, the gondolas--i mix it all up together and maintain that nothing is like it, nothing equal to it, not a second venice in the world. 'do you know when i came first i felt as if i never could go away. but now comes the earth-side. 'robert, after sharing the ecstasy, grows uncomfortable and nervous, unable to eat or sleep, and poor wilson still worse, in a miserable condition of sickness and headache. alas for these mortal venices, so exquisite and so bilious. therefore i am constrained away from my joys by sympathy, and am forced to be glad that we are going away on friday. for myself, it did not affect me at all. take the mild, soft, relaxing climate--even the scirocco does not touch me. and the baby grows gloriously fatter in spite of everything. . . . as for venice, you can't get even a "times", much less an "athenaeum". we comfort ourselves by taking a box at the opera (a whole box on the grand tier, mind) for two shillings and eightpence, english. also, every evening at half-past eight, robert and i are sitting under the moon in the great piazza of st. mark, taking excellent coffee and reading the french papers.' if it were possible to draw more largely on mrs. browning's correspondence for this year, it would certainly supply the record of her intimacy, and that of her husband, with margaret fuller ossoli. a warm attachment sprang up between them during that lady's residence in florence. its last evenings were all spent at their house; and, soon after she had bidden them farewell, she availed herself of a two days' delay in the departure of the ship to return from leghorn and be with them one evening more. she had what seemed a prophetic dread of the voyage to america, though she attached no superstitious importance to the prediction once made to her husband that he would be drowned; and learned when it was too late to change her plans that her presence there was, after all, unnecessary. mr. browning was deeply affected by the news of her death by shipwreck, which took place on july , ; and wrote an account of his acquaintance with her, for publication by her friends. this also, unfortunately, was lost. her son was of the same age as his, little more than a year old; but she left a token of the friendship which might some day have united them, in a small bible inscribed to the baby robert, 'in memory of angelo ossoli.' the intended journey to england was delayed for mr. browning by the painful associations connected with his mother's death; but in the summer of he found courage to go there: and then, as on each succeeding visit paid to london with his wife, he commemorated his marriage in a manner all his own. he went to the church in which it had been solemnized, and kissed the paving-stones in front of the door. it needed all this love to comfort mrs. browning in the estrangement from her father which was henceforth to be accepted as final. he had held no communication with her since her marriage, and she knew that it was not forgiven; but she had cherished a hope that he would so far relent towards her as to kiss her child, even if he would not see her. her prayer to this effect remained, however, unanswered. in the autumn they proceeded to paris; whence mrs. browning wrote, october and november . , avenue des champs elysees. '. . . it was a long time before we could settle ourselves in a private apartment. . . . at last we came off to these champs elysees, to a very pleasant apartment, the window looking over a large terrace (almost large enough to serve the purpose of a garden) to the great drive and promenade of the parisians when they come out of the streets to sun and shade and show themselves off among the trees. a pretty little dining-room, a writing and dressing-room for robert beside it, a drawing-room beyond that, with two excellent bedrooms, and third bedroom for a "femme de menage", kitchen, &c. . . . so this answers all requirements, and the sun suns us loyally as in duty bound considering the southern aspect, and we are glad to find ourselves settled for six months. we have had lovely weather, and have seen a fire only yesterday for the first time since we left england. . . . we have seen nothing in paris, except the shell of it. yet, two evenings ago we hazarded going to a reception at lady elgin's, in the faubourg st. germain, and saw some french, but nobody of distinction. 'it is a good house, i believe, and she has an earnest face which must mean something. we were invited to go every monday between eight and twelve. we go on friday to madame mohl's, where we are to have some of the "celebrites". . . . carlyle, for instance, i liked infinitely more in his personality than i expected to like him, and i saw a great deal of him, for he travelled with us to paris, and spent several evenings with us, we three together. he is one of the most interesting men i could imagine, even deeply interesting to me; and you come to understand perfectly when you know him, that his bitterness is only melancholy, and his scorn, sensibility. highly picturesque, too, he is in conversation; the talk of writing men is very seldom so good. 'and, do you know, i was much taken, in london, with a young authoress, geraldine jewsbury. you have read her books. . . . she herself is quiet and simple, and drew my heart out of me a good deal. i felt inclined to love her in our half-hour's intercourse. . . .' , avenue des champs elysees: (nov. ). '. . . robert's father and sister have been paying us a visit during the last three weeks. they are very affectionate to me, and i love them for his sake and their own, and am very sorry at the thought of losing them, as we are on the point of doing. we hope, however, to establish them in paris, if we can stay, and if no other obstacle should arise before the spring, when they must leave hatcham. little wiedemann 'draws', as you may suppose . . . he is adored by his grandfather, and then, robert! they are an affectionate family, and not easy when removed one from another. . . .' on their journey from london to paris, mr. and mrs. browning had been joined by carlyle; and it afterwards struck mr. browning as strange that, in the 'life' of carlyle, their companionship on this occasion should be spoken of as the result of a chance meeting. carlyle not only went to paris with the brownings, but had begged permission to do so; and mrs. browning had hesitated to grant this because she was afraid her little boy would be tiresome to him. her fear, however, proved mistaken. the child's prattle amused the philosopher, and led him on one occasion to say: 'why, sir, you have as many aspirations as napoleon!' at paris he would have been miserable without mr. browning's help, in his ignorance of the language, and impatience of the discomforts which this created for him. he couldn't ask for anything, he complained, but they brought him the opposite. on one occasion mr. carlyle made a singular remark. he was walking with mr. browning, either in paris or the neighbouring country, when they passed an image of the crucifixion; and glancing towards the figure of christ, he said, with his deliberate scotch utterance, 'ah, poor fellow, _your_ part is played out!' two especially interesting letters are dated from the same address, february and april , . '. . . beranger lives close to us, and robert has seen him in his white hat, wandering along the asphalte. i had a notion, somehow, that he was very old, but he is only elderly--not much above sixty (which is the prime of life, nowadays) and he lives quietly and keeps out of scrapes poetical and political, and if robert and i had a little less modesty we are assured that we should find access to him easy. but we can't make up our minds to go to his door and introduce ourselves as vagrant minstrels, when he may probably not know our names. we could never follow the fashion of certain authors, who send their books about with intimations of their being likely to be acceptable or not--of which practice poor tennyson knows too much for his peace. if, indeed, a letter of introduction to beranger were vouchsafed to us from any benign quarter, we should both be delighted, but we must wait patiently for the influence of the stars. meanwhile, we have at last sent our letter [mazzini's] to george sand, accompanied with a little note signed by both of us, though written by me, as seemed right, being the woman. we half-despaired in doing this--for it is most difficult, it appears, to get at her, she having taken vows against seeing strangers, in consequence of various annoyances and persecutions, in and out of print, which it's the mere instinct of a woman to avoid--i can understand it perfectly. also, she is in paris for only a few days, and under a new name, to escape from the plague of her notoriety. people said, "she will never see you--you have no chance, i am afraid." but we determined to try. at least i pricked robert up to the leap--for he was really inclined to sit in his chair and be proud a little. "no," said i, "you _sha'n't_ be proud, and i _won't_ be proud, and we _will_ see her--i won't die, if i can help it, without seeing george sand." so we gave our letter to a friend, who was to give it to a friend who was to place it in her hands--her abode being a mystery, and the name she used unknown. the next day came by the post this answer: '"madame, j'aurai l'honneur de vous recevoir dimanche prochain, rue racine, . c'est le seul jour que je puisse passer chez moi; et encore je n'en suis pas absolument certaine--mais je ferai tellement mon possible, que ma bonne etoile m'y aidera peut-etre un peu. agreez mille remerciments de coeur ainsi que monsieur browning, que j'espere voir avec vous, pour la sympathie que vous m'accordez. george sand. paris: fevrier ' ." 'this is graceful and kind, is it not?--and we are going to-morrow--i, rather at the risk of my life, but i shall roll myself up head and all in a thick shawl, and we shall go in a close carriage, and i hope i shall be able to tell you the result before shutting up this letter. 'monday.--i have seen g. s. she received us in a room with a bed in it, the only room she has to occupy, i suppose, during her short stay in paris. she received us very cordially with her hand held out, which i, in the emotion of the moment, stooped and kissed--upon which she exclaimed, "mais non! je ne veux pas," and kissed me. i don't think she is a great deal taller than i am,--yes, taller, but not a great deal--and a little over-stout for that height. the upper part of the face is fine, the forehead, eyebrows and eyes--dark glowing eyes as they should be; the lower part not so good. the beautiful teeth project a little, flashing out the smile of the large characteristic mouth, and the chin recedes. it never could have been a beautiful face robert and i agree, but noble and expressive it has been and is. the complexion is olive, quite without colour; the hair, black and glossy, divided with evident care and twisted back into a knot behind the head, and she wore no covering to it. some of the portraits represent her in ringlets, and ringlets would be much more becoming to the style of face, i fancy, for the cheeks are rather over-full. she was dressed in a sort of woollen grey gown, with a jacket of the same material (according to the ruling fashion), the gown fastened up to the throat, with a small linen collarette, and plain white muslin sleeves buttoned round the wrists. the hands offered to me were small and well-shaped. her manners were quite as simple as her costume. i never saw a simpler woman. not a shade of affectation or consciousness, even--not a suffusion of coquetry, not a cigarette to be seen! two or three young men were sitting with her, and i observed the profound respect with which they listened to every word she said. she spoke rapidly, with a low, unemphatic voice. repose of manner is much more her characteristic than animation is--only, under all the quietness, and perhaps by means of it, you are aware of an intense burning soul. she kissed me again when we went away. . . .' 'april .--george sand we came to know a great deal more of. i think robert saw her six times. once he met her near the tuileries, offered her his arm and walked with her the whole length of the gardens. she was not on that occasion looking as well as usual, being a little too much "endimanchee" in terrestrial lavenders and super-celestial blues--not, in fact, dressed with the remarkable taste which he has seen in her at other times. her usual costume is both pretty and quiet, and the fashionable waistcoat and jacket (which are respectable in all the "ladies' companions" of the day) make the only approach to masculine wearings to be observed in her. 'she has great nicety and refinement in her personal ways, i think--and the cigarette is really a feminine weapon if properly understood. 'ah! but i didn't see her smoke. i was unfortunate. i could only go with robert three times to her house, and once she was out. he was really very good and kind to let me go at all after he found the sort of society rampant around her. he didn't like it extremely, but being the prince of husbands, he was lenient to my desires, and yielded the point. she seems to live in the abomination of desolation, as far as regards society--crowds of ill-bred men who adore her, 'a genoux bas', betwixt a puff of smoke and an ejection of saliva--society of the ragged red, diluted with the low theatrical. she herself so different, so apart, so alone in her melancholy disdain. i was deeply interested in that poor woman. i felt a profound compassion for her. i did not mind much even the greek, in greek costume, who 'tutoyed' her, and kissed her i believe, so robert said--or the other vulgar man of the theatre, who went down on his knees and called her "sublime". "caprice d'amitie," said she with her quiet, gentle scorn. a noble woman under the mud, be certain. _i_ would kneel down to her, too, if she would leave it all, throw it off, and be herself as god made her. but she would not care for my kneeling--she does not care for me. perhaps she doesn't care much for anybody by this time, who knows? she wrote one or two or three kind notes to me, and promised to 'venir m'embrasser' before she left paris, but she did not come. we both tried hard to please her, and she told a friend of ours that she "liked us". only we always felt that we couldn't penetrate--couldn't really _touch_ her--it was all vain. 'alfred de musset was to have been at m. buloz' where robert was a week ago, on purpose to meet him, but he was prevented in some way. his brother, paul de musset, a very different person, was there instead, but we hope to have alfred on another occasion. do you know his poems? he is not capable of large grasps, but he has poet's life and blood in him, i assure you. . . . we are expecting a visit from lamartine, who does a great deal of honour to both of us in the way of appreciation, and was kind enough to propose to come. i will tell you all about it.' mr. browning fully shared his wife's impression of a want of frank cordiality on george sand's part; and was especially struck by it in reference to himself, with whom it seemed more natural that she should feel at ease. he could only imagine that his studied courtesy towards her was felt by her as a rebuke to the latitude which she granted to other men. another eminent french writer whom he much wished to know was victor hugo, and i am told that for years he carried about him a letter of introduction from lord houghton, always hoping for an opportunity of presenting it. the hope was not fulfilled, though, in , mr. browning crossed to saint malo by the channel islands and spent three days in jersey. chapter - m. joseph milsand--his close friendship with mr. browning; mrs. browning's impression of him--new edition of mr. browning's poems--'christmas eve and easter day'--'essay' on shelley--summer in london--dante gabriel rossetti--florence; secluded life--letters from mr. and mrs. browning--'colombe's birthday'--baths of lucca--mrs. browning's letters--winter in rome--mr. and mrs. story--mrs. sartoris--mrs. fanny kemble--summer in london--tennyson--ruskin. it was during this winter in paris that mr. browning became acquainted with m. joseph milsand, the second frenchman with whom he was to be united by ties of deep friendship and affection. m. milsand was at that time, and for long afterwards, a frequent contributor to the 'revue des deux mondes'; his range of subjects being enlarged by his, for a frenchman, exceptional knowledge of english life, language, and literature. he wrote an article on quakerism, which was much approved by mr. william forster, and a little volume on ruskin called 'l'esthetique anglaise', which was published in the 'bibliotheque de philosophie contemporaine'.* shortly before the arrival of mr. and mrs. browning in paris, he had accidentally seen an extract from 'paracelsus'. this struck him so much that he procured the two volumes of the works and 'christmas eve', and discussed the whole in the 'revue' as the second part of an essay entitled 'la poesie anglaise depuis byron'. mr. browning saw the article, and was naturally touched at finding his poems the object of serious study in a foreign country, while still so little regarded in his own. it was no less natural that this should lead to a friendship which, the opening once given, would have grown up unassisted, at least on mr. browning's side; for m. milsand united the qualities of a critical intellect with a tenderness, a loyalty, and a simplicity of nature seldom found in combination with them. * he published also an admirable little work on the requirements of secondary education in france, equally applicable in many respects to any country and to any time. the introduction was brought about by the daughter of william browning, mrs. jebb-dyke, or more directly by mr. and mrs. fraser corkran, who were among the earliest friends of the browning family in paris. m. milsand was soon an 'habitue' of mr. browning's house, as somewhat later of that of his father and sister; and when, many years afterwards, miss browning had taken up her abode in england, he spent some weeks of the early summer in warwick crescent, whenever his home duties or personal occupations allowed him to do so. several times also the poet and his sister joined him at saint-aubin, the seaside village in normandy which was his special resort, and where they enjoyed the good offices of madame milsand, a home-staying, genuine french wife and mother, well acquainted with the resources of its very primitive life. m. milsand died, in , of apoplexy, the consequence, i believe, of heart-disease brought on by excessive cold-bathing. the first reprint of 'sordello', in , had been, as is well known, dedicated to him. the 'parleyings', published within a year of his death, were inscribed to his memory. mr. browning's affection for him finds utterance in a few strong words which i shall have occasion to quote. an undated fragment concerning him from mrs. browning to her sister-in-law, points to a later date than the present, but may as well be inserted here. '. . . i quite love m. milsand for being interested in penini. what a perfect creature he is, to be sure! he always stands in the top place among our gods--give him my cordial regards, always, mind. . . . he wants, i think--the only want of that noble nature--the sense of spiritual relation; and also he puts under his feet too much the worth of impulse and passion, in considering the powers of human nature. for the rest, i don't know such a man. he has intellectual conscience--or say--the conscience of the intellect, in a higher degree than i ever saw in any man of any country--and this is no less robert's belief than mine. when we hear the brilliant talkers and noisy thinkers here and there and everywhere, we go back to milsand with a real reverence. also, i never shall forget his delicacy to me personally, nor his tenderness of heart about my child. . . .' the criticism was inevitable from the point of view of mrs. browning's nature and experience; but i think she would have revoked part of it if she had known m. milsand in later years. he would never have agreed with her as to the authority of 'impulse and passion', but i am sure he did not underrate their importance as factors in human life. m. milsand was one of the few readers of browning with whom i have talked about him, who had studied his work from the beginning, and had realized the ambition of his first imaginative flights. he was more perplexed by the poet's utterance in later years. 'quel homme extraordinaire!' he once said to me; 'son centre n'est pas au milieu.' the usual criticism would have been that, while his own centre was in the middle, he did not seek it in the middle for the things of which he wrote; but i remember that, at the moment in which the words were spoken, they impressed me as full of penetration. mr. browning had so much confidence in m. milsand's linguistic powers that he invariably sent him his proof-sheets for final revision, and was exceedingly pleased with such few corrections as his friend was able to suggest. with the name of milsand connects itself in the poet's life that of a younger, but very genuine friend of both, m. gustave dourlans: a man of fine critical and intellectual powers, unfortunately neutralized by bad health. m. dourlans also became a visitor at warwick crescent, and a frequent correspondent of mr. or rather of miss browning. he came from paris once more, to witness the last sad scene in westminster abbey. the first three years of mr. browning's married life had been unproductive from a literary point of view. the realization and enjoyment of the new companionship, the duties as well as interests of the dual existence, and, lastly, the shock and pain of his mother's death, had absorbed his mental energies for the time being. but by the close of he had prepared for publication in the following year a new edition of 'paracelsus' and the 'bells and pomegranates' poems. the reprint was in two volumes, and the publishers were messrs. chapman and hall; the system, maintained through mr. moxon, of publication at the author's expense, being abandoned by mr. browning when he left home. mrs. browning writes of him on this occasion that he is paying 'peculiar attention to the objections made against certain obscurities.' he himself prefaced the edition by these words: 'many of these pieces were out of print, the rest had been withdrawn from circulation, when the corrected edition, now submitted to the reader, was prepared. the various poems and dramas have received the author's most careful revision. december .' in , in florence, he wrote 'christmas eve and easter day'; and in december , in paris, the essay on shelley, to be prefixed to twenty-five supposed letters of that poet, published by moxon in .* * they were discovered, not long afterwards, to be spurious, and the book suppressed. the reading of this essay might serve to correct the frequent misapprehension of mr. browning's religious views which has been based on the literal evidence of 'christmas eve', were it not that its companion poem has failed to do so; though the tendency of 'easter day' is as different from that of its precursor as their common christianity admits. the balance of argument in 'christmas eve' is in favour of direct revelation of religious truth and prosaic certainty regarding it; while the 'easter day' vision makes a tentative and unresting attitude the first condition of the religious life; and if mr. browning has meant to say--as he so often did say--that religious certainties are required for the undeveloped mind, but that the growing religious intelligence walks best by a receding light, he denies the positive basis of christian belief, and is no more orthodox in the one set of reflections than in the other. the spirit, however, of both poems is ascetic: for the first divorces religious worship from every appeal to the poetic sense; the second refuses to recognize, in poetry or art, or the attainments of the intellect, or even in the best human love, any practical correspondence with religion. the dissertation on shelley is, what 'sordello' was, what its author's treatment of poets and poetry always must be--an indirect vindication of the conceptions of human life which 'christmas eve and easter day' condemns. this double poem stands indeed so much alone in mr. browning's work that we are tempted to ask ourselves to what circumstance or impulse, external or internal, it has been due; and we can only conjecture that the prolonged communion with a mind so spiritual as that of his wife, the special sympathies and differences which were elicited by it, may have quickened his religious imagination, while directing it towards doctrinal or controversial issues which it had not previously embraced. the 'essay' is a tribute to the genius of shelley; it is also a justification of his life and character, as the balance of evidence then presented them to mr. browning's mind. it rests on a definition of the respective qualities of the objective and the subjective poet. . . . while both, he says, are gifted with the fuller perception of nature and man, the one endeavours to 'reproduce things external (whether the phenomena of the scenic universe, or the manifested action of the human heart and brain) with an immediate reference, in every case, to the common eye and apprehension of his fellow-men, assumed capable of receiving and profiting by this reproduction'--the other 'is impelled to embody the thing he perceives, not so much with reference to the many below, as to the one above him, the supreme intelligence which apprehends all things in their absolute truth,--an ultimate view ever aspired to, if but partially attained, by the poet's own soul. not what man sees, but what god sees--the 'ideas' of plato, seeds of creation lying burningly on the divine hand--it is toward these that he struggles. not with the combination of humanity in action, but with the primal elements of humanity he has to do; and he digs where he stands,--preferring to seek them in his own soul as the nearest reflex of that absolute mind, according to the intuitions of which he desires to perceive and speak.' the objective poet is therefore a fashioner, the subjective is best described as a seer. the distinction repeats itself in the interest with which we study their respective lives. we are glad of the biography of the objective poet because it reveals to us the power by which he works; we desire still more that of the subjective poet, because it presents us with another aspect of the work itself. the poetry of such a one is an effluence much more than a production; it is 'the very radiance and aroma of his personality, projected from it but not separated. therefore, in our approach to the poetry, we necessarily approach the personality of the poet; in apprehending it we apprehend him, and certainly we cannot love it without loving him.' the reason of mr. browning's prolonged and instinctive reverence for shelley is thus set forth in the opening pages of the essay: he recognized in his writings the quality of a 'subjective' poet; hence, as he understands the word, the evidence of a divinely inspired man. mr. browning goes on to say that we need the recorded life in order quite to determine to which class of inspiration a given work belongs; and though he regards the work of shelley as carrying its warrant within itself, his position leaves ample room for a withdrawal of faith, a reversal of judgment, if the ascertained facts of the poet's life should at any future time bear decided witness against him. he is also careful to avoid drawing too hard and fast a line between the two opposite kinds of poet. he admits that a pure instance of either is seldom to be found; he sees no reason why 'these two modes of poetic faculty may not issue hereafter from the same poet in successive perfect works. . . . a mere running-in of the one faculty upon the other' being, meanwhile, 'the ordinary circumstance.' i venture, however, to think, that in his various and necessary concessions, he lets slip the main point; and for the simple reason that it is untenable. the terms 'subjective' and 'objective' denote a real and very important difference on the ground of judgment, but one which tends more and more to efface itself in the sphere of the higher creative imagination. mr. browning might as briefly, and i think more fully, have expressed the salient quality of his poet, even while he could describe it in these emphatic words: 'i pass at once, therefore, from shelley's minor excellencies to his noblest and predominating characteristic. 'this i call his simultaneous perception of power and love in the absolute, and of beauty and good in the concrete, while he throws, from his poet's station between both, swifter, subtler, and more numerous films for the connexion of each with each, than have been thrown by any modern artificer of whom i have knowledge . . . i would rather consider shelley's poetry as a sublime fragmentary essay towards a presentment of the correspondency of the universe to deity, of the natural to the spiritual, and of the actual to the ideal than . . .' this essay has, in common with the poems of the preceding years, the one quality of a largely religious and, in a certain sense, christian spirit, and in this respect it falls naturally into the general series of its author's works. the assertion of platonic ideas suggests, however, a mood of spiritual thought for which the reference in 'pauline' has been our only, and a scarcely sufficient preparation; nor could the most definite theism to be extracted from platonic beliefs ever satisfy the human aspirations which, in a nature like that of robert browning, culminate in the idea of god. the metaphysical aspect of the poet's genius here distinctly reappears for the first time since 'sordello', and also for the last. it becomes merged in the simpler forms of the religious imagination. the justification of the man shelley, to which great part of the essay is devoted, contains little that would seem new to his more recent apologists; little also which to the writer's later judgments continued to recommend itself as true. it was as a great poetic artist, not as a great poet, that the author of 'prometheus' and 'the cenci', of 'julian and maddalo', and 'epipsychidion' was finally to rank in mr. browning's mind. the whole remains nevertheless a memorial of a very touching affection; and whatever intrinsic value the essay may possess, its main interest must always be biographical. its motive and inspiration are set forth in the closing lines: 'it is because i have long held these opinions in assurance and gratitude, that i catch at the opportunity offered to me of expressing them here; knowing that the alacrity to fulfil an humble office conveys more love than the acceptance of the honour of a higher one, and that better, therefore, than the signal service it was the dream of my boyhood to render to his fame and memory, may be the saying of a few, inadequate words upon these scarcely more important supplementary letters of _shelley_.' if mr. browning had seen reason to doubt the genuineness of the letters in question, his introduction could not have been written. that, while receiving them as genuine, he thought them unimportant, gave it, as he justly discerned, its full significance. mr. and mrs. browning returned to london for the summer of , and we have a glimpse of them there in a letter from mr. fox to his daughter. july , ' . '. . . i had a charming hour with the brownings yesterday; more fascinated with her than ever. she talked lots of george sand, and so beautifully. moreover she silver-electroplated louis napoleon!! they are lodging at welbeck street; the house has a queer name on the door, and belongs to some belgian family. 'they came in late one night, and r. b. says that in the morning twilight he saw three portraits on the bedroom wall, and speculated who they might be. light gradually showed the first, beatrice cenci, "good!" said he; "in a poetic region." more light: the second, lord byron! who can the third be? and what think you it was, but your sketch (engraved chalk portrait) of me? he made quite a poem and picture of the affair. 'she seems much better; did not put her hand before her mouth, which i took as a compliment: and the young florentine was gracious . . .' it need hardly be said that this valued friend was one of the first whom mr. browning introduced to his wife, and that she responded with ready warmth to his claims on her gratitude and regard. more than one joint letter from herself and her husband commemorates this new phase of the intimacy; one especially interesting was written from florence in , in answer to the announcement by mr. fox of his election for oldham; and mr. browning's contribution, which is very characteristic, will appear in due course. either this or the preceding summer brought mr. browning for the first time into personal contact with an early lover of his works: mr. d. g. rossetti. they had exchanged letters a year or two before, on the subject of 'pauline', which rossetti (as i have already mentioned) had read in ignorance of its origin, but with the conviction that only the author of 'paracelsus' could have produced it. he wrote to mr. browning to ascertain the fact, and to tell him he had admired the poem so much as to transcribe it whole from the british museum copy. he now called on him with mr. william allingham; and doubly recommended himself to the poet's interest by telling him that he was a painter. when mr. browning was again in london, in , rossetti began painting his portrait, which he finished in paris in the ensuing winter. the winter of - saw the family once more in florence, and at casa guidi, where the routine of quiet days was resumed. mrs. browning has spoken in more than one of her letters of the comparative social seclusion in which she and her husband had elected to live. this seclusion was much modified in later years, and many well-known english and american names become associated with their daily life. it referred indeed almost entirely to their residence in florence, where they found less inducement to enter into society than in london, paris, and rome. but it is on record that during the fifteen years of his married life, mr. browning never dined away from home, except on one occasion--an exception proving the rule; and we cannot therefore be surprised that he should subsequently have carried into the experience of an unshackled and very interesting social intercourse, a kind of freshness which a man of fifty has not generally preserved. the one excitement which presented itself in the early months of was the production of 'colombe's birthday'. the first allusion to this comes to us in a letter from the poet to lady, then mrs. theodore, martin, from which i quote a few passages. florence: jan. , ' . 'my dear mrs. martin,--. . . be assured that i, for my part, have been in no danger of forgetting my promises any more than your performances--which were admirable of all kinds. i shall be delighted if you can do anything for "colombe"--do what you think best with it, and for me--it will be pleasant to be in such hands--only, pray follow the corrections in the last edition--(chapman and hall will give you a copy)--as they are important to the sense. as for the condensation into three acts--i shall leave that, and all cuttings and the like, to your own judgment--and, come what will, i shall have to be grateful to you, as before. for the rest, you will play the part to heart's content, i _know_. . . . and how good it will be to see you again, and make my wife see you too--she who "never saw a great actress" she says--unless it was dejazet! . . .' mrs. browning writes about the performance, april : '. . . i am beginning to be anxious about 'colombe's birthday'. i care much more about it than robert does. he says that no one will mistake it for his speculation; it's mr. buckstone's affair altogether. true--but i should like it to succeed, being robert's play, notwithstanding. but the play is subtle and refined for pits and galleries. i am nervous about it. on the other hand, those theatrical people ought to know,--and what in the world made them select it, if it is not likely to answer their purpose? by the way, a dreadful rumour reaches us of its having been "prepared for the stage by the author." don't believe a word of it. robert just said "yes" when they wrote to ask him, and not a line of communication has passed since. he has prepared nothing at all, suggested nothing, modified nothing. he referred them to his new edition, and that was the whole. . . .' she communicates the result in may: '. . . yes, robert's play succeeded, but there could be no "run" for a play of that kind. it was a "succes d'estime" and something more, which is surprising perhaps, considering the miserable acting of the men. miss faucit was alone in doing us justice. . . .' mrs. browning did see 'miss faucit' on her next visit to england. she agreeably surprised that lady by presenting herself alone, one morning, at her house, and remaining with her for an hour and a half. the only person who had 'done justice' to 'colombe' besides contributing to whatever success her husband's earlier plays had obtained, was much more than 'a great actress' to mrs. browning's mind; and we may imagine it would have gone hard with her before she renounced the pleasure of making her acquaintance. two letters, dated from the baths of lucca, july and august , ' , tell how and where the ensuing summer was passed, besides introducing us, for the first time, to mr. and mrs. william story, between whose family and that of mr. browning so friendly an intimacy was ever afterwards to subsist. july . '. . . we have taken a villa at the baths of lucca after a little holy fear of the company there--but the scenery, and the coolness, and convenience altogether prevail, and we have taken our villa for three months or rather more, and go to it next week with a stiff resolve of not calling nor being called upon. you remember perhaps that we were there four years ago just after the birth of our child. the mountains are wonderful in beauty, and we mean to buy our holiday by doing some work. 'oh yes! i confess to loving florence, and to having associated with it the idea of home. . . .' casa tolomei, alta villa, bagni di lucca: aug. . '. . . we are enjoying the mountains here--riding the donkeys in the footsteps of the sheep, and eating strawberries and milk by basinsful. the strawberries succeed one another throughout the summer, through growing on different aspects of the hills. if a tree is felled in the forests, strawberries spring up, just as mushrooms might, and the peasants sell them for just nothing. . . . then our friends mr. and mrs. story help the mountains to please us a good deal. he is the son of judge story, the biographer of his father, and for himself, sculptor and poet--and she a sympathetic graceful woman, fresh and innocent in face and thought. we go backwards and forwards to tea and talk at one another's houses. '. . . since i began this letter we have had a grand donkey excursion to a village called benabbia, and the cross above it on the mountain-peak. we returned in the dark, and were in some danger of tumbling down various precipices--but the scenery was exquisite--past speaking of for beauty. oh, those jagged mountains, rolled together like pre-adamite beasts and setting their teeth against the sky--it was wonderful. . . .' mr. browning's share of the work referred to was 'in a balcony'; also, probably, some of the 'men and women'; the scene of the declaration in 'by the fireside' was laid in a little adjacent mountain-gorge to which he walked or rode. a fortnight's visit from mr., now lord, lytton, was also an incident of this summer. the next three letters from which i am able to quote, describe the impressions of mrs. browning's first winter in rome. rome: via bocca di leone, piano. jan. , . '. . . well, we are all well to begin with--and have been well--our troubles came to us through sympathy entirely. a most exquisite journey of eight days we had from florence to rome, seeing the great monastery and triple church of assisi and the wonderful terni by the way--that passion of the waters which makes the human heart seem so still. in the highest spirits we entered rome, robert and penini singing actually--for the child was radiant and flushed with the continual change of air and scene. . . . you remember my telling you of our friends the storys--how they and their two children helped to make the summer go pleasantly at the baths of lucca. they had taken an apartment for us in rome, so that we arrived in comfort to lighted fires and lamps as if coming home,--and we had a glimpse of their smiling faces that evening. in the morning before breakfast, little edith was brought over to us by the manservant with a message, "the boy was in convulsions--there was danger." we hurried to the house, of course, leaving edith with wilson. too true! all that first day we spent beside a death-bed; for the child never rallied--never opened his eyes in consciousness--and by eight in the evening he was gone. in the meanwhile, edith was taken ill at our house--could not be moved, said the physicians . . . gastric fever, with a tendency to the brain--and within two days her life was almost despaired of--exactly the same malady as her brother's. . . . also the english nurse was apparently dying at the story's house, and emma page, the artist's youngest daughter, sickened with the same disease. '. . . to pass over the dreary time, i will tell you at once that the three patients recovered--only in poor little edith's case roman fever followed the gastric, and has persisted ever since in periodical recurrence. she is very pale and thin. roman fever is not dangerous to life, but it is exhausting. . . . now you will understand what ghostly flakes of death have changed the sense of rome to me. the first day by a death-bed, the first drive-out, to the cemetery, where poor little joe is laid close to shelley's heart ("cor cordium" says the epitaph) and where the mother insisted on going when she and i went out in the carriage together--i am horribly weak about such things--i can't look on the earth-side of death--i flinch from corpses and graves, and never meet a common funeral without a sort of horror. when i look deathwards i look _over_ death, and upwards, or i can't look that way at all. so that it was a struggle with me to sit upright in that carriage in which the poor stricken mother sat so calmly--not to drop from the seat. well--all this has blackened rome to me. i can't think about the caesars in the old strain of thought--the antique words get muddled and blurred with warm dashes of modern, everyday tears and fresh grave-clay. rome is spoilt to me--there's the truth. still, one lives through one's associations when not too strong, and i have arrived at almost enjoying some things--the climate, for instance, which, though pernicious to the general health, agrees particularly with me, and the sight of the blue sky floating like a sea-tide through the great gaps and rifts of ruins. . . . we are very comfortably settled in rooms turned to the sun, and do work and play by turns, having almost too many visitors, hear excellent music at mrs. sartoris's (a. k.) once or twice a week, and have fanny kemble to come and talk to us with the doors shut, we three together. this is pleasant. i like her decidedly. 'if anybody wants small talk by handfuls, of glittering dust swept out of salons, here's mr. thackeray besides! . . .' rome: march . '. . . we see a good deal of the kembles here, and like them both, especially fanny, who is looking magnificent still, with her black hair and radiant smile. a very noble creature indeed. somewhat unelastic, unpliant to the age, attached to the old modes of thought and convention--but noble in qualities and defects. i like her much. she thinks me credulous and full of dreams--but does not despise me for that reason--which is good and tolerant of her, and pleasant too, for i should not be quite easy under her contempt. mrs. sartoris is genial and generous--her milk has had time to stand to cream in her happy family relations, which poor fanny kemble's has not had. mrs. sartoris' house has the best society in rome--and exquisite music of course. we met lockhart there, and my husband sees a good deal of him--more than i do--because of the access of cold weather lately which has kept me at home chiefly. robert went down to the seaside, on a day's excursion with him and the sartorises--and i hear found favour in his sight. said the critic, "i like browning--he isn't at all like a damned literary man." that's a compliment, i believe, according to your dictionary. it made me laugh and think of you directly. . . . robert has been sitting for his picture to mr. fisher, the english artist who painted mr. kenyon and landor. you remember those pictures in mr. kenyon's house in london. well, he has painted robert's, and it is an admirable likeness. the expression is an exceptional expression, but highly characteristic. . . .' may . '. . . to leave rome will fill me with barbarian complacency. i don't pretend to have a ray of sentiment about rome. it's a palimpsest rome, a watering-place written over the antique, and i haven't taken to it as a poet should i suppose. and let us speak the truth above all things. i am strongly a creature of association, and the associations of the place have not been personally favourable to me. among the rest, my child, the light of my eyes, has been more unwell than i ever saw him. . . . the pleasantest days in rome we have spent with the kembles, the two sisters, who are charming and excellent both of them, in different ways, and certainly they have given us some excellent hours in the campagna, upon picnic excursions--they, and certain of their friends; for instance, m. ampere, the member of the french institute, who is witty and agreeable, m. goltz, the austrian minister, who is an agreeable man, and mr. lyons, the son of sir edmund, &c. the talk was almost too brilliant for the sentiment of the scenery, but it harmonized entirely with the mayonnaise and champagne. . . .' it must have been on one of the excursions here described that an incident took place, which mr. browning relates with characteristic comments in a letter to mrs. fitz-gerald, of july , . the picnic party had strolled away to some distant spot. mrs. browning was not strong enough to join them, and her husband, as a matter of course, stayed with her; which act of consideration prompted mrs. kemble to exclaim that he was the only man she had ever known who behaved like a christian to his wife. she was, when he wrote this letter, reading his works for the first time, and had expressed admiration for them; but, he continued, none of the kind things she said to him on that subject could move him as did those words in the campagna. mrs. kemble would have modified her statement in later years, for the sake of one english and one american husband now closely related to her. even then, perhaps, she did not make it without inward reserve. but she will forgive me, i am sure, for having repeated it. mr. browning also refers to her memoirs, which he had just read, and says: 'i saw her in those [i conclude earlier] days much oftener than is set down, but she scarcely noticed me; though i always liked her extremely.' another of mrs. browning's letters is written from florence, june (' ): '. . . we mean to stay at florence a week or two longer and then go northward. i love florence--the place looks exquisitely beautiful in its garden ground of vineyards and olive trees, sung round by the nightingales day and night. . . . if you take one thing with another, there is no place in the world like florence, i am persuaded, for a place to live in--cheap, tranquil, cheerful, beautiful, within the limits of civilization yet out of the crush of it. . . . we have spent two delicious evenings at villas outside the gates, one with young lytton, sir edward's son, of whom i have told you, i think. i like him . . . we both do . . . from the bottom of our hearts. then, our friend, frederick tennyson, the new poet, we are delighted to see again. . . . . . '. . . mrs. sartoris has been here on her way to rome, spending most of her time with us . . . singing passionately and talking eloquently. she is really charming. . . .' i have no record of that northward journey or of the experiences of the winter of - . in all probability mr. and mrs. browning remained in, or as near as possible to, florence, since their income was still too limited for continuous travelling. they possibly talked of going to england, but postponed it till the following year; we know that they went there in , taking his sister with them as they passed through paris. they did not this time take lodgings for the summer months, but hired a house at dorset street, portman square; and there, on september , tennyson read his new poem, 'maud', to mrs. browning, while rossetti, the only other person present besides the family, privately drew his likeness in pen and ink. the likeness has become well known; the unconscious sitter must also, by this time, be acquainted with it; but miss browning thinks no one except herself, who was near rossetti at the table, was at the moment aware of its being made. all eyes must have been turned towards tennyson, seated by his hostess on the sofa. miss arabel barrett was also of the party. some interesting words of mrs. browning's carry their date in the allusion to mr. ruskin; but i cannot ascertain it more precisely: 'we went to denmark hill yesterday to have luncheon with them, and see the turners, which, by the way, are divine. i like mr. ruskin much, and so does robert. very gentle, yet earnest,--refined and truthful. i like him very much. we count him one among the valuable acquaintances made this year in england.' chapter - 'men and women'--'karshook'--'two in the campagna'--winter in paris; lady elgin--'aurora leigh'--death of mr. kenyon and mr. barrett--penini--mrs. browning's letters to miss browning--the florentine carnival--baths of lucca--spiritualism--mr. kirkup; count ginnasi--letter from mr. browning to mr. fox--havre. the beautiful 'one word more' was dated from london in september; and the fifty poems gathered together under the title of 'men and women' were published before the close of the year, in two volumes, by messrs. chapman and hall.* they are all familiar friends to mr. browning's readers, in their first arrangement and appearance, as in later redistributions and reprints; but one curious little fact concerning them is perhaps not generally known. in the eighth line of the fourteenth section of 'one word more' they were made to include 'karshook (ben karshook's wisdom)', which never was placed amongst them. it was written in april ; and the dedication of the volume must have been, as it so easily might be, in existence, before the author decided to omit it. the wrong name, once given, was retained, i have no doubt, from preference for its terminal sound; and 'karshook' only became 'karshish' in the tauchnitz copy of , and in the english edition of . * the date is given in the edition of as london -; in the tauchnitz selection of , london and florence - and -; in the new english edition -and -. 'karshook' appeared in in 'the keepsake', edited by miss power; but, as we are told on good authority, has been printed in no edition or selection of the poet's works. i am therefore justified in inserting it here. i 'would a man 'scape the rod?' rabbi ben karshook saith, 'see that he turn to god the day before his death.' 'ay, could a man inquire when it shall come!' i say. the rabbi's eye shoots fire-- 'then let him turn to-day!' ii quoth a young sadducee: 'reader of many rolls, is it so certain we have, as they tell us, souls?' 'son, there is no reply!' the rabbi bit his beard: 'certain, a soul have _i_-- _we_ may have none,' he sneer'd. thus karshook, the hiram's-hammer, the right-hand temple-column, taught babes in grace their grammar, and struck the simple, solemn. among this first collection of 'men and women' was the poem called 'two in the campagna'. it is a vivid, yet enigmatical little study of a restless spirit tantalized by glimpses of repose in love, saddened and perplexed by the manner in which this eludes it. nothing that should impress one as more purely dramatic ever fell from mr. browning's pen. we are told, nevertheless, in mr. sharp's 'life', that a personal character no less actual than that of the 'guardian angel' has been claimed for it. the writer, with characteristic delicacy, evades all discussion of the question; but he concedes a great deal in his manner of doing so. the poem, he says, conveys a sense of that necessary isolation of the individual soul which resists the fusing power of the deepest love; and its meaning cannot be personally--because it is universally--true. i do not think mr. browning meant to emphasize this aspect of the mystery of individual life, though the poem, in a certain sense, expresses it. we have no reason to believe that he ever accepted it as constant; and in no case could he have intended to refer its conditions to himself. he was often isolated by the processes of his mind; but there was in him no barrier to that larger emotional sympathy which we think of as sympathy of the soul. if this poem were true, 'one word more' would be false, quite otherwise than in that approach to exaggeration which is incidental to the poetic form. the true keynote of 'two in the campagna' is the pain of perpetual change, and of the conscious, though unexplained, predestination to it. mr. browning could have still less in common with such a state, since one of the qualities for which he was most conspicuous was the enormous power of anchorage which his affections possessed. only length of time and variety of experience could fully test this power or fully display it; but the signs of it had not been absent from even his earliest life. he loved fewer people in youth than in advancing age: nature and circumstance combined to widen the range, and vary the character of his human interests; but where once love or friendship had struck a root, only a moral convulsion could avail to dislodge it. i make no deduction from this statement when i admit that the last and most emphatic words of the poem in question, only i discern-- infinite passion, and the pain of finite hearts that yearn, did probably come from the poet's heart, as they also found a deep echo in that of his wife, who much loved them. from london they returned to paris for the winter of - . the younger of the kemble sisters, mrs. sartoris, was also there with her family; and the pleasant meetings of the campagna renewed themselves for mr. browning, though in a different form. he was also, with his sister, a constant visitor at lady elgin's. both they and mrs. browning were greatly attached to her, and she warmly reciprocated the feeling. as mr. locker's letter has told us, mr. browning was in the habit of reading poetry to her, and when his sister had to announce his arrival from italy or england, she would say: 'robert is coming to nurse you, and read to you.' lady elgin was by this time almost completely paralyzed. she had lost the power of speech, and could only acknowledge the little attentions which were paid to her by some graceful pathetic gesture of the left hand; but she retained her sensibilities to the last; and miss browning received on one occasion a serious lesson in the risk of ever assuming that the appearance of unconsciousness guarantees its reality. lady augusta bruce had asked her, in her mother's presence, how mrs. browning was; and, imagining that lady elgin was unable to hear or understand, she had answered with incautious distinctness, 'i am afraid she is very ill,' when a little sob from the invalid warned her of her mistake. lady augusta quickly repaired it by rejoining, 'but she is better than she was, is she not?' miss browning of course assented. there were other friends, old and new, whom mr. browning occasionally saw, including, i need hardly say, the celebrated madame mohl. in the main, however, he led a quiet life, putting aside many inducements to leave his home. mrs. browning was then writing 'aurora leigh', and her husband must have been more than ever impressed by her power of work, as displayed by her manner of working. to him, as to most creative writers, perfect quiet was indispensable to literary production. she wrote in pencil, on scraps of paper, as she lay on the sofa in her sitting-room, open to interruption from chance visitors, or from her little omnipresent son; simply hiding the paper beside her if anyone came in, and taking it up again when she was free. and if this process was conceivable in the large, comparatively silent spaces of their italian home, and amidst habits of life which reserved social intercourse for the close of the working day, it baffles belief when one thinks of it as carried on in the conditions of a parisian winter, and the little 'salon' of the apartment in the rue du colisee in which those months were spent. the poem was completed in the ensuing summer, in mr. kenyon's london house, and dedicated, october , in deeply pathetic words to that faithful friend, whom the writer was never to see again. the news of his death, which took place in december , reached mr. and mrs. browning in florence, to be followed in the spring by that of mrs. browning's father. husband and wife had both determined to forego any pecuniary benefit which might accrue to them from this event; but they were not called upon to exercise their powers of renunciation. by mr. kenyon's will they were the richer, as is now, i think, generally known, the one by six thousand, the other by four thousand guineas.* of that cousin's long kindness mrs. browning could scarcely in after-days trust herself to speak. it was difficult to her, she said, even to write his name without tears. * mr. kenyon had considerable wealth, derived, like mr. barrett's, from west indian estates. i have alluded, perhaps tardily, to mr. browning's son, a sociable little being who must for some time have been playing a prominent part in his parents' lives. i saw him for the first time in this winter of - , and remember the grave expression of the little round face, the outline of which was common, at all events in childhood, to all the members of his mother's family, and was conspicuous in her, if we may trust an early portrait which has recently come to light. he wore the curling hair to which she refers in a later letter, and pretty frocks and frills, in which she delighted to clothe him. it is on record that, on one of the journeys of this year, a trunk was temporarily lost which contained peni's embroidered trousers, and the ms., whole or in part, of 'aurora leigh'; and that mrs. browning had scarcely a thought to spare for her poem, in face of the damage to her little boy's appearance which the accident involved. how he came by his familiar name of penini--hence peni, and pen--neither signifies in itself, nor has much bearing on his father's family history; but i cannot refrain from a word of comment on mr. hawthorne's fantastic conjecture, which has been asserted and reasserted in opposition to mr. browning's own statement of the case. according to mr. hawthorne, the name was derived from apennino, and bestowed on the child in babyhood, because apennino was a colossal statue, and he was so very small. it would be strange indeed that any joke connecting 'baby' with a given colossal statue should have found its way into the family without father, mother, or nurse being aware of it; or that any joke should have been accepted there which implied that the little boy was not of normal size. but the fact is still more unanswerable that apennino could by no process congenial to the italian language be converted into penini. its inevitable abbreviation would be pennino with a distinct separate sounding of the central n's, or nino. the accentuation of penini is also distinctly german. during this winter in paris, little wiedemann, as his parents tried to call him--his full name was robert wiedemann barrett--had developed a decided turn for blank verse. he would extemporize short poems, singing them to his mother, who wrote them down as he sang. there is no less proof of his having possessed a talent for music, though it first naturally showed itself in the love of a cheerful noise. his father had once sat down to the piano, for a serious study of some piece, when the little boy appeared, with the evident intention of joining in the performance. mr. browning rose precipitately, and was about to leave the room. 'oh!' exclaimed the hurt mother, 'you are going away, and he has brought his three drums to accompany you upon.' she herself would undoubtedly have endured the mixed melody for a little time, though her husband did not think she seriously wished him to do so. but if he did not play the piano to the accompaniment of pen's drums, he played piano duets with him as soon as the boy was old enough to take part in them; and devoted himself to his instruction in this, as in other and more important branches of knowledge. peni had also his dumb companions, as his father had had before him. tortoises lived at one end of the famous balcony at casa guidi; and when the family were at the baths of lucca, mr. browning would stow away little snakes in his bosom, and produce them for the child's amusement. as the child grew into a man, the love of animals which he had inherited became conspicuous in him; and it gave rise to many amusing and some pathetic little episodes of his artist life. the creatures which he gathered about him were generally, i think, more highly organized than those which elicited his father's peculiar tenderness; it was natural that he should exact more pictorial or more companionable qualities from them. but father and son concurred in the fondness for snakes, and in a singular predilection for owls; and they had not been long established in warwick crescent, when a bird of that family was domesticated there. we shall hear of it in a letter from mr. browning. of his son's moral quality as quite a little child his father has told me pretty and very distinctive stories, but they would be out of place here.* * i am induced, on second thoughts, to subjoin one of these, for its testimony to the moral atmosphere into which the child had been born. he was sometimes allowed to play with a little boy not of his own class--perhaps the son of a 'contadino'. the child was unobjectionable, or neither penini nor his parents would have endured the association; but the servants once thought themselves justified in treating him cavalierly, and pen flew indignant to his mother, to complain of their behaviour. mrs. browning at once sought little alessandro, with kind words and a large piece of cake; but this, in pen's eyes, only aggravated the offence; it was a direct reflection on his visitor's quality. 'he doesn't tome for take,' he burst forth; 'he tomes because he is my friend.' how often, since i heard this first, have we repeated the words, 'he doesn't tome for take,' in half-serious definition of a disinterested person or act! they became a standing joke. mrs. browning seems now to have adopted the plan of writing independent letters to her sister-in-law; and those available for our purpose are especially interesting. the buoyancy of tone which has habitually marked her communications, but which failed during the winter in rome, reasserts itself in the following extract. her maternal comments on peni and his perfections have hitherto been so carefully excluded, that a brief allusion to him may be allowed on the present occasion. . 'my dearest sarianna, . . . here is penini's letter, which takes up so much room that i must be sparing of mine--and, by the way, if you consider him improved in his writing, give the praise to robert, who has been taking most patient pains with him indeed. you will see how the little curly head is turned with carnival doings. so gay a carnival never was in our experience, for until last year (when we were absent) all masks had been prohibited, and now everybody has eaten of the tree of good and evil till not an apple is left. peni persecuted me to let him have a domino--with tears and embraces--he "_almost never_ in all his life had had a domino," and he would like it so. not a black domino! no--he hated black--but a blue domino, trimmed with pink! that was his taste. the pink trimming i coaxed him out of, but for the rest, i let him have his way. . . . for my part, the universal madness reached me sitting by the fire (whence i had not stirred for three months), and you will open your eyes when i tell you that i went (in domino and masked) to the great opera-ball. yes! i did, really. robert, who had been invited two or three times to other people's boxes, had proposed to return their kindness by taking a box himself at the opera this night, and entertaining two or three friends with galantine and champagne. just as he and i were lamenting the impossibility of my going, on that very morning the wind changed, the air grew soft and mild, and he maintained that i might and should go. there was no time to get a domino of my own (robert himself had a beautiful one made, and i am having it metamorphosed into a black silk gown for myself!) so i sent out and hired one, buying the mask. and very much amused i was. i like to see these characteristic things. (i shall never rest, sarianna, till i risk my reputation at the 'bal de l'opera' at paris). do you think i was satisfied with staying in the box? no, indeed. down i went, and robert and i elbowed our way through the crowd to the remotest corner of the ball below. somebody smote me on the shoulder and cried "bella mascherina!" and i answered as impudently as one feels under a mask. at two o'clock in the morning, however, i had to give up and come away (being overcome by the heavy air) and ingloriously left robert and our friends to follow at half-past four. think of the refinement and gentleness--yes, i must call it _superiority_ of this people--when no excess, no quarrelling, no rudeness nor coarseness can be observed in the course of such wild masked liberty; not a touch of licence anywhere, and perfect social equality! our servant ferdinando side by side in the same ball-room with the grand duke, and no class's delicacy offended against! for the grand duke went down into the ball-room for a short time. . . .' the summer of saw the family once more at the baths of lucca, and again in company with mr. lytton. he had fallen ill at the house of their common friend, miss blagden, also a visitor there; and mr. browning shared in the nursing, of which she refused to entrust any part to less friendly hands. he sat up with the invalid for four nights; and would doubtless have done so for as many more as seemed necessary, but that mrs. browning protested against this trifling with his own health. the only serious difference which ever arose between mr. browning and his wife referred to the subject of spiritualism. mrs. browning held doctrines which prepared her to accept any real or imagined phenomena betokening intercourse with the spirits of the dead; nor could she be repelled by anything grotesque or trivial in the manner of this intercourse, because it was no part of her belief that a spirit still inhabiting the atmosphere of our earth, should exhibit any dignity or solemnity not belonging to him while he lived upon it. the question must have been discussed by them on its general grounds at a very early stage of their intimacy; but it only assumed practical importance when mr. home came to florence in or . mr. browning found himself compelled to witness some of the 'manifestations'. he was keenly alive to their generally prosaic and irreverent character, and to the appearance of jugglery which was then involved in them. he absolutely denied the good faith of all the persons concerned. mrs. browning as absolutely believed it; and no compromise between them was attainable, because, strangely enough, neither of them admitted as possible that mediums or witnesses should deceive themselves. the personal aspect which the question thus received brought it into closer and more painful contact with their daily life. they might agree to differ as to the abstract merits of spiritualism; but mr. browning could not resign himself to his wife's trustful attitude towards some of the individuals who at that moment represented it. he may have had no substantial fear of her doing anything that could place her in their power, though a vague dread of this seems to have haunted him; but he chafed against the public association of her name with theirs. both his love for and his pride in her resented it. he had subsided into a more judicial frame of mind when he wrote 'sludge the medium', in which he says everything which can excuse the liar and, what is still more remarkable, modify the lie. so far back as the autumn of i heard him discuss the trickery which he believed himself to have witnessed, as dispassionately as any other non-credulous person might have done so. the experience must even before that have passed out of the foreground of his conjugal life. he remained, nevertheless, subject, for many years, to gusts of uncontrollable emotion which would sweep over him whenever the question of 'spirits' or 'spiritualism' was revived; and we can only understand this in connection with the peculiar circumstances of the case. with all his faith in the future, with all his constancy to the past, the memory of pain was stronger in him than any other. a single discordant note in the harmony of that married love, though merged in its actual existence, would send intolerable vibrations through his remembrance of it. and the pain had not been, in this instance, that of simple disagreement. it was complicated by mrs. browning's refusal to admit that disagreement was possible. she never believed in her husband's disbelief; and he had been not unreasonably annoyed by her always assuming it to be feigned. but his doubt of spiritualistic sincerity was not feigned. she cannot have thought, and scarcely can have meant to say so. she may have meant to say, 'you believe that these are tricks, but you know that there is something real behind them;' and so far, if no farther, she may have been in the right. mr. browning never denied the abstract possibility of spiritual communication with either living or dead; he only denied that such communication had ever been proved, or that any useful end could be subserved by it. the tremendous potentialities of hypnotism and thought-reading, now passing into the region of science, were not then so remote but that an imagination like his must have foreshadowed them. the natural basis of the seemingly supernatural had not yet entered into discussion. he may, from the first, have suspected the existence of some mysterious force, dangerous because not understood, and for this reason doubly liable to fall into dangerous hands. and if this was so, he would necessarily regard the whole system of manifestations with an apprehensive hostility, which was not entire negation, but which rebelled against any effort on the part of others, above all of those he loved, to interpret it into assent. the pain and anger which could be aroused in him by an indication on the part of a valued friend of even an impartial interest in the subject points especially to the latter conclusion. he often gave an instance of the tricks played in the name of spiritualism on credulous persons, which may amuse those who have not yet heard it. i give the story as it survives in the fresher memory of mr. val prinsep, who also received it from mr. browning. 'at florence lived a curious old savant who in his day was well known to all who cared for art or history. i fear now few live who recollect kirkup. he was quite a mine of information on all kinds of forgotten lore. it was he who discovered giotto's portrait of dante in the bargello. speaking of some friend, he said, "he is a most ignorant fellow! why, he does not know how to cast a horoscope!" of him browning told me the following story. kirkup was much taken up with spiritualism, in which he firmly believed. one day browning called on him to borrow a book. he rang loudly at the storey, for he knew kirkup, like landor, was quite deaf. to his astonishment the door opened at once and kirkup appeared. '"come in," he cried; "the spirits told me there was some one at the door. ah! i know you do not believe! come and see. mariana is in a trance!" 'browning entered. in the middle room, full of all kinds of curious objects of "vertu", stood a handsome peasant girl, with her eyes fixed as though she were in a trance. '"you see, browning," said kirkup, "she is quite insensible, and has no will of her own. mariana, hold up your arm." 'the woman slowly did as she was bid. '"she cannot take it down till i tell her," cried kirkup. '"very curious," observed browning. "meanwhile i have come to ask you to lend me a book." 'kirkup, as soon as he was made to hear what book was wanted, said he should be delighted. '"wait a bit. it is in the next room." 'the old man shuffled out at the door. no sooner had he disappeared than the woman turned to browning, winked, and putting down her arm leaned it on his shoulder. when kirkup returned she resumed her position and rigid look. '"here is the book," said kirkup. "isn't it wonderful?" he added, pointing to the woman. '"wonderful," agreed browning as he left the room. 'the woman and her family made a good thing of poor kirkup's spiritualism.' something much more remarkable in reference to this subject happened to the poet himself during his residence in florence. it is related in a letter to the 'spectator', dated january , , and signed j. s. k. 'mr. robert browning tells me that when he was in florence some years since, an italian nobleman (a count ginnasi of ravenna), visiting at florence, was brought to his house without previous introduction, by an intimate friend. the count professed to have great mesmeric and clairvoyant faculties, and declared, in reply to mr. browning's avowed scepticism, that he would undertake to convince him somehow or other of his powers. he then asked mr. browning whether he had anything about him then and there, which he could hand to him, and which was in any way a relic or memento. this mr. browning thought was perhaps because he habitually wore no sort of trinket or ornament, not even a watchguard, and might therefore turn out to be a safe challenge. but it so happened that, by a curious accident, he was then wearing under his coat-sleeves some gold wrist-studs which he had quite recently taken into wear, in the absence (by mistake of a sempstress) of his ordinary wrist-buttons. he had never before worn them in florence or elsewhere, and had found them in some old drawer where they had lain forgotten for years. one of these studs he took out and handed to the count, who held it in his hand a while, looking earnestly in mr. browning's face, and then he said, as if much impressed, "c'equalche cosa che mi grida nell' orecchio 'uccisione! uccisione!'" ("there is something here which cries out in my ear, 'murder! murder!'") '"and truly," says mr. browning, "those very studs were taken from the dead body of a great uncle of mine who was violently killed on his estate in st. kitt's, nearly eighty years ago. . . . the occurrence of my great uncle's murder was known only to myself of all men in florence, as certainly was also my possession of the studs."' a letter from the poet, of july , , affirms that the account is correct in every particular, adding, 'my own explanation of the matter has been that the shrewd italian felt his way by the involuntary help of my own eyes and face.' the story has been reprinted in the reports of the psychical society. a pleasant piece of news came to brighten the january of . mr. fox was returned for oldham, and at once wrote to announce the fact. he was answered in a joint letter from mr. and mrs. browning, interesting throughout, but of which only the second part is quite suited for present insertion. mrs. browning, who writes first and at most length, ends by saying she must leave a space for robert, that mr. fox may be compensated for reading all she has had to say. the husband continues as follows: . . . 'a space for robert' who has taken a breathing space--hardly more than enough--to recover from his delight; he won't say surprise, at your letter, dear mr. fox. but it is all right and, like you, i wish from my heart we could get close together again, as in those old days, and what times we would have here in italy! the realization of the children's prayer of angels at the corner of your bed (i.e. sofa), one to read and one (my wife) to write,* and both to guard you through the night of lodging-keeper's extortions, abominable charges for firing, and so on. (observe, to call oneself 'an angel' in this land is rather humble, where they are apt to be painted as plumed cutthroats or celestial police--you say of gabriel at his best and blithesomest, 'shouldn't admire meeting _him_ in a narrow lane!') * mr. fox much liked to be read to, and was in the habit of writing his articles by dictation. i say this foolishly just because i can't trust myself to be earnest about it. i would, you know, i would, always would, choose you out of the whole english world to judge and correct what i write myself; my wife shall read this and let it stand if i have told her so these twelve years--and certainly i have not grown intellectually an inch over the good and kind hand you extended over my head how many years ago! now it goes over my wife's too. how was it tottie never came here as she promised? is it to be some other time? do think of florence, if ever you feel chilly, and hear quantities about the princess royal's marriage, and want a change. i hate the thought of leaving italy for one day more than i can help--and satisfy my english predilections by newspapers and a book or two. one gets nothing of that kind here, but the stuff out of which books grow,--it lies about one's feet indeed. yet for me, there would be one book better than any now to be got here or elsewhere, and all out of a great english head and heart,--those 'memoirs' you engaged to give us. will you give us them? goodbye now--if ever the whim strikes you to 'make beggars happy' remember us. love to tottie, and love and gratitude to you, dear mr. fox, from yours ever affectionately, robert browning. in the summer of this year, the poet with his wife and child joined his father and sister at havre. it was the last time they were all to be together. chapter - mrs. browning's illness--siena--letter from mr. browning to mr. leighton --mrs. browning's letters continued--walter savage landor--winter in rome--mr. val prinsep--friends in rome: mr. and mrs. cartwright--multiplying social relations--massimo d'azeglio--siena again--illness and death of mrs. browning's sister--mr. browning's occupations--madame du quaire--mrs. browning's last illness and death. i cannot quite ascertain, though it might seem easy to do so, whether mr. and mrs. browning remained in florence again till the summer of , or whether the intervening months were divided between florence and rome; but some words in their letters favour the latter supposition. we hear of them in september from mr. val prinsep, in siena or its neighbourhood; with mr. and mrs. story in an adjacent villa, and walter savage landor in a 'cottage' close by. how mr. landor found himself of the party belongs to a little chapter in mr. browning's history for which i quote mr. colvin's words.* he was then living at fiesole with his family, very unhappily, as we all know; and mr. colvin relates how he had thrice left his villa there, determined to live in florence alone; and each time been brought back to the nominal home where so little kindness awaited him. * 'life of landor', p. . '. . . the fourth time he presented himself in the house of mr. browning with only a few pauls in his pocket, declaring that nothing should ever induce him to return. 'mr. browning, an interview with the family at the villa having satisfied him that reconciliation or return was indeed past question, put himself at once in communication with mr. forster and with landor's brothers in england. the latter instantly undertook to supply the needs of their eldest brother during the remainder of his life. thenceforth an income sufficient for his frugal wants was forwarded regularly for his use through the friend who had thus come forward at his need. to mr. browning's respectful and judicious guidance landor showed himself docile from the first. removed from the inflictions, real and imaginary, of his life at fiesole, he became another man, and at times still seemed to those about him like the old landor at his best. it was in july, , that the new arrangements for his life were made. the remainder of that summer he spent at siena, first as the guest of mr. story, the american sculptor and poet, next in a cottage rented for him by mr. browning near his own. in the autumn of the same year landor removed to a set of apartments in the via nunziatina in florence, close to the casa guidi, in a house kept by a former servant of mrs. browning's, an englishwoman married to an italian.* here he continued to live during the five years that yet remained to him.' * wilson, mrs. browning's devoted maid, and another most faithful servant of hers and her husband's, ferdinando romagnoli. mr. landor's presence is also referred to, with the more important circumstance of a recent illness of mrs. browning's, in two characteristic and interesting letters of this period, one written by mr. browning to frederic leighton, the other by his wife to her sister-in-law. mr.-- now sir f.-- leighton had been studying art during the previous winter in italy. kingdom of piedmont, siena: oct. , ' . 'my dear leighton--i hope--and think--you know what delight it gave me to hear from you two months ago. i was in great trouble at the time about my wife who was seriously ill. as soon as she could bear removal we brought her to a villa here. she slowly recovered and is at last _well_ --i believe--but weak still and requiring more attention than usual. we shall be obliged to return to rome for the winter--not choosing to risk losing what we have regained with some difficulty. now you know why i did not write at once--and may imagine why, having waited so long, i put off telling you for a week or two till i could say certainly what we do with ourselves. if any amount of endeavour could induce you to join us there--cartwright, russell, the vatican and all--and if such a step were not inconsistent with your true interests--you should have it: but i know very well that you love italy too much not to have had weighty reasons for renouncing her at present--and i want your own good and not my own contentment in the matter. wherever you are, be sure i shall follow your proceedings with deep and true interest. i heard of your successes--and am now anxious to know how you get on with the great picture, the 'ex voto'--if it does not prove full of beauty and power, two of us will be shamed, that's all! but _i_ don't fear, mind! do keep me informed of your progress, from time to time--a few lines will serve--and then i shall slip some day into your studio, and buffet the piano, without having grown a stranger. another thing--do take proper care of your health, and exercise yourself; give those vile indigestions no chance against you; keep up your spirits, and be as distinguished and happy as god meant you should. can i do anything for you at rome--not to say, florence? we go thither (i.e. to florence) to-morrow, stay there a month, probably, and then take the siena road again.' the next paragraph refers to some orders for photographs, and is not specially interesting. cartwright arrived here a fortnight ago--very pleasant it was to see him: he left for florence, stayed a day or two and returned to mrs. cartwright (who remained at the inn) and they all departed prosperously yesterday for rome. odo russell spent two days here on his way thither--we liked him much. prinsep and jones--do you know them?--are in the town. the storys have passed the summer in the villa opposite,--and no less a lion than dear old landor is in a house a few steps off. i take care of him--his amiable family having clawed him a little too sharply: so strangely do things come about! i mean his fiesole 'family'--a trifle of wife, sons and daughter--not his english relatives, who are generous and good in every way. take any opportunity of telling dear mrs. sartoris (however unnecessarily) that i and my wife remember her with the old feeling--i trust she is well and happy to heart's content. pen is quite well and rejoicing just now in a sardinian pony on which he gallops like puck on a dragon-fly's back. my wife's kind regard and best wishes go with those of, dear leighton, yours affectionately ever, r. browning. october . mrs. to miss browning. '. . . after all, it is not a cruel punishment to have to go to rome again this winter, though it will be an undesirable expense, and we did wish to keep quiet this winter,--the taste for constant wanderings having passed away as much for me as for robert. we begin to see that by no possible means can one spend as much money to so small an end--and then we don't work so well, don't live to as much use either for ourselves or others. isa blagden bids us observe that we pretend to live at florence, and are not there much above two months in the year, what with going away for the summer and going away for the winter. it's too true. it's the drawback of italy. to live in one place there is impossible for us, almost just as to live out of italy at all, is impossible for us. it isn't caprice on our part. siena pleases us very much--the silence and repose have been heavenly things to me, and the country is very pretty--though no more than pretty--nothing marked or romantic--no mountains, except so far off as to be like a cloud only on clear days--and no water. pretty dimpled ground, covered with low vineyards, purple hills, not high, with the sunsets clothing them. . . . we shall not leave florence till november--robert must see mr. landor (his adopted son, sarianna) settled in his new apartments with wilson for a duenna. it's an excellent plan for him and not a bad one for wilson. . . . forgive me if robert has told you this already. dear darling robert amuses me by talking of his "gentleness and sweetness". a most courteous and refined gentleman he is, of course, and very affectionate to robert (as he ought to be), but of self-restraint, he has not a grain, and of suspiciousness, many grains. wilson will run many risks, and i, for one, would rather not run them. what do you say to dashing down a plate on the floor when you don't like what's on it? and the contadini at whose house he is lodging now have been already accused of opening desks. still upon that occasion (though there was talk of the probability of mr. landor's "throat being cut in his sleep"--) as on other occasions, robert succeeded in soothing him--and the poor old lion is very quiet on the whole, roaring softly, to beguile the time, in latin alcaics against his wife and louis napoleon. he laughs carnivorously when i tell him that one of these days he will have to write an ode in honour of the emperor, to please me.' mrs. browning writes, somewhat later, from rome: '. . . we left mr. landor in great comfort. i went to see his apartment before it was furnished. rooms small, but with a look-out into a little garden, quiet and cheerful, and he doesn't mind a situation rather out of the way. he pays four pounds ten (english) the month. wilson has thirty pounds a year for taking care of him--which sounds a good deal, but it is a difficult position. he has excellent, generous, affectionate impulses--but the impulses of the tiger, every now and then. nothing coheres in him--either in his opinions, or, i fear, his affections. it isn't age--he is precisely the man of his youth, i must believe. still, his genius gives him the right of gratitude on all artists at least, and i must say that my robert has generously paid the debt. robert always said that he owed more as a writer to landor than to any contemporary. at present landor is very fond of him--but i am quite prepared for his turning against us as he has turned against forster, who has been so devoted for years and years. only one isn't kind for what one gets by it, or there wouldn't be much kindness in this world. . . .' mr. browning always declared that his wife could impute evil to no one, that she was a living denial of that doctrine of original sin to which her christianity pledged her; and the great breadth and perfect charity of her views habitually justified the assertion; but she evidently possessed a keen insight into character, which made her complete suspension of judgment on the subject of spiritualism very difficult to understand. the spiritualistic coterie had found a satisfactory way of explaining mr. browning's antagonistic attitude towards it. he was jealous, it was said, because the spirits on one occasion had dropped a crown on to his wife's head and none on to his own. the first instalment of his long answer to this grotesque accusation appears in a letter of mrs. browning's, probably written in the course of the winter of - . '. . . my brother george sent me a number of the "national magazine" with my face in it, after marshall wood's medallion. my comfort is that my greatest enemy will not take it to be like me, only that does not go far with the indifferent public: the portrait i suppose will have its due weight in arresting the sale of "aurora leigh" from henceforth. you never saw a more determined visage of a strong-minded woman with the neck of a vicious bull. . . . still, i am surprised, i own, at the amount of success, and that golden-hearted robert is in ecstasies about it, far more than if it all related to a book of his own. the form of the story, and also, something in the philosophy, seem to have caught the crowd. as to the poetry by itself, anything good in that repels rather. i am not so blind as romney, not to perceive this . . . give peni's and my love to the dearest 'nonno' (grandfather) whose sublime unselfishness and want of common egotism presents such a contrast to what is here. tell him i often think of him, and always with touched feeling. (when _he_ is eighty-six or ninety-six, nobody will be pained or humbled by the spectacle of an insane self-love resulting from a long life's ungoverned will.) may god bless him!--. . . robert has made his third bust copied from the antique. he breaks them all up as they are finished--it's only matter of education. when the power of execution is achieved, he will try at something original. then reading hurts him; as long as i have known him he has not been able to read long at a time--he can do it now better than at the beginning. the consequence of which is that an active occupation is salvation to him. . . . nobody exactly understands him except me, who am in the inside of him and hear him breathe. for the peculiarity of our relation is, that he thinks aloud with me and can't stop himself. . . . i wanted his poems done this winter very much, and here was a bright room with three windows consecrated to his use. but he had a room all last summer, and did nothing. then, he worked himself out by riding for three or four hours together--there has been little poetry done since last winter, when he did much. he was not inclined to write this winter. the modelling combines body-work and soul-work, and the more tired he has been, and the more his back ached, poor fellow, the more he has exulted and been happy. so i couldn't be much in opposition against the sculpture--i couldn't in fact at all. he has material for a volume, and will work at it this summer, he says. 'his power is much in advance of "strafford", which is his poorest work of art. ah, the brain stratifies and matures, even in the pauses of the pen. 'at the same time, his treatment in england affects him, naturally, and for my part i set it down as an infamy of that public--no other word. he says he has told you some things you had not heard, and which i acknowledge i always try to prevent him from repeating to anyone. i wonder if he has told you besides (no, i fancy not) that an english lady of rank, an acquaintance of ours, (observe that!) asked, the other day, the american minister, whether "robert was not an american." the minister answered--"is it possible that _you_ ask me this? why, there is not so poor a village in the united states, where they would not tell you that robert browning was an englishman, and that they were sorry he was not an american." very pretty of the american minister, was it not?--and literally true, besides. . . . ah, dear sarianna--i don't complain for myself of an unappreciating public. i _have no reason_. but, just for _that_ reason, i complain more about robert--only he does not hear me complain--to _you_ i may say, that the blindness, deafness and stupidity of the english public to robert are amazing. of course milsand had heard his name--well the contrary would have been strange. robert _is_. all england can't prevent his existence, i suppose. but nobody there, except a small knot of pre-raffaellite men, pretend to do him justice. mr. forster has done the best,--in the press. as a sort of lion, robert has his range in society--and--for the rest, you should see chapman's returns!--while, in america he is a power, a writer, a poet--he is read--he lives in the hearts of the people. '"browning readings" here in boston--"browning evenings" there. for the rest, the english hunt lions, too, sarianna, but their lions are chiefly chosen among lords and railway kings. . . .' we cannot be surprised at mrs. browning's desire for a more sustained literary activity on her husband's part. we learn from his own subsequent correspondence that he too regarded the persevering exercise of his poetic faculty as almost a religious obligation. but it becomes the more apparent that the restlessness under which he was now labouring was its own excuse; and that its causes can have been no mystery even to those 'outside' him. the life and climate of italy were beginning to undermine his strength. we owe it perhaps to the great and sorrowful change, which was then drawing near, that the full power of work returned to him. during the winter of - , mr. val prinsep was in rome. he had gone to siena with mr. burne jones, bearing an introduction from rossetti to mr. browning and his wife; and the acquaintance with them was renewed in the ensuing months. mr. prinsep had acquired much knowledge of the popular, hence picturesque aspects of roman life, through a french artist long resident in the city; and by the help of the two young men mr. browning was also introduced to them. the assertion that during his married life he never dined away from home must be so far modified, that he sometimes joined mr. prinsep and his friend in a bohemian meal, at an inn near the porta pinciana which they much frequented; and he gained in this manner some distinctive experiences which he liked long afterwards to recall. i am again indebted to mr. prinsep for a description of some of these. 'the first time he honoured us was on an evening when the poet of the quarter of the "monte" had announced his intention of coming to challenge a rival poet to a poetical contest. such contests are, or were, common in rome. in old times the monte and the trastevere, the two great quarters of the eternal city, held their meetings on the ponte rotto. the contests were not confined to the effusions of the poetical muse. sometimes it was a strife between two lute-players, sometimes guitarists would engage, and sometimes mere wrestlers. the rivalry was so keen that the adverse parties finished up with a general fight. so the papal government had forbidden the meetings on the old bridge. but still each quarter had its pet champions, who were wont to meet in private before an appreciative, but less excitable audience, than in olden times. 'gigi (the host) had furnished a first-rate dinner, and his usual tap of excellent wine. ('vino del popolo' he called it.) the 'osteria' had filled; the combatants were placed opposite each other on either side of a small table on which stood two 'mezzi'--long glass bottles holding about a quart apiece. for a moment the two poets eyed each other like two cocks seeking an opportunity to engage. then through the crowd a stalwart carpenter, a constant attendant of gigi's, elbowed his way. he leaned over the table with a hand on each shoulder, and in a neatly turned couplet he then addressed the rival bards. '"you two," he said, "for the honour of rome, must do your best, for there is now listening to you a great poet from england." 'having said this, he bowed to browning, and swaggered back to his place in the crowd, amid the applause of the on-lookers. 'it is not necessary to recount how the two improvisatori poetized, even if i remembered, which i do not. 'on another occasion, when browning and story were dining with us, we had a little orchestra (mandolins, two guitars, and a lute,) to play to us. the music consisted chiefly of well-known popular airs. while they were playing with great fervour the hymn to garibaldi--an air strictly forbidden by the papal government, three blows at the door resounded through the 'osteria'. the music stopped in a moment. i saw gigi was very pale as he walked down the room. there was a short parley at the door. it opened, and a sergeant and two papal gendarmes marched solemnly up to the counter from which drink was supplied. there was a dead silence while gigi supplied them with large measures of wine, which the gendarmes leisurely imbibed. then as solemnly they marched out again, with their heads well in the air, looking neither to the right nor the left. most discreet if not incorruptible guardians of the peace! when the door was shut the music began again; but gigi was so earnest in his protestations, that my friend browning suggested we should get into carriages and drive to see the coliseum by moonlight. and so we sallied forth, to the great relief of poor gigi, to whom it meant, if reported, several months of imprisonment, and complete ruin. 'in after-years browning frequently recounted with delight this night march. '"we drove down the corso in two carriages," he would say. "in one were our musicians, in the other we sat. yes! and the people all asked, 'who are these who make all this parade?' at last some one said, 'without doubt these are the fellows who won the lottery,' and everybody cried, 'of course these are the lucky men who have won.'"' the two persons whom mr. browning saw most, and most intimately, during this and the ensuing winter, were probably mr. and mrs. story. allusion has already been made to the opening of the acquaintance at the baths of lucca in , to its continuance in rome in ' and ' , and to the artistic pursuits which then brought the two men into close and frequent contact with each other. these friendly relations were cemented by their children, who were of about the same age; and after mrs. browning's death, miss browning took her place in the pleasant intercourse which renewed itself whenever their respective visits to italy and to england again brought the two families together. a no less lasting and truly affectionate intimacy was now also growing up with mr. cartwright and his wife--the cartwrights (of aynhoe) of whom mention was made in the siena letter to f. leighton; and this too was subsequently to include their daughter, now mrs. guy le strange, and mr. browning's sister. i cannot quite ascertain when the poet first knew mr. odo russell, and his mother, lady william russell, who was also during this, or at all events the following winter, in rome; and whom afterwards in london he regularly visited until her death; but the acquaintance was already entering on the stage in which it would spread as a matter of course through every branch of the family. his first country visit, when he had returned to england, was paid with his son to woburn abbey. we are now indeed fully confronted with one of the great difficulties of mr. browning's biography: that of giving a sufficient idea of the growing extent and growing variety of his social relations. it is evident from the fragments of his wife's correspondence that during, as well as after, his married life, he always and everywhere knew everyone whom it could interest him to know. these acquaintances constantly ripened into friendliness, friendliness into friendship. they were necessarily often marked by interesting circumstances or distinctive character. to follow them one by one, would add not chapters, but volumes, to our history. the time has not yet come at which this could even be undertaken; and any attempt at systematic selection would create a false impression of the whole. i must therefore be still content to touch upon such passages of mr. browning's social experience as lie in the course of a comparatively brief record; leaving all such as are not directly included in it to speak indirectly for themselves. mrs. browning writes again, in : 'massimo d'azeglio came to see us, and talked nobly, with that noble head of his. i was far prouder of his coming than of another personal distinction you will guess at,* though i don't pretend to have been insensible to that.' * an invitation to mr. browning to dine in company with the young prince of wales. dr.--afterwards cardinal--manning was also among the distinguished or interesting persons whom they knew in rome. another, undated extract might refer to the early summer of or , when a meeting with the father and sister must have been once more in contemplation. casa guidi. 'my dearest sarianna,--i am delighted to say that we have arrived, and see our dear florence--the queen of italy, after all . . . a comfort is that robert is considered here to be looking better than he ever was known to look--and this, notwithstanding the greyness of his beard . . . which indeed, is, in my own mind, very becoming to him, the argentine touch giving a character of elevation and thought to the whole physiognomy. this greyness was suddenly developed--let me tell you how. he was in a state of bilious irritability on the morning of his arrival in rome, from exposure to the sun or some such cause, and in a fit of suicidal impatience shaved away his whole beard . . . whiskers and all!! i _cried_ when i saw him, i was so horror-struck. i might have gone into hysterics and still been reasonable--for no human being was ever so disfigured by so simple an act. of course i said when i recovered heart and voice, that everything was at an end between him and me if he didn't let it all grow again directly, and (upon the further advice of his looking-glass) he yielded the point,--and the beard grew--but it grew white--which was the just punishment of the gods--our sins leave their traces. 'well, poor darling robert won't shock you after all--you can't choose but be satisfied with his looks. m. de monclar swore to me that he was not changed for the intermediate years. . . .' the family returned, however, to siena for the summer of , and from thence mrs. browning writes to her sister-in-law of her great anxiety concerning her sister henrietta, mrs. surtees cook,* then attacked by a fatal disease. * the name was afterwards changed to altham. '. . . there is nothing or little to add to my last account of my precious henrietta. but, dear, you think the evil less than it is--be sure that the fear is too reasonable. i am of a very hopeful temperament, and i never could go on systematically making the worst of any case. i bear up here for a few days, and then comes the expectation of a letter, which is hard. i fight with it for robert's sake, but all the work i put myself to do does not hinder a certain effect. she is confined to her bed almost wholly and suffers acutely. . . . in fact, i am living from day to day, on the merest crumbs of hope--on the daily bread which is very bitter. of course it has shaken me a good deal, and interfered with the advantages of the summer, but that's the least. poor robert's scheme for me of perfect repose has scarcely been carried out. . . .' this anxiety was heightened during the ensuing winter in rome, by just the circumstance from which some comfort had been expected--the second postal delivery which took place every day; for the hopes and fears which might have found a moment's forgetfulness in the longer absence of news, were, as it proved, kept at fever-heat. on one critical occasion the suspense became unbearable, because mr. browning, by his wife's desire, had telegraphed for news, begging for a telegraphic answer. no answer had come, and she felt convinced that the worst had happened, and that the brother to whom the message was addressed could not make up his mind to convey the fact in so abrupt a form. the telegram had been stopped by the authorities, because mr. odo russell had undertaken to forward it, and his position in rome, besides the known liberal sympathies of mr. and mrs. browning and himself, had laid it open to political suspicion. mrs. surtees cook died in the course of the winter. mr. browning always believed that the shock and sorrow of this event had shortened his wife's life, though it is also possible that her already lowered vitality increased the dejection into which it plunged her. her own casual allusions to the state of her health had long marked arrested progress, if not steady decline. we are told, though this may have been a mistake, that active signs of consumption were apparent in her even before the illness of , which was in a certain sense the beginning of the end. she was completely an invalid, as well as entirely a recluse, during the greater part if not the whole of this last stay in rome. she rallied nevertheless sufficiently to write to miss browning in april, in a tone fully suggestive of normal health and energy. '. . . in my own opinion he is infinitely handsomer and more attractive than when i saw him first, sixteen years ago. . . . i believe people in general would think the same exactly. as to the modelling--well, i told you that i grudged a little the time from his own particular art. but it does not do to dishearten him about his modelling. he has given a great deal of time to anatomy with reference to the expression of form, and the clay is only the new medium which takes the place of drawing. also, robert is peculiar in his ways of work as a poet. i have struggled a little with him on this point, for i don't think him right; that is to say, it would not be right for me . . . but robert waits for an inclination, works by fits and starts; he can't do otherwise he says, and his head is full of ideas which are to come out in clay or marble. i yearn for the poems, but he leaves that to me for the present. . . . you will think robert looking very well when you see him; indeed, you may judge by the photographs meanwhile. you know, sarianna, how i used to forbid the moustache. i insisted as long as i could, but all artists were against me, and i suppose that the bare upper lip does not harmonise with the beard. he keeps the hair now closer, and the beard is pointed. . . . as to the moony whiteness of the beard, it is beautiful, _i_ think, but then i think him all beautiful, and always. . . .' mr. browning's old friend, madame du quaire,* came to rome in december. she had visited florence three years before, and i am indebted to her for some details of the spiritualist controversy by which its english colony was at that time divided. she was now a widow, travelling with her brother; and mr. browning came whenever he could, to comfort her in her sorrow, and, as she says, discourse of nature, art, the beautiful, and all that 'conquers death'. he little knew how soon he would need the same comfort for himself. he would also declaim passages from his wife's poems; and when, on one of these occasions, madame du quaire had said, as so many persons now say, that she much preferred his poetry to hers, he made this characteristic answer, to be repeated in substance some years afterwards to another friend: 'you are wrong--quite wrong--she has genius; i am only a painstaking fellow. can't you imagine a clever sort of angel who plots and plans, and tries to build up something--he wants to make you see it as he sees it--shows you one point of view, carries you off to another, hammering into your head the thing he wants you to understand; and whilst this bother is going on god almighty turns you off a little star--that's the difference between us. the true creative power is hers, not mine.' * formerly miss blackett, and sister of the member for new castle. mrs. browning died at casa guidi on june , , soon after their return to florence. she had had a return of the bronchial affection to which she was subject; and a new doctor who was called in discovered grave mischief at the lungs, which she herself had long believed to be existent or impending. but the attack was comparatively, indeed actually, slight; and an extract from her last letter to miss browning, dated june , confirms what her family and friends have since asserted, that it was the death of cavour which gave her the final blow. '. . . we come home into a cloud here. i can scarcely command voice or hand to name 'cavour'. that great soul which meditated and made italy has gone to the diviner country. if tears or blood could have saved him to us, he should have had mine. i feel yet as if i could scarcely comprehend the greatness of the vacancy. a hundred garibaldis for such a man!' her death was signalized by the appearance--this time, i am told, unexpected--of another brilliant comet, which passed so near the earth as to come into contact with it. chapter - miss blagden--letters from mr. browning to miss haworth and mr. leighton--his feeling in regard to funeral ceremonies--establishment in london--plan of life--letter to madame du quaire--miss arabel barrett--biarritz--letters to miss blagden--conception of 'the ring and the book'--biographical indiscretion--new edition of his works--mr. and mrs. procter. the friend who was nearest, at all events most helpful, to mr. browning in this great and sudden sorrow was miss blagden--isa blagden, as she was called by all her intimates. only a passing allusion to her could hitherto find place in this fragmentary record of the poet's life; but the friendship which had long subsisted between her and mrs. browning brings her now into closer and more frequent relation to it. she was for many years a centre of english society in florence; for her genial, hospitable nature, as well as literary tastes (she wrote one or two novels, i believe not without merit), secured her the acquaintance of many interesting persons, some of whom occasionally made her house their home; and the evenings spent with her at her villa on bellosguardo live pleasantly in the remembrance of those of our older generation who were permitted to share in them. she carried the boy away from the house of mourning, and induced his father to spend his nights under her roof, while the last painful duties detained him in florence. he at least gave her cause to deny, what has been so often affirmed, that great griefs are necessarily silent. she always spoke of this period as her 'apocalyptic month', so deeply poetic were the ravings which alternated with the simple human cry of the desolate heart: 'i want her, i want her!' but the ear which received these utterances has long been closed in death. the only written outbursts of mr. browning's frantic sorrow were addressed, i believe, to his sister, and to the friend, madame du quaire, whose own recent loss most naturally invoked them, and who has since thought best, so far as rested with her, to destroy the letters in which they were contained. it is enough to know by simple statement that he then suffered as he did. life conquers death for most of us; whether or not 'nature, art, and beauty' assist in the conquest. it was bound to conquer in mr. browning's case: first through his many-sided vitality; and secondly, through the special motive for living and striving which remained to him in his son. this note is struck in two letters which are given me to publish, written about three weeks after mrs. browning's death; and we see also that by this time his manhood was reacting against the blow, and bracing itself with such consoling remembrance as the peace and painlessness of his wife's last moments could afford to him. florence: july , ' . dear leighton,--it is like your old kindness to write to me and to say what you do--i know you feel for me. i can't write about it--but there were many alleviating circumstances that you shall know one day--there seemed no pain, and (what she would have felt most) the knowledge of separation from us was spared her. i find these things a comfort indeed. i shall go away from italy for many a year--to paris, then london for a day or two just to talk with her sister--but if i can see you it will be a great satisfaction. don't fancy i am 'prostrated', i have enough to do for the boy and myself in carrying out her wishes. he is better than one would have thought, and behaves dearly to me. everybody has been very kind. tell dear mrs. sartoris that i know her heart and thank her with all mine. after my day or two at london i shall go to some quiet place in france to get right again and then stay some time at paris in order to find out leisurely what it will be best to do for peni--but eventually i shall go to england, i suppose. i don't mean to live with anybody, even my own family, but to occupy myself thoroughly, seeing dear friends, however, like you. god bless you. yours ever affectionately, robert browning. the second is addressed to miss haworth. florence: july , . my dear friend,--i well know you feel as you say, for her once and for me now. isa blagden, perfect in all kindness to me, will have told you something perhaps--and one day i shall see you and be able to tell you myself as much as i can. the main comfort is that she suffered very little pain, none beside that ordinarily attending the simple attacks of cold and cough she was subject to--had no presentiment of the result whatever, and was consequently spared the misery of knowing she was about to leave us; she was smilingly assuring me she was 'better', 'quite comfortable--if i would but come to bed,' to within a few minutes of the last. i think i foreboded evil at rome, certainly from the beginning of the week's illness--but when i reasoned about it, there was no justifying fear--she said on the last evening 'it is merely the old attack, not so severe a one as that of two years ago--there is no doubt i shall soon recover,' and we talked over plans for the summer, and next year. i sent the servants away and her maid to bed--so little reason for disquietude did there seem. through the night she slept heavily, and brokenly--that was the bad sign--but then she would sit up, take her medicine, say unrepeatable things to me and sleep again. at four o'clock there were symptoms that alarmed me, i called the maid and sent for the doctor. she smiled as i proposed to bathe her feet, 'well, you _are_ determined to make an exaggerated case of it!' then came what my heart will keep till i see her again and longer--the most perfect expression of her love to me within my whole knowledge of her. always smilingly, happily, and with a face like a girl's--and in a few minutes she died in my arms; her head on my cheek. these incidents so sustain me that i tell them to her beloved ones as their right: there was no lingering, nor acute pain, nor consciousness of separation, but god took her to himself as you would lift a sleeping child from a dark, uneasy bed into your arms and the light. thank god. annunziata thought by her earnest ways with me, happy and smiling as they were, that she must have been aware of our parting's approach--but she was quite conscious, had words at command, and yet did not even speak of peni, who was in the next room. her last word was when i asked 'how do you feel?' --'beautiful.' you know i have her dearest wishes and interests to attend to _at once_--her child to care for, educate, establish properly; and my own life to fulfil as properly,--all just as she would require were she here. i shall leave italy altogether for years--go to london for a few days' talk with arabel--then go to my father and begin to try leisurely what will be the best for peni--but no more 'housekeeping' for me, even with my family. i shall grow, still, i hope--but my root is taken and remains. i know you always loved her, and me too in my degree. i shall always be grateful to those who loved her, and that, i repeat, you did. she was, and is, lamented with extraordinary demonstrations, if one consider it. the italians seem to have understood her by an instinct. i have received strange kindness from everybody. pen is very well--very dear and good, anxious to comfort me as he calls it. he can't know his loss yet. after years, his will be worse than mine--he will want what he never had--that is, for the time when he could be helped by her wisdom, and genius and piety--i _have_ had everything and shall not forget. god bless you, dear friend. i believe i shall set out in a week. isa goes with me--dear, true heart. you, too, would do what you could for us were you here and your assistance needful. a letter from you came a day or two before the end--she made me enquire about the frescobaldi palace for you,--isa wrote to you in consequence. i shall be heard of at , rue de grenelle st. germain. faithfully and affectionately yours, robert browning. the first of these displays even more self-control, it might be thought less feeling, than the second; but it illustrates the reserve which, i believe, habitually characterized mr. browning's attitude towards men. his natural, and certainly most complete, confidants were women. at about the end of july he left florence with his son; also accompanied by miss blagden, who travelled with them as far as paris. she herself must soon have returned to italy; since he wrote to her in september on the subject of his wife's provisional disinterment,* in a manner which shows her to have been on the spot. * required for the subsequent placing of the monument designed by f. leighton. sept. ' . '. . . isa, may i ask you one favour? will you, whenever these dreadful preliminaries, the provisional removement &c. when they are proceeded with,--will you do--all you can--suggest every regard to decency and proper feeling to the persons concerned? i have a horror of that man of the grave-yard, and needless publicity and exposure--i rely on you, dearest friend of ours, to at least lend us your influence when the time shall come--a word may be invaluable. if there is any show made, or gratification of strangers' curiosity, far better that i had left the turf untouched. these things occur through sheer thoughtlessness, carelessness, not anything worse, but the effect is irreparable. i won't think any more of it--now--at least. . . .' the dread expressed in this letter of any offence to the delicacies of the occasion was too natural to be remarked upon here; but it connects itself with an habitual aversion for the paraphernalia of death, which was a marked peculiarity of mr. browning's nature. he shrank, as his wife had done, from the 'earth side' of the portentous change; but truth compels me to own that her infinite pity had little or no part in his attitude towards it. for him, a body from which the soul had passed, held nothing of the person whose earthly vesture it had been. he had no sympathy for the still human tenderness with which so many of us regard the mortal remains of those they have loved, or with the solemn or friendly interest in which that tenderness so often reflects itself in more neutral minds. he would claim all respect for the corpse, but he would turn away from it. another aspect of this feeling shows itself in a letter to one of his brothers-in-law, mr. george moulton-barrett, in reference to his wife's monument, with which mr. barrett had professed himself pleased. his tone is characterized by an almost religious reverence for the memory which that monument enshrines. he nevertheless writes: 'i hope to see it one day--and, although i have no kind of concern as to where the old clothes of myself shall be thrown, yet, if my fortune be such, and my survivors be not unduly troubled, i should like them to lie in the place i have retained there. it is no matter, however.' the letter is dated october , . he never saw florence again. mr. browning spent two months with his father and sister at st.-enogat, near dinard, from which place the letter to miss blagden was written; and then proceeded to london, where his wife's sister, miss arabel barrett, was living. he had declared in his first grief that he would never keep house again, and he began his solitary life in lodgings which at his request she had engaged for him; but the discomfort of this arrangement soon wearied him of it; and before many months had passed, he had sent to florence for his furniture, and settled himself in the house in warwick crescent, which possessed, besides other advantages, that of being close to delamere terrace, where miss barrett had taken up her abode. this first period of mr. browning's widowed life was one of unutterable dreariness, in which the smallest and yet most unconquerable element was the prosaic ugliness of everything which surrounded him. it was fifteen years since he had spent a winter in england; he had never spent one in london. there had been nothing to break for him the transition from the stately beauty of florence to the impressions and associations of the harrow and edgware roads, and of paddington green. he might have escaped this neighbourhood by way of westbourne terrace; but his walks constantly led him in an easterly direction; and whether in an unconscious hugging of his chains, or, as was more probable, from the desire to save time, he would drag his aching heart and reluctant body through the sordidness or the squalor of this short cut, rather than seek the pleasanter thoroughfares which were open to him. even the prettiness of warwick crescent was neutralized for him by the atmosphere of low or ugly life which encompassed it on almost every side. his haunting dream was one day to have done with it all; to have fulfilled his mission with his son, educated him, launched him in a suitable career, and to go back to sunshine and beauty again. he learned by degrees to regard london as a home; as the only fitting centre for the varied energies which were reviving in him; to feel pride and pleasure in its increasingly picturesque character. he even learned to appreciate the outlook from his house--that 'second from the bridge' of which so curious a presentment had entered into one of the poems of the 'men and women'*--in spite of the refuse of humanity which would sometimes yell at the street corner, or fling stones at his plate-glass. but all this had to come; and it is only fair to admit that twenty-nine years ago the beauties of which i have spoken were in great measure to come also. he could not then in any mood have exclaimed, as he did to a friend two or three years ago: 'shall we not have a pretty london if things go on in this way?' they were driving on the kensington side of hyde park. * 'how it strikes a contemporary'. the paternal duty, which, so much against his inclination, had established mr. browning in england, would in every case have lain very near to his conscience and to his heart; but it especially urged itself upon them through the absence of any injunction concerning it on his wife's part. no farewell words of hers had commended their child to his father's love and care; and though he may, for the moment, have imputed this fact to unconsciousness of her approaching death, his deeper insight soon construed the silence into an expression of trust, more binding upon him than the most earnest exacted promise could have been. the growing boy's education occupied a considerable part of his time and thoughts, for he had determined not to send him to school, but, as far as possible, himself prepare him for the university. he must also, in some degree, have supervised his recreations. he had therefore, for the present, little leisure for social distractions, and probably at first very little inclination for them. his plan of life and duty, and the sense of responsibility attendant on it, had been communicated to madame du quaire in a letter written also from st.-enogat. m. chauvin, st.-enogat pres dinard, ile et vilaine: aug. , ' . dear madame du quaire,--i got your note on sunday afternoon, but found myself unable to call on you as i had been intending to do. next morning i left for this place (near st.-malo, but i give what they say is the proper address). i want first to beg you to forgive my withholding so long your little oval mirror--it is safe in paris, and i am vexed at having stupidly forgotten to bring it when i tried to see you. i shall stay here till the autumn sets in, then return to paris for a few days--the first of which will be the best, if i can see you in the course of it--afterward, i settle in london. when i meant to pass the winter in paris, i hoped, the first thing almost, to be near you--it now seems to me, however, that the best course for the boy is to begin a good english education at once. i shall take quiet lodgings (somewhere near kensington gardens, i rather think) and get a tutor. i want, if i can (according to my present very imperfect knowledge) to get the poor little fellow fit for the university without passing thro' a public school. i, myself, could never have done much by either process, but he is made differently--imitates and emulates and all that. how i should be grateful if you would help me by any word that should occur to you! i may easily do wrong, begin ill, thro' too much anxiety--perhaps, however, all may be easier than seems to me just now. i shall have a great comfort in talking to you--this writing is stiff, ineffectual work. pen is very well, cheerful now,--has his little horse here. the place is singularly unspoiled, fresh and picturesque, and lovely to heart's content. i wish you were here!--and if you knew exactly what such a wish means, you would need no assuring in addition that i am yours affectionately and gratefully ever robert browning. the person of whom he saw most was his sister-in-law, whom he visited, i believe, every evening. miss barrett had been a favourite sister of mrs. browning's, and this constituted a sufficient title to her husband's affection. but she was also a woman to be loved for her own sake. deeply religious and very charitable, she devoted herself to visiting the poor--a form of philanthropy which was then neither so widespread nor so fashionable as it has since become; and she founded, in , the first training school or refuge which had ever existed for destitute little girls. it need hardly be added that mr. and miss browning co-operated in the work. the little poem, 'the twins', republished in in 'men and women', was first printed (with mrs. browning's 'plea for the ragged schools of london') for the benefit of this refuge. it was in miss barrett's company that mr. browning used to attend the church of mr. thomas jones, to a volume of whose 'sermons and addresses' he wrote a short introduction in . on february , , he writes again to miss blagden. feb. , ' . '. . . while i write, my heart is sore for a great calamity just befallen poor rossetti, which i only heard of last night--his wife, who had been, as an invalid, in the habit of taking laudanum, swallowed an overdose--was found by the poor fellow on his return from the working-men's class in the evening, under the effects of it--help was called in, the stomach-pump used; but she died in the night, about a week ago. there has hardly been a day when i have not thought, "if i can, to-morrow, i will go and see him, and thank him for his book, and return his sister's poems." poor, dear fellow! . . . '. . . have i not written a long letter, for me who hate the sight of a pen now, and see a pile of unanswered things on the table before me? --on this very table. do you tell me in turn all about yourself. i shall be interested in the minutest thing you put down. what sort of weather is it? you cannot but be better at your new villa than in the large solitary one. there i am again, going up the winding way to it, and seeing the herbs in red flower, and the butterflies on the top of the wall under the olive-trees! once more, good-bye. . . .' the hatred of writing of which he here speaks refers probably to the class of letters which he had lately been called upon to answer, and which must have been painful in proportion to the kindness by which they were inspired. but it returned to him many years later, in simple weariness of the mental and mechanical act, and with such force that he would often answer an unimportant note in person, rather than make the seemingly much smaller exertion of doing so with his pen. it was the more remarkable that, with the rarest exceptions, he replied to every letter which came to him. the late summer of the former year had been entirely unrefreshing, in spite of his acknowledgment of the charms of st.-enogat. there was more distraction and more soothing in the stay at cambo and biarritz, which was chosen for the holiday of . years afterwards, when the thought of italy carried with it less longing and even more pain, mr. browning would speak of a visit to the pyrenees, if not a residence among them, as one of the restful possibilities of his later and freer life. he wrote to miss blagden: biarritz, maison gastonbide: sept. , ' . '. . . i stayed a month at green pleasant little cambo, and then came here from pure inability to go elsewhere--st.-jean de luz, on which i had reckoned, being still fuller of spaniards who profit by the new railway. this place is crammed with gay people of whom i see nothing but their outsides. the sea, sands, and view of the spanish coast and mountains, are superb and this house is on the town's outskirts. i stay till the end of the month, then go to paris, and then get my neck back into the old collar again. pen has managed to get more enjoyment out of his holiday than seemed at first likely--there was a nice french family at cambo with whom he fraternised, riding with the son and escorting the daughter in her walks. his red cheeks look as they should. for me, i have got on by having a great read at euripides--the one book i brought with me, besides attending to my own matters, my new poem that is about to be; and of which the whole is pretty well in my head,--the roman murder story you know. '. . . how i yearn, yearn for italy at the close of my life! . . .' the 'roman murder story' was, i need hardly say, to become 'the ring and the book'. it has often been told, though with curious confusion as regards the date, how mr. browning picked up the original parchment-bound record of the franceschini case, on a stall of the piazza san lorenzo. we read in the first section of his own work that he plunged instantly into the study of this record; that he had mastered it by the end of the day; and that he then stepped out on to the terrace of his house amid the sultry blackness and silent lightnings of the june night, as the adjacent church of san felice sent forth its chants, and voices buzzed in the street below,--and saw the tragedy as a living picture unfold itself before him. these were his last days at casa guidi. it was four years before he definitely began the work. the idea of converting the story into a poem cannot even have occurred to him for some little time, since he offered it for prose treatment to miss ogle, the author of 'a lost love'; and for poetic use, i am almost certain, to one of his leading contemporaries. it was this slow process of incubation which gave so much force and distinctness to his ultimate presentment of the characters; though it infused a large measure of personal imagination, and, as we shall see, of personal reminiscence, into their historical truth. before 'the ring and the book' was actually begun, 'dramatis personae' and 'in a balcony' were to be completed. their production had been delayed during mrs. browning's lifetime, and necessarily interrupted by her death; but we hear of the work as progressing steadily during this summer of . a painful subject of correspondence had been also for some time engaging mr. browning's thoughts and pen. a letter to miss blagden written january , ' , is so expressive of his continued attitude towards the questions involved that, in spite of its strong language, his family advise its publication. the name of the person referred to will alone be omitted. '. . . ever since i set foot in england i have been pestered with applications for leave to write the life of my wife--i have refused--and there an end. i have last week received two communications from friends, enclosing the letters of a certain . . . of . . ., asking them for details of life and letters, for a biography he is engaged in--adding, that he "has secured the correspondence with her old friend . . ." think of this beast working away at this, not deeming my feelings or those of her family worthy of notice--and meaning to print letters written years and years ago, on the most intimate and personal subjects to an "old friend"--which, at the poor . . . [friend's] death fell into the hands of a complete stranger, who, at once wanted to print them, but desisted through ba's earnest expostulation enforced by my own threat to take law proceedings--as fortunately letters are copyright. i find this woman died last year, and her son writes to me this morning that . . . got them from him as autographs merely--he will try and get them back. . . , evidently a blackguard, got my letter, which gave him his deserts, on saturday--no answer yet,--if none comes, i shall be forced to advertise in the 'times', and obtain an injunction. but what i suffer in feeling the hands of these blackguards (for i forgot to say another man has been making similar applications to friends) what i undergo with their paws in my very bowels, you can guess, and god knows! no friend, of course, would ever give up the letters--if anybody ever is forced to do that which _she_ would have writhed under--if it ever _were_ necessary, why, _i_ should be forced to do it, and, with any good to her memory and fame, my own pain in the attempt would be turned into joy--i should _do_ it at whatever cost: but it is not only unnecessary but absurdly useless--and, indeed, it shall not be done if i can stop the scamp's knavery along with his breath. 'i am going to reprint the greek christian poets and another essay--nothing that ought to be published shall be kept back,--and this she certainly intended to correct, augment, and re-produce--but _i_ open the doubled-up paper! warn anyone you may think needs the warning of the utter distress in which i should be placed were this scoundrel, or any other of the sort, to baffle me and bring out the letters--i can't prevent fools from uttering their folly upon her life, as they do on every other subject, but the law protects property,--as these letters are. only last week, or so, the bishop of exeter stopped the publication of an announced "life"--containing extracts from his correspondence--and so i shall do. . . .' mr. browning only resented the exactions of modern biography in the same degree as most other right-minded persons; but there was, to his thinking, something specially ungenerous in dragging to light any immature or unconsidered utterance which the writer's later judgment would have disclaimed. early work was always for him included in this category; and here it was possible to disagree with him; since the promise of genius has a legitimate interest from which no distance from its subsequent fulfilment can detract. but there could be no disagreement as to the rights and decencies involved in the present case; and, as we hear no more of the letters to mr. . . ., we may perhaps assume that their intending publisher was acting in ignorance, but did not wish to act in defiance, of mr. browning's feeling in the matter. in the course of this year, , mr. browning brought out, through chapman and hall, the still well-known and well-loved three-volume edition of his works, including 'sordello', but again excluding 'pauline'. a selection of his poems which appeared somewhat earlier, if we may judge by the preface, dated november , deserves mention as a tribute to friendship. the volume had been prepared by john forster and bryan waller procter (barry cornwall), 'two friends,' as the preface states, 'who from the first appearance of 'paracelsus' have regarded its writer as among the few great poets of the century.' mr. browning had long before signalized his feeling for barry cornwall by the dedication of 'colombe's birthday'. he discharged the present debt to mr. procter, if such there was, by the attentions which he rendered to his infirm old age. for many years he visited him every sunday, in spite of a deafness ultimately so complete that it was only possible to converse with him in writing. these visits were afterwards, at her urgent request, continued to mr. procter's widow. chapter - pornic--'james lee's wife'--meeting at mr. f. palgrave's--letters to miss blagden--his own estimate of his work--his father's illness and death; miss browning--le croisic--academic honours; letter to the master of balliol--death of miss barrett--audierne--uniform edition of his works--his rising fame--'dramatis personae'--'the ring and the book'; character of pompilia. the most constant contributions to mr. browning's history are supplied during the next eight or nine years by extracts from his letters to miss blagden. our next will be dated from ste.-marie, near pornic, where he and his family again spent their holiday in and . some idea of the life he led there is given at the close of a letter to frederic leighton, august , , in which he says: 'i live upon milk and fruit, bathe daily, do a good morning's work, read a little with pen and somewhat more by myself, go to bed early, and get up earlyish--rather liking it all.' this mention of a diet of milk and fruit recalls a favourite habit of mr. browning's: that of almost renouncing animal food whenever he went abroad. it was partly promoted by the inferior quality of foreign meat, and showed no sign of specially agreeing with him, at all events in his later years, when he habitually returned to england looking thinner and more haggard than before he left it. but the change was always congenial to his taste. a fuller picture of these simple, peaceful, and poetic pornic days comes to us through miss blagden, august : '. . . this is a wild little place in brittany, something like that village where we stayed last year. close to the sea--a hamlet of a dozen houses, perfectly lonely--one may walk on the edge of the low rocks by the sea for miles. our house is the mayor's, large enough, clean and bare. if i could, i would stay just as i am for many a day. i feel out of the very earth sometimes as i sit here at the window; with the little church, a field, a few houses, and the sea. on a weekday there is nobody in the village, plenty of hay-stacks, cows and fowls; all our butter, eggs, milk, are produced in the farm-house. such a soft sea, and such a mournful wind! 'i wrote a poem yesterday of lines, and mean to keep writing whether i like it or not. . . .' that 'window' was the 'doorway' in 'james lee's wife'. the sea, the field, and the fig-tree were visible from it. a long interval in the correspondence, at all events so far as we are concerned, carries us to the december of , and then mr. browning wrote: '. . . on the other hand, i feel such comfort and delight in doing the best i can with my own object of life, poetry--which, i think, i never could have seen the good of before, that it shows me i have taken the root i _did_ take, _well_. i hope to do much more yet--and that the flower of it will be put into her hand somehow. i really have great opportunities and advantages--on the whole, almost unprecedented ones--i think, no other disturbances and cares than those i am most grateful for being allowed to have. . . .' one of our very few written reminiscences of mr. browning's social life refers to this year, , and to the evening, february , on which he signed his will in the presence of mr. francis palgrave and alfred tennyson. it is inscribed in the diary of mr. thomas richmond, then chaplain to st. george's hospital; and mr. reginald palgrave has kindly procured me a copy of it. a brilliant party had met at dinner at the house of mr. f. palgrave, york gate, regent's park; mr. richmond, having fulfilled a prior engagement, had joined it later. 'there were, in order,' he says, 'round the dinner-table (dinner being over), gifford palgrave, tennyson, dr. john ogle, sir francis h. doyle, frank palgrave, w. e. gladstone, browning, sir john simeon, monsignor patterson, woolner, and reginald palgrave.' mr. richmond closes his entry by saying he will never forget that evening. the names of those whom it had brought together, almost all to be sooner or later numbered among the poet's friends, were indeed enough to stamp it as worthy of recollection. one or two characteristic utterances of mr. browning are, however, the only ones which it seems advisable to repeat here. the conversation having turned on the celebration of the shakespeare ter-centenary, he said: 'here we are called upon to acknowledge shakespeare, we who have him in our very bones and blood, our very selves. the very recognition of shakespeare's merits by the committee reminds me of nothing so apt as an illustration, as the decree of the directoire that men might acknowledge god.' among the subjects discussed was the advisability of making schoolboys write english verses as well as latin and greek. 'woolner and sir francis doyle were for this; gladstone and browning against it.' work had now found its fitting place in the poet's life. it was no longer the overflow of an irresistible productive energy; it was the deliberate direction of that energy towards an appointed end. we hear something of his own feeling concerning this in a letter of august ' , again from ste.-marie, and called forth by some gossip concerning him which miss blagden had connected with his then growing fame. '. . . i suppose that what you call "my fame within these four years" comes from a little of this gossiping and going about, and showing myself to be alive: and so indeed some folks say--but i hardly think it: for remember i was uninterruptedly (almost) in london from the time i published 'paracelsus' till i ended that string of plays with 'luria'--and i used to go out then, and see far more of merely literary people, critics &c. than i do now,--but what came of it? there were always a few people who had a certain opinion of my poems, but nobody cared to speak what he thought, or the things printed twenty-five years ago would not have waited so long for a good word; but at last a new set of men arrive who don't mind the conventionalities of ignoring one and seeing everything in another--chapman says, "the new orders come from oxford and cambridge," and all my new cultivators are young men--more than that, i observe that some of my old friends don't like at all the irruption of outsiders who rescue me from their sober and private approval, and take those words out of their mouths "which they always meant to say" and never did. when there gets to be a general feeling of this kind, that there must be something in the works of an author, the reviews are obliged to notice him, such notice as it is--but what poor work, even when doing its best! i mean poor in the failure to give a general notion of the whole works; not a particular one of such and such points therein. as i begun, so i shall end,--taking my own course, pleasing myself or aiming at doing so, and thereby, i hope, pleasing god. 'as i never did otherwise, i never had any fear as to what i did going ultimately to the bad,--hence in collected editions i always reprinted everything, smallest and greatest. do you ever see, by the way, the numbers of the selection which moxons publish? they are exclusively poems omitted in that other selection by forster; it seems little use sending them to you, but when they are completed, if they give me a few copies, you shall have one if you like. just before i left london, macmillan was anxious to print a third selection, for his golden treasury, which should of course be different from either--but _three_ seem too absurd. there--enough of me-- 'i certainly will do my utmost to make the most of my poor self before i die; for one reason, that i may help old pen the better; i was much struck by the kind ways, and interest shown in me by the oxford undergraduates,--those introduced to me by jowett.--i am sure they would be the more helpful to my son. so, good luck to my great venture, the murder-poem, which i do hope will strike you and all good lovers of mine. . . .' we cannot wonder at the touch of bitterness with which mr. browning dwells on the long neglect which he had sustained; but it is at first sight difficult to reconcile this high positive estimate of the value of his poetry with the relative depreciation of his own poetic genius which constantly marks his attitude towards that of his wife. the facts are, however, quite compatible. he regarded mrs. browning's genius as greater, because more spontaneous, than his own: owing less to life and its opportunities; but he judged his own work as the more important, because of the larger knowledge of life which had entered into its production. he was wrong in the first terms of his comparison: for he underrated the creative, hence spontaneous element in his own nature, while claiming primarily the position of an observant thinker; and he overrated the amount of creativeness implied by the poetry of his wife. he failed to see that, given her intellectual endowments, and the lyric gift, the characteristics of her genius were due to circumstances as much as those of his own. actual life is not the only source of poetic inspiration, though it may perhaps be the best. mrs. browning as a poet became what she was, not in spite of her long seclusion, but by help of it. a touching paragraph, bearing upon this subject, is dated october ' . '. . . another thing. i have just been making a selection of ba's poems which is wanted--how i have done it, i can hardly say--it is one dear delight to know that the work of her goes on more effectually than ever--her books are more and more read--certainly, sold. a new edition of aurora leigh is completely exhausted within this year. . . .' of the thing next dearest to his memory, his florentine home, he had written in the january of this year: '. . . yes, florence will never be _my_ florence again. to build over or beside poggio seems barbarous and inexcusable. the fiesole side don't matter. are they going to pull the old walls down, or any part of them, i want to know? why can't they keep the old city as a nucleus and build round and round it, as many rings of houses as they please,--framing the picture as deeply as they please? is casa guidi to be turned into any public office? i should think that its natural destination. if i am at liberty to flee away one day, it will not be to florence, i dare say. as old philipson said to me once of jerusalem--"no, i don't want to go there,--i can see it in my head." . . . well, goodbye, dearest isa. i have been for a few minutes--nay, a good many,--so really with you in florence that it would be no wonder if you heard my steps up the lane to your house. . . .' part of a letter written in the september of ' from ste.-marie may be interesting as referring to the legend of pornic included in 'dramatis personae'. '. . . i suppose my "poem" which you say brings me and pornic together in your mind, is the one about the poor girl--if so, "fancy" (as i hear you say) they have pulled down the church since i arrived last month--there are only the shell-like, roofless walls left, for a few weeks more; it was very old--built on a natural base of rock--small enough, to be sure--so they build a smart new one behind it, and down goes this; just as if they could not have pitched down their brick and stucco farther away, and left the old place for the fishermen--so here--the church is even more picturesque--and certain old norman ornaments, capitals of pillars and the like, which we left erect in the doorway, are at this moment in a heap of rubbish by the road-side. the people here are good, stupid and dirty, without a touch of the sense of picturesqueness in their clodpolls. . . .' the little record continues through . feb. , ' . '. . . i go out a great deal; but have enjoyed nothing so much as a dinner last week with tennyson, who, with his wife and one son, is staying in town for a few weeks,--and she is just what she was and always will be--very sweet and dear: he seems to me better than ever. i met him at a large party on saturday--also carlyle, whom i never met at a "drum" before. . . . pen is drawing our owl--a bird that is the light of our house, for his tameness and engaging ways. . . .' may , ' . '. . . my father has been unwell,--he is better and will go into the country the moment the east winds allow,--for in paris,--as here,--there is a razor wrapped up in the flannel of sunshine. i hope to hear presently from my sister, and will tell you if a letter comes: he is eighty-five, almost,--you see! otherwise his wonderful constitution would keep me from inordinate apprehension. his mind is absolutely as i always remember it,--and the other day when i wanted some information about a point of mediaeval history, he wrote a regular bookful of notes and extracts thereabout. . . .' june , ' . 'my dearest isa, i was telegraphed for to paris last week, and arrived time enough to pass twenty-four hours more with my father: he died on the th--quite exhausted by internal haemorrhage, which would have overcome a man of thirty. he retained all his faculties to the last--was utterly indifferent to death,--asking with surprise what it was we were affected about since he was perfectly happy?--and kept his own strange sweetness of soul to the end--nearly his last words to me, as i was fanning him, were "i am so afraid that i fatigue you, dear!" this, while his sufferings were great; for the strength of his constitution seemed impossible to be subdued. he wanted three weeks exactly to complete his eighty-fifth year. so passed away this good, unworldly, kind-hearted, religious man, whose powers natural and acquired would so easily have made him a notable man, had he known what vanity or ambition or the love of money or social influence meant. as it is, he was known by half-a-dozen friends. he was worthy of being ba's father--out of the whole world, only he, so far as my experience goes. she loved him,--and _he_ said, very recently, while gazing at her portrait, that only that picture had put into his head that there might be such a thing as the worship of the images of saints. my sister will come and live with me henceforth. you see what she loses. all her life has been spent in caring for my mother, and seventeen years after that, my father. you may be sure she does not rave and rend hair like people who have plenty to atone for in the past; but she loses very much. i returned to london last night. . . .' during his hurried journey to paris, mr. browning was mentally blessing the emperor for having abolished the system of passports, and thus enabled him to reach his father's bedside in time. his early italian journeys had brought him some vexatious experience of the old order of things. once, at venice, he had been mistaken for a well-known liberal, dr. bowring, and found it almost impossible to get his passport 'vise'; and, on another occasion, it aroused suspicion by being 'too good'; though in what sense i do not quite remember. miss browning did come to live with her brother, and was thenceforward his inseparable companion. her presence with him must therefore be understood wherever i have had no special reason for mentioning it. they tried dinard for the remainder of the summer; but finding it unsuitable, proceeded by st.-malo to le croisic, the little sea-side town of south-eastern brittany which two of mr. browning's poems have since rendered famous. the following extract has no date. le croisic, loire inferieure. '. . . we all found dinard unsuitable, and after staying a few days at st. malo resolved to try this place, and well for us, since it serves our purpose capitally. . . . we are in the most delicious and peculiar old house i ever occupied, the oldest in the town--plenty of great rooms--nearly as much space as in villa alberti. the little town, and surrounding country are wild and primitive, even a trifle beyond pornic perhaps. close by is batz, a village where the men dress in white from head to foot, with baggy breeches, and great black flap hats;--opposite is guerande, the old capital of bretagne: you have read about it in balzac's 'beatrix',--and other interesting places are near. the sea is all round our peninsula, and on the whole i expect we shall like it very much. . . .' later. '. . . we enjoyed croisic increasingly to the last--spite of three weeks' vile weather, in striking contrast to the golden months at pornic last year. i often went to guerande--once sarianna and i walked from it in two hours and something under,--nine miles:--though from our house, straight over the sands and sea, it is not half the distance. . . .' in mr. browning received his first and greatest academic honours. the m.a. degree by diploma, of the university of oxford, was conferred on him in june;* and in the month of october he was made honorary fellow of balliol college. dr. jowett allows me to publish the, as he terms it, very characteristic letter in which he acknowledged the distinction. dr. scott, afterwards dean of rochester, was then master of balliol. * 'not a lower degree than that of d.c.l., but a much higher honour, hardly given since dr. johnson's time except to kings and royal personages. . . .' so the keeper of the archives wrote to mr. browning at the time. , warwick crescent: oct. , ' . dear dr. scott,--i am altogether unable to say how i feel as to the fact you communicate to me. i must know more intimately than you can how little worthy i am of such an honour,--you hardly can set the value of that honour, you who give, as i who take it. indeed, there _are_ both 'duties and emoluments' attached to this position,--duties of deep and lasting gratitude, and emoluments through which i shall be wealthy my life long. i have at least loved learning and the learned, and there needed no recognition of my love on their part to warrant my professing myself, as i do, dear dr. scott, yours ever most faithfully, robert browning. in the following year he received and declined the virtual offer of the lord rectorship of the university of st. andrews, rendered vacant by the death of mr. j. s. mill. he returned with his sister to le croisic for the summer of . in june , miss arabel barrett died, of a rheumatic affection of the heart. as did her sister seven years before, she passed away in mr. browning's arms. he wrote the event to miss blagden as soon as it occurred, describing also a curious circumstance attendant on it. th june, ' . '. . . you know i am not superstitious--here is a note i made in a book, tuesday, july , . "arabel told me yesterday that she had been much agitated by a dream which happened the night before, sunday, july . she saw her and asked 'when shall i be with you?' the reply was, 'dearest, in five years,' whereupon arabella woke. she knew in her dream that it was not to the living she spoke."--in five years, within a month of their completion--i had forgotten the date of the dream, and supposed it was only three years ago, and that two had still to run. only a coincidence, but noticeable. . . .' in august he writes again from audierne, finisterre (brittany). '. . . you never heard of this place, i daresay. after staying a few days at paris we started for rennes,--reached caen and halted a little--thence made for auray, where we made excursions to carnac, lokmariaker, and ste.-anne d'auray; all very interesting of their kind; then saw brest, morlaix, st.-pol de leon, and the sea-port roscoff,--our intended bathing place--it was full of folk, however, and otherwise impracticable, so we had nothing for it, but to "rebrousser chemin" and get to the south-west again. at quimper we heard (for a second time) that audierne would suit us exactly, and to it we came--happily, for "suit" it certainly does. look on the map for the most westerly point of bretagne--and of the mainland of europe--there is niched audierne, a delightful quite unspoiled little fishing-town, with the open ocean in front, and beautiful woods, hills and dales, meadows and lanes behind and around,--sprinkled here and there with villages each with its fine old church. sarianna and i have just returned from a four hours' walk in the course of which we visited a town, pont croix, with a beautiful cathedral-like building amid the cluster of clean bright breton houses,--and a little farther is another church, "notre dame de comfort", with only a hovel or two round it, worth the journey from england to see; we are therefore very well off--at an inn, i should say, with singularly good, kind, and liberal people, so have no cares for the moment. may you be doing as well! the weather has been most propitious, and to-day is perfect to a wish. we bathe, but somewhat ingloriously, in a smooth creek of mill-pond quietude, (there being no cabins on the bay itself,) unlike the great rushing waves of croisic--the water is much colder. . . .' the tribute contained in this letter to the merits of le pere batifoulier and his wife would not, i think, be endorsed by the few other english travellers who have stayed at their inn. the writer's own genial and kindly spirit no doubt partly elicited, and still more supplied, the qualities he saw in them. the six-volume, so long known as 'uniform' edition of mr. browning's works, was brought out in the autumn of this year by messrs. smith, elder & co.; practically mr. george murray smith, who was to be thenceforward his exclusive publisher and increasingly valued friend. in the winter months appeared the first two volumes (to be followed in the ensuing spring by the third and fourth) of 'the ring and the book'. with 'the ring and the book' mr. browning attained the full recognition of his genius. the 'athenaeum' spoke of it as the 'opus magnum' of the generation; not merely beyond all parallel the supremest poetic achievement of the time, but the most precious and profound spiritual treasure that england had produced since the days of shakespeare. his popularity was yet to come, so also the widespread reading of his hitherto neglected poems; but henceforth whatever he published was sure of ready acceptance, of just, if not always enthusiastic, appreciation. the ground had not been gained at a single leap. a passage in another letter to miss blagden shows that, when 'the ring and the book' appeared, a high place was already awaiting it outside those higher academic circles in which its author's position was secured. '. . . i want to get done with my poem. booksellers are making me pretty offers for it. one sent to propose, last week, to publish it at his risk, giving me _all_ the profits, and pay me the whole in advance--"for the incidental advantages of my name"--the r. b. who for six months once did not sell one copy of the poems! i ask pounds for the sheets to america, and shall get it. . . .' his presence in england had doubtless stimulated the public interest in his productions; and we may fairly credit 'dramatis personae' with having finally awakened his countrymen of all classes to the fact that a great creative power had arisen among them. 'the ring and the book' and 'dramatis personae' cannot indeed be dissociated in what was the culminating moment in the author's poetic life, even more than the zenith of his literary career. in their expression of all that constituted the wide range and the characteristic quality of his genius, they at once support and supplement each other. but a fact of more distinctive biographical interest connects itself exclusively with the later work. we cannot read the emotional passages of 'the ring and the book' without hearing in them a voice which is not mr. browning's own: an echo, not of his past, but from it. the remembrance of that past must have accompanied him through every stage of the great work. its subject had come to him in the last days of his greatest happiness. it had lived with him, though in the background of consciousness, through those of his keenest sorrow. it was his refuge in that aftertime, in which a subsiding grief often leaves a deeper sense of isolation. he knew the joy with which his wife would have witnessed the diligent performance of this his self-imposed task. the beautiful dedication contained in the first and last books was only a matter of course. but mrs. browning's spiritual presence on this occasion was more than a presiding memory of the heart. i am convinced that it entered largely into the conception of 'pompilia', and, so far as this depended on it, the character of the whole work. in the outward course of her history, mr. browning proceeded strictly on the ground of fact. his dramatic conscience would not have allowed it otherwise. he had read the record of the case, as he has been heard to say, fully eight times over before converting it into the substance of his poem; and the form in which he finally cast it, was that which recommended itself to him as true--which, within certain limits, _was_ true. the testimony of those who watched by pompilia's death-bed is almost conclusive as to the absence of any criminal motive to her flight, or criminal circumstance connected with it. its time proved itself to have been that of her impending, perhaps newly expected motherhood, and may have had some reference to this fact. but the real pompilia was a simple child, who lived in bodily terror of her husband, and had made repeated efforts to escape from him. unless my memory much deceives me, her physical condition plays no part in the historical defence of her flight. if it appeared there at all, it was as a merely practical incentive to her striving to place herself in safety. the sudden rapturous sense of maternity which, in the poetic rendering of the case, becomes her impulse to self-protection, was beyond her age and her culture; it was not suggested by the facts; and, what is more striking, it was not a natural development of mr. browning's imagination concerning them. the parental instinct was among the weakest in his nature--a fact which renders the more conspicuous his devotion to his own son; it finds little or no expression in his work. the apotheosis of motherhood which he puts forth through the aged priest in 'ivan ivanovitch' was due to the poetic necessity of lifting a ghastly human punishment into the sphere of divine retribution. even in the advancing years which soften the father into the grandfather, the essential quality of early childhood was not that which appealed to him. he would admire its flower-like beauty, but not linger over it. he had no special emotion for its helplessness. when he was attracted by a child it was through the evidence of something not only distinct from, but opposed to this. 'it is the soul' (i see) 'in that speck of a body,' he said, not many years ago, of a tiny boy--now too big for it to be desirable that i should mention his name, but whose mother, if she reads this, will know to whom i allude--who had delighted him by an act of intelligent grace which seemed beyond his years. the ingenuously unbounded maternal pride, the almost luscious maternal sentiment, of pompilia's dying moments can only associate themselves in our mind with mrs. browning's personal utterances, and some notable passages in 'casa guidi windows' and 'aurora leigh'. even the exalted fervour of the invocation to caponsacchi, its blending of spiritual ecstasy with half-realized earthly emotion, has, i think, no parallel in her husband's work. 'pompilia' bears, still, unmistakably, the stamp of her author's genius. only he could have imagined her peculiar form of consciousness; her childlike, wondering, yet subtle, perception of the anomalies of life. he has raised the woman in her from the typical to the individual by this distinguishing touch of his supreme originality; and thus infused into her character a haunting pathos which renders it to many readers the most exquisite in the whole range of his creations. for others at the same time, it fails in the impressiveness because it lacks the reality which habitually marks them. so much, however, is certain: mr. browning would never have accepted this 'murder story' as the subject of a poem, if he could not in some sense have made it poetical. it was only in an idealized pompilia that the material for such a process could be found. we owe it, therefore, to the one departure from his usual mode of dramatic conception, that the poet's masterpiece has been produced. i know no other instance of what can be even mistaken for reflected inspiration in the whole range of his work, the given passages in 'pauline' excepted. the postscript of a letter to frederic leighton written so far back as october , , is interesting in its connection with the preliminary stages of this great undertaking. 'a favour, if you have time for it. go into the church st. lorenzo in lucina in the corso--and look attentively at it--so as to describe it to me on your return. the general arrangement of the building, if with a nave--pillars or not--the number of altars, and any particularity there may be--over the high altar is a famous crucifixion by guido. it will be of great use to me. i don't care about the _outsid_.' chapter - lord dufferin; helen's tower--scotland; visit to lady ashburton--letters to miss blagden--st.-aubin; the franco-prussian war--'herve riel'--letter to mr. g. m. smith--'balaustion's adventure'; 'prince hohenstiel-schwangau'--'fifine at the fair'--mistaken theories of mr. browning's work--st.-aubin; 'red cotton nightcap country'. from to mr. browning published nothing; but in april he wrote the sonnet called 'helen's tower', a beautiful tribute to the memory of helen, mother of lord dufferin, suggested by the memorial tower which her son was erecting to her on his estate at clandeboye. the sonnet appeared in , in the 'pall mall gazette', and was reprinted in , in 'sonnets of the century', edited by mr. sharp; and again in the fifth part of the browning society's 'papers'; but it is still i think sufficiently little known to justify its reproduction. who hears of helen's tower may dream perchance how the greek beauty from the scaean gate gazed on old friends unanimous in hate, death-doom'd because of her fair countenance. hearts would leap otherwise at thy advance, lady, to whom this tower is consecrate! like hers, thy face once made all eyes elate, yet, unlike hers, was bless'd by every glance. the tower of hate is outworn, far and strange; a transitory shame of long ago; it dies into the sand from which it sprang; but thine, love's rock-built tower, shall fear no change. god's self laid stable earth's foundations so, when all the morning-stars together sang. april , . lord dufferin is a warm admirer of mr. browning's genius. he also held him in strong personal regard. in the summer of the poet, with his sister and son, changed the manner of his holiday, by joining mr. story and his family in a tour in scotland, and a visit to louisa, lady ashburton, at loch luichart lodge; but in the august of he was again in the primitive atmosphere of a french fishing village, though one which had little to recommend it but the society of a friend; it was m. milsand's st.-aubin. he had written, february , to miss blagden, under the one inspiration which naturally recurred in his correspondence with her. '. . . so you, too, think of naples for an eventual resting-place! yes, that is the proper basking-ground for "bright and aged snakes." florence would be irritating, and, on the whole, insufferable--yet i never hear of any one going thither but my heart is twitched. there is a good, charming, little singing german lady, miss regan, who told me the other day that she was just about revisiting her aunt, madame sabatier, whom you may know, or know of--and i felt as if i should immensely like to glide, for a long summer-day through the streets and between the old stone-walls,--unseen come and unheard go--perhaps by some miracle, i shall do so--and look up at villa brichieri as arnold's gypsy-scholar gave one wistful look at "the line of festal light in christ church hall," before he went to sleep in some forgotten grange. . . . i am so glad i can be comfortable in your comfort. i fancy exactly how you feel and see how you live: it _is_ the villa geddes of old days, i find. i well remember the fine view from the upper room--that looking down the steep hill, by the side of which runs the road you describe--that path was always my preferred walk, for its shortness (abruptness) and the fine old wall to your left (from the villa) which is overgrown with weeds and wild flowers--violets and ground-ivy, i remember. oh, me! to find myself some late sunshiny sunday afternoon, with my face turned to florence--"ten minutes to the gate, ten minutes _home_!" i think i should fairly end it all on the spot. . . .' he writes again from st.-aubin, august , : 'dearest isa,--your letter came prosperously to this little wild place, where we have been, sarianna and myself, just a week. milsand lives in a cottage with a nice bit of garden, two steps off, and we occupy another of the most primitive kind on the sea-shore--which shore is a good sandy stretch for miles and miles on either side. i don't think we were ever quite so thoroughly washed by the sea-air from all quarters as here--the weather is fine, and we do well enough. the sadness of the war and its consequences go far to paralyse all our pleasure, however. . . . 'well, you are at siena--one of the places i love best to remember. you are returned--or i would ask you to tell me how the villa alberti wears, and if the fig-tree behind the house is green and strong yet. i have a pen-and-ink drawing of it, dated and signed the last day ba was ever there--"my fig tree--" she used to sit under it, reading and writing. nine years, or ten rather, since then! poor old landor's oak, too, and his cottage, ought not to be forgotten. exactly opposite this house,--just over the way of the water,--shines every night the light-house of havre--a place i know well, and love very moderately: but it always gives me a thrill as i see afar, _exactly_ a particular spot which i was at along with her. at this moment, i see the white streak of the phare in the sun, from the window where i write and i _think_. . . . milsand went to paris last week, just before we arrived, to transport his valuables to a safer place than his house, which is near the fortifications. he is filled with as much despondency as can be--while the old dear and perfect kindness remains. i never knew or shall know his like among men. . . .' the war did more than sadden mr. and miss browning's visit to st.-aubin; it opposed unlooked-for difficulties to their return home. they had remained, unconscious of the impending danger, till sedan had been taken, the emperor's downfall proclaimed, and the country suddenly placed in a state of siege. one morning m. milsand came to them in anxious haste, and insisted on their starting that very day. an order, he said, had been issued that no native should leave the country, and it only needed some unusually thick-headed maire for mr. browning to be arrested as a runaway frenchman or a prussian spy. the usual passenger boats from calais and boulogne no longer ran; but there was, he believed, a chance of their finding one at havre. they acted on this warning, and discovered its wisdom in the various hindrances which they found on their way. everywhere the horses had been requisitioned for the war. the boat on which they had relied to take them down the river to caen had been stopped that very morning; and when they reached the railroad they were told that the prussians would be at the other end before night. at last they arrived at honfleur, where they found an english vessel which was about to convey cattle to southampton; and in this, setting out at midnight, they made their passage to england. some words addressed to miss blagden, written i believe in , once more strike a touching familiar note. '. . . but _no_, dearest isa. the simple truth is that _she_ was the poet, and i the clever person by comparison--remember her limited experience of all kinds, and what she made of it. remember on the other hand, how my uninterrupted health and strength and practice with the world have helped me. . . .' 'balaustion's adventure' and 'prince hohenstiel-schwangau' were published, respectively, in august and december . they had been preceded in the march of the same year by a ballad, 'herve riel', afterwards reprinted in the 'pacchiarotto' volume, and which mr. browning now sold to the 'cornhill magazine' for the benefit of the french sufferers by the war. the circumstances of this little transaction, unique in mr. browning's experience, are set forth in the following letter: feb. , ' . 'my dear smith,--i want to give something to the people in paris, and can afford so very little just now, that i am forced upon an expedient. will you buy of me that poem which poor simeon praised in a letter you saw, and which i like better than most things i have done of late?--buy,--i mean,--the right of printing it in the pall mall and, if you please, the cornhill also,--the copyright remaining with me. you remember you wanted to print it in the cornhill, and i was obstinate: there is hardly any occasion on which i should be otherwise, if the printing any poem of mine in a magazine were purely for my own sake: so, any liberality you exercise will not be drawn into a precedent against you. i fancy this is a case in which one may handsomely puff one's own ware, and i venture to call my verses good for once. i send them to you directly, because expedition will render whatever i contribute more valuable: for when you make up your mind as to how liberally i shall be enabled to give, you must send me a cheque and i will send the same as the "product of a poem"--so that your light will shine deservedly. now, begin proceedings by reading the poem to mrs. smith,--by whose judgment i will cheerfully be bound; and, with her approval, second my endeavour as best you can. would,--for the love of france,--that this were a "song of a wren"--then should the guineas equal the lines; as it is, do what you safely may for the song of a robin--browning--who is yours very truly, into the bargain. 'p.s. the copy is so clear and careful that you might, with a good reader, print it on monday, nor need my help for corrections: i shall however be always at home, and ready at a moment's notice: return the copy, if you please, as i promised it to my son long ago.' mr. smith gave him guineas as the price of the poem. he wrote concerning the two longer poems, first probably at the close of this year, and again in january , to miss blagden. '. . . by this time you have got my little book ('hohenstiel') and seen for yourself whether i make the best or worst of the case. i think, in the main, he meant to do what i say, and, but for weakness,--grown more apparent in his last years than formerly,--would have done what i say he did not.* i thought badly of him at the beginning of his career, _et pour cause_: better afterward, on the strength of the promises he made, and gave indications of intending to redeem. i think him very weak in the last miserable year. at his worst i prefer him to thiers' best. i am told my little thing is succeeding--sold , in the first five days, and before any notice appeared. i remember that the year i made the little rough sketch in rome, ' , my account for the last six months with chapman was--_nil_, not one copy disposed of! . . . * this phrase is a little misleading. '. . . i am glad you like what the editor of the edinburgh calls my eulogium on the second empire,--which it is not, any more than what another wiseacre affirms it to be "a scandalous attack on the old constant friend of england"--it is just what i imagine the man might, if he pleased, say for himself.' mr. browning continues: 'spite of my ailments and bewailments i have just all but finished another poem of quite another kind, which shall amuse you in the spring, i hope! i don't go sound asleep at all events. 'balaustion'--the second edition is in the press i think i told you. , in five months, is a good sale for the likes of me. but i met henry taylor (of artevelde) two days ago at dinner, and he said he had never gained anything by his books, which surely is a shame--i mean, if no buyers mean no readers. . . .' 'prince hohenstiel-schwangau' was written in scotland, where mr. browning was the guest of mr. ernest benzon: having left his sister to the care of m. and madame milsand at st.-aubin. the ailment he speaks of consisted, i believe, of a severe cold. another of the occurrences of was mr. browning's election as life governor of the london university. a passage from a letter dated march , ' , bears striking testimony to the constant warmth of his affections. '. . . the misfortune, which i did not guess when i accepted the invitation, is that i shall lose some of the last days of milsand, who has been here for the last month: no words can express the love i have for him, you know. he is increasingly precious to me. . . . waring came back the other day, after thirty years' absence, the same as ever,--nearly. he has been prime minister at new zealand for a year and a half, but gets tired, and returns home with a poem.'* * 'ranolf and amohia'. this is my last extract from the correspondence with miss blagden. her death closed it altogether within the year. it is difficult to infer from letters, however intimate, the dominant state of the writer's mind: most of all to do so in mr. browning's case, from such passages of his correspondence as circumstances allow me to quote. letters written in intimacy, and to the same friend, often express a recurrent mood, a revived set of associations, which for the moment destroys the habitual balance of feeling. the same effect is sometimes produced in personal intercourse; and the more varied the life, the more versatile the nature, the more readily in either case will a lately unused spring of emotion well up at the passing touch. we may even fancy we read into the letters of that eerie, haunting sadness of a cherished memory from which, in spite of ourselves, life is bearing us away. we may also err in so doing. but literary creation, patiently carried on through a given period, is usually a fair reflection of the general moral and mental conditions under which it has taken place; and it would be hard to imagine from mr. browning's work during these last ten years that any but gracious influences had been operating upon his genius, any more disturbing element than the sense of privation and loss had entered into his inner life. some leaven of bitterness must, nevertheless, have been working within him, or he could never have produced that piece of perplexing cynicism, 'fifine at the fair'--the poem referred to as in progress in a letter to miss blagden, and which appeared in the spring of . the disturbing cause had been also of long standing; for the deeper reactive processes of mr. browning's nature were as slow as its more superficial response was swift; and while 'dramatis personae', 'the ring and the book', and even 'balaustion's adventure', represented the gradually perfected substance of his poetic imagination, 'fifine at the fair' was as the froth thrown up by it during the prolonged simmering which was to leave it clear. the work displays the iridescent brightness as well as the occasional impurity of this froth-like character. beauty and ugliness are, indeed, almost inseparable in the moral impression which it leaves upon us. the author has put forth a plea for self-indulgence with a much slighter attempt at dramatic disguise than his special pleadings generally assume; and while allowing circumstances to expose the sophistry of the position, and punish its attendant act, he does not sufficiently condemn it. but, in identifying himself for the moment with the conception of a don juan, he has infused into it a tenderness and a poetry with which the true type had very little in common, and which retard its dramatic development. those who knew mr. browning, or who thoroughly know his work, may censure, regret, fail to understand 'fifine at the fair'; they will never in any important sense misconstrue it. but it has been so misconstrued by an intelligent and not unsympathetic critic; and his construction may be endorsed by other persons in the present, and still more in the future, in whom the elements of a truer judgment are wanting. it seems, therefore, best to protest at once against the misjudgment, though in so doing i am claiming for it an attention which it may not seem to deserve. i allude to mr. mortimer's 'note on browning' in the 'scottish art review' for december . this note contains a summary of mr. browning's teaching, which it resolves into the moral equivalent of the doctrine of the conservation of force. mr. mortimer assumes for the purpose of his comparison that the exercise of force means necessarily moving on; and according to him mr. browning prescribes action at any price, even that of defying the restrictions of moral law. he thus, we are told, blames the lovers in 'the statue and the bust' for their failure to carry out what was an immoral intention; and, in the person of his 'don juan', defends a husband's claim to relieve the fixity of conjugal affection by varied adventure in the world of temporary loves: the result being 'the negation of that convention under which we habitually view life, but which for some reason or other breaks down when we have to face the problems of a goethe, a shelley, a byron, or a browning.' mr. mortimer's generalization does not apply to 'the statue and the bust', since mr. browning has made it perfectly clear that, in this case, the intended act is postponed without reference to its morality, and simply in consequence of a weakness of will, which would have been as paralyzing to a good purpose as it was to the bad one; but it is not without superficial sanction in 'fifine at the fair'; and the part which the author allowed himself to play in it did him an injustice only to be measured by the inference which it has been made to support. there could be no mistake more ludicrous, were it less regrettable, than that of classing mr. browning, on moral grounds, with byron or shelley; even in the case of goethe the analogy breaks down. the evidence of the foregoing pages has rendered all protest superfluous. but the suggested moral resemblance to the two english poets receives a striking comment in a fact of mr. browning's life which falls practically into the present period of our history: his withdrawal from shelley of the devotion of more than forty years on account of an act of heartlessness towards his first wife which he held to have been proved against him. the sweet and the bitter lay, indeed, very close to each other at the sources of mr. browning's inspiration. both proceeded, in great measure, from his spiritual allegiance to the past--that past by which it was impossible that he should linger, but which he could not yet leave behind. the present came to him with friendly greeting. he was unconsciously, perhaps inevitably, unjust to what it brought. the injustice reacted upon himself, and developed by degrees into the cynical mood of fancy which became manifest in 'fifine at the fair'. it is true that, in the light of this explanation, we see an effect very unlike its cause; but the chemistry of human emotion is like that of natural life. it will often form a compound in which neither of its constituents can be recognized. this perverse poem was the last as well as the first manifestation of an ungenial mood of mr. browning's mind. a slight exception may be made for some passages in 'red cotton nightcap country', and for one of the poems of the 'pacchiarotto' volume; but otherwise no sign of moral or mental disturbance betrays itself in his subsequent work. the past and the present gradually assumed for him a more just relation to each other. he learned to meet life as it offered itself to him with a more frank recognition of its good gifts, a more grateful response to them. he grew happier, hence more genial, as the years advanced. it was not without misgiving that mr. browning published 'fifine at the fair'; but many years were to pass before he realized the kind of criticism to which it had exposed him. the belief conveyed in the letter to miss blagden that what proceeds from a genuine inspiration is justified by it, combined with the indifference to public opinion which had been engendered in him by its long neglect, made him slow to anticipate the results of external judgment, even where he was in some degree prepared to endorse them. for his value as a poet, it was best so. the august of and of again found him with his sister at st.-aubin, and the earlier visit was an important one: since it supplied him with the materials of his next work, of which miss annie thackeray, there also for a few days, suggested the title. the tragic drama which forms the subject of mr. browning's poem had been in great part enacted in the vicinity of st.-aubin; and the case of disputed inheritance to which it had given rise was pending at that moment in the tribunals of caen. the prevailing impression left on miss thackeray's mind by this primitive district was, she declared, that of white cotton nightcaps (the habitual headgear of the normandy peasants). she engaged to write a story called 'white cotton nightcap country'; and mr. browning's quick sense of both contrast and analogy inspired the introduction of this emblem of repose into his own picture of that peaceful, prosaic existence, and of the ghastly spiritual conflict to which it had served as background. he employed a good deal of perhaps strained ingenuity in the opening pages of the work, in making the white cap foreshadow the red, itself the symbol of liberty, and only indirectly connected with tragic events; and he would, i think, have emphasized the irony of circumstance in a manner more characteristic of himself, if he had laid his stress on the remoteness from 'the madding crowd', and repeated miss thackeray's title. there can, however, be no doubt that his poetic imagination, no less than his human insight, was amply vindicated by his treatment of the story. on leaving st.-aubin he spent a month at fontainebleau, in a house situated on the outskirts of the forest; and here his principal indoor occupation was reading the greek dramatists, especially aeschylus, to whom he had returned with revived interest and curiosity. 'red cotton nightcap country' was not begun till his return to london in the later autumn. it was published in the early summer of . chapter - london life--love of music--miss egerton-smith--periodical nervous exhaustion--mers; 'aristophanes' apology'--'agamemnon'--'the inn album'--'pacchiarotto and other poems'--visits to oxford and cambridge--letters to mrs. fitz-gerald--st. andrews; letter from professor knight--in the savoyard mountains--death of miss egerton-smith--'la saisiaz'; 'the two poets of croisic'--selections from his works. the period on which we have now entered, covering roughly the ten or twelve years which followed the publication of 'the ring and the book', was the fullest in mr. browning's life; it was that in which the varied claims made by it on his moral, and above all his physical energies, found in him the fullest power of response. he could rise early and go to bed late--this, however, never from choice; and occupy every hour of the day with work or pleasure, in a manner which his friends recalled regretfully in later years, when of two or three engagements which ought to have divided his afternoon, a single one--perhaps only the most formally pressing--could be fulfilled. soon after his final return to england, while he still lived in comparative seclusion, certain habits of friendly intercourse, often superficial, but always binding, had rooted themselves in his life. london society, as i have also implied, opened itself to him in ever-widening circles, or, as it would be truer to say, drew him more and more deeply into its whirl; and even before the mellowing kindness of his nature had infused warmth into the least substantial of his social relations, the imaginative curiosity of the poet--for a while the natural ambition of the man--found satisfaction in it. for a short time, indeed, he entered into the fashionable routine of country-house visiting. besides the instances i have already given, and many others which i may have forgotten, he was heard of, during the earlier part of this decade, as the guest of lord carnarvon at highclere castle, of lord shrewsbury at alton towers, of lord brownlow and his mother, lady marian alford, at belton and ashridge. somewhat later, he stayed with mr. and lady alice gaisford at a house they temporarily occupied on the sussex downs; with mr. cholmondeley at condover, and, much more recently, at aynhoe park with mr. and mrs. cartwright. kind and pressing, and in themselves very tempting invitations of this nature came to him until the end of his life; but he very soon made a practice of declining them, because their acceptance could only renew for him the fatigues of the london season, while the tantalizing beauty and repose of the country lay before his eyes; but such visits, while they continued, were one of the necessary social experiences which brought their grist to his mill. and now, in addition to the large social tribute which he received, and had to pay, he was drinking in all the enjoyment, and incurring all the fatigue which the london musical world could create for him. in italy he had found the natural home of the other arts. the one poem, 'old pictures in florence', is sufficiently eloquent of long communion with the old masters and their works; and if his history in florence and rome had been written in his own letters instead of those of his wife, they must have held many reminiscences of galleries and studios, and of the places in which pictures are bought and sold. but his love for music was as certainly starved as the delight in painting and sculpture was nourished; and it had now grown into a passion, from the indulgence of which he derived, as he always declared, some of the most beneficent influences of his life. it would be scarcely an exaggeration to say that he attended every important concert of the season, whether isolated or given in a course. there was no engagement possible or actual, which did not yield to the discovery of its clashing with the day and hour fixed for one of these. his frequent companion on such occasions was miss egerton-smith. miss smith became only known to mr. browning's general acquaintance through the dedicatory 'a. e. s.' of 'la saisiaz'; but she was, at the time of her death, one of his oldest women friends. he first met her as a young woman in florence when she was visiting there; and the love for and proficiency in music soon asserted itself as a bond of sympathy between them. they did not, however, see much of each other till he had finally left italy, and she also had made her home in london. she there led a secluded life, although free from family ties, and enjoying a large income derived from the ownership of an important provincial paper. mr. browning was one of the very few persons whose society she cared to cultivate; and for many years the common musical interest took the practical, and for both of them convenient form, of their going to concerts together. after her death, in the autumn of , he almost mechanically renounced all the musical entertainments to which she had so regularly accompanied him. the special motive and special facility were gone--she had been wont to call for him in her carriage; the habit was broken; there would have been first pain, and afterwards an unwelcome exertion in renewing it. time was also beginning to sap his strength, while society, and perhaps friendship, were making increasing claims upon it. it may have been for this same reason that music after a time seemed to pass out of his life altogether. yet its almost sudden eclipse was striking in the case of one who not only had been so deeply susceptible to its emotional influences, so conversant with its scientific construction and its multitudinous forms, but who was acknowledged as 'musical' by those who best knew the subtle and complex meaning of that often misused term. mr. browning could do all that i have said during the period through which we are now following him; but he could not quite do it with impunity. each winter brought its searching attack of cold and cough; each summer reduced him to the state of nervous prostration or physical apathy of which i have already spoken, and which at once rendered change imperative, and the exertion of seeking it almost intolerable. his health and spirits rebounded at the first draught of foreign air; the first breath from an english cliff or moor might have had the same result. but the remembrance of this fact never nerved him to the preliminary effort. the conviction renewed itself with the close of every season, that the best thing which could happen to him would be to be left quiet at home; and his disinclination to face even the idea of moving equally hampered his sister in her endeavour to make timely arrangements for their change of abode. this special craving for rest helped to limit the area from which their summer resort could be chosen. it precluded all idea of 'pension'-life, hence of any much-frequented spot in switzerland or germany. it was tacitly understood that the shortening days were not to be passed in england. italy did not yet associate itself with the possibilities of a moderately short absence; the resources of the northern french coast were becoming exhausted; and as the august of approached, the question of how and where this and the following months were to be spent was, perhaps, more than ever a perplexing one. it was now miss smith who became the means of its solution. she had more than once joined mr. and miss browning at the seaside. she was anxious this year to do so again, and she suggested for their meeting a quiet spot called mers, almost adjoining the fashionable treport, but distinct from it. it was agreed that they should try it; and the experiment, which they had no reason to regret, opened also in some degree a way out of future difficulties. mers was young, and had the defect of its quality. only one desirable house was to be found there; and the plan of joint residence became converted into one of joint housekeeping, in which mr. and miss browning at first refused to concur, but which worked so well that it was renewed in the three ensuing summers: miss smith retaining the initiative in the choice of place, her friends the right of veto upon it. they stayed again together in at villers, on the coast of normandy; in at the isle of arran; in at a house called la saisiaz--savoyard for the sun--in the saleve district near geneva. the autumn months of were marked for mr. browning by an important piece of work: the production of 'aristophanes' apology'. it was far advanced when he returned to london in november, after a visit to antwerp, where his son was studying art under m. heyermans; and its much later appearance must have been intended to give breathing time to the readers of 'red cotton nightcap country'. mr. browning subsequently admitted that he sometimes, during these years, allowed active literary occupation to interfere too much with the good which his holiday might have done him; but the temptations to literary activity were this time too great to be withstood. the house occupied by him at mers (maison robert) was the last of the straggling village, and stood on a rising cliff. in front was the open sea; beyond it a long stretch of down; everywhere comparative solitude. here, in uninterrupted quiet, and in a room devoted to his use, mr. browning would work till the afternoon was advanced, and then set forth on a long walk over the cliffs, often in the face of a wind which, as he wrote of it at the time, he could lean against as if it were a wall. and during this time he was living, not only in his work, but with the man who had inspired it. the image of aristophanes, in the half-shamed insolence, the disordered majesty, in which he is placed before the reader's mind, was present to him from the first moment in which the defence was conceived. what was still more interesting, he could see him, hear him, think with him, speak for him, and still inevitably condemn him. no such instance of always ingenious, and sometimes earnest pleading foredoomed to complete discomfiture, occurs in mr. browning's works. to aristophanes he gave the dramatic sympathy which one lover of life can extend to another, though that other unduly extol its lower forms. to euripides he brought the palm of the higher truth, to his work the tribute of the more pathetic human emotion. even these for a moment ministered to the greatness of aristophanes, in the tear shed by him to the memory of his rival, in the hour of his own triumph; and we may be quite sure that when mr. browning depicted that scene, and again when he translated the great tragedian's words, his own eyes were dimmed. large tears fell from them, and emotion choked his voice, when he first read aloud the transcript of the 'herakles' to a friend, who was often privileged to hear him. mr. browning's deep feeling for the humanities of greek literature, and his almost passionate love for the language, contrasted strongly with his refusal to regard even the first of greek writers as models of literary style. the pretensions raised for them on this ground were inconceivable to him; and his translation of the 'agamemnon', published , was partly made, i am convinced, for the pleasure of exposing these claims, and of rebuking them. his preface to the transcript gives evidence of this. the glee with which he pointed to it when it first appeared was no less significant. at villers, in , he only corrected the proofs of 'the inn album' for publication in november. when the party started for the isle of arran, in the autumn of , the 'pacchiarotto' volume had already appeared. when mr. browning discontinued his short-lived habit of visiting away from home, he made an exception in favour of the universities. his occasional visits to oxford and cambridge were maintained till the very end of his life, with increasing frequency in the former case; and the days spent at balliol and trinity afforded him as unmixed a pleasure as was compatible with the interruption of his daily habits, and with a system of hospitality which would detain him for many hours at table. a vivid picture of them is given in two letters, dated january and march , , and addressed to one of his constant correspondents, mrs. fitz-gerald, of shalstone manor, buckingham. dear friend, i have your letter of yesterday, and thank you all i can for its goodness and graciousness to me unworthy . . . i returned on thursday--the hospitality of our master being not easy to set aside. but to begin with the beginning: the passage from london to oxford was exceptionally prosperous--the train was full of men my friends. i was welcomed on arriving by a fellow who installed me in my rooms,--then came the pleasant meeting with jowett who at once took me to tea with his other guests, the archbishop of canterbury, bishop of london, dean of westminster, the airlies, cardwells, male and female. then came the banquet--(i enclose you the plan having no doubt that you will recognise the name of many an acquaintance: please return it)--and, the dinner done, speechifying set in vigorously. the archbishop proposed the standing 'floreat domus de balliolo'--to which the master made due and amusing answer, himself giving the health of the primate. lord coleridge, in a silvery speech, drank to the university, responded to by the vice-chancellor. i forget who proposed the visitors--the bishop of london, perhaps lord cardwell. professor smith gave the two houses of parliament,--jowett, the clergy, coupling with it the name of your friend mr. rogers--on whom he showered every kind of praise, and mr. rogers returned thanks very characteristically and pleasantly. lord lansdowne drank to the bar (mr. bowen), lord camperdown to--i really forget what: mr. green to literature and science delivering a most undeserved eulogium on myself, with a more rightly directed one on arnold, swinburne, and the old pride of balliol, clough: this was cleverly and almost touchingly answered by dear mat arnold. then the dean of westminster gave the fellows and scholars--and then--twelve o'clock struck. we were, counting from the time of preliminary assemblage, six hours and a half engaged: _fully_ five and a half nailed to our chairs at the table: but the whole thing was brilliant, genial, and suggestive of many and various thoughts to me--and there was a warmth, earnestness, and yet refinement about it which i never experienced in any previous public dinner. next morning i breakfasted with jowett and his guests, found that return would be difficult: while as the young men were to return on friday there would be no opposition to my departure on thursday. the morning was dismal with rain, but after luncheon there was a chance of getting a little air, and i walked for more than two hours, then heard service in new coll.--then dinner again: my room had been prepared in the master's house. so, on thursday, after yet another breakfast, i left by the noon-day train, after all sorts of kindly offices from the master. . . . no reporters were suffered to be present--the account in yesterday's times was furnished by one or more of the guests; it is quite correct as far as it goes. there were, i find, certain little paragraphs which must have been furnished by 'guessers': swinburne, set down as present--was absent through his father's illness: the cardinal also excused himself as did the bishop of salisbury and others. . . . ever yours r. browning. the second letter, from cambridge, was short and written in haste, at the moment of mr. browning's departure; but it tells the same tale of general kindness and attention. engagements for no less than six meals had absorbed the first day of the visit. the occasion was that of professor joachim's investiture with his doctor's degree; and mr. browning declares that this ceremony, the concert given by the great violinist, and his society, were 'each and all' worth the trouble of the journey. he himself was to receive the cambridge degree of ll.d. in , the oxford d.c.l. in . a passage in another letter addressed to the same friend, refers probably to a practical reminiscence of 'red cotton nightcap country', which enlivened the latter experience, and which mrs. fitz-gerald had witnessed with disapprobation.* * an actual red cotton nightcap had been made to flutter down on to the poet's head. . . . you are far too hard on the very harmless drolleries of the young men, licensed as they are moreover by immemorial usage. indeed there used to be a regularly appointed jester, 'filius terrae' he was called, whose business it was to jibe and jeer at the honoured ones, by way of reminder that all human glories are merely gilded bubbles and must not be fancied metal. you saw that the reverend dons escaped no more than the poor poet--or rather i should say than myself the poor poet--for i was pleased to observe with what attention they listened to the newdigate. . . . ever affectionately yours, r. browning. in he was unanimously nominated by its independent club, to the office of lord rector of the university of glasgow; and in he again received the offer of the rectorship of st. andrews, couched in very urgent and flattering terms. a letter addressed to him from this university by dr. william knight, professor of moral philosophy there, which i have his permission to publish, bears witness to what had long been and was always to remain a prominent fact of mr. browning's literary career: his great influence on the minds of the rising generation of his countrymen. the university, st. andrews n.b.: nov. , . my dear sir,--. . . the students of this university, in which i have the honour to hold office, have nominated you as their lord rector; and intend unanimously, i am told, to elect you to that office on thursday. i believe that hitherto no rector has been chosen by the undivided suffrage of any scottish university. they have heard however that you are unable to accept the office: and your committee, who were deeply disappointed to learn this afternoon of the way in which you have been informed of their intentions, are, i believe, writing to you on the subject. so keen is their regret that they intend respectfully to wait upon you on tuesday morning by deputation, and ask if you cannot waive your difficulties in deference to their enthusiasm, and allow them to proceed with your election. their suffrage may, i think, be regarded as one sign of how the thoughtful youth of scotland estimate the work you have done in the world of letters. and permit me to say that while these rectorial elections in the other universities have frequently turned on local questions, or been inspired by political partisanship, st. andrews has honourably sought to choose men distinguished for literary eminence, and to make the rectorship a tribute at once of intellectual and moral esteem. may i add that when the 'perfervidum ingenium' of our northern race takes the form not of youthful hero-worship, but of loyal admiration and respectful homage, it is a very genuine affair. in the present instance i may say it is no mere outburst of young undisciplined enthusiasm, but an honest expression of intellectual and moral indebtedness, the genuine and distinct tribute of many minds that have been touched to some higher issues by what you have taught them. they do not presume to speak of your place in english literature. they merely tell you by this proffered honour (the highest in their power to bestow), how they have felt your influence over them. my own obligations to you, and to the author of aurora leigh, are such, that of them 'silence is golden'. yours ever gratefully. william knight. mr. browning was deeply touched and gratified by these professions of esteem. he persisted nevertheless in his refusal. the glasgow nomination had also been declined by him. on august , , he wrote to mrs. fitz-gerald from la saisiaz: 'how lovely is this place in its solitude and seclusion, with its trees and shrubs and flowers, and above all its live mountain stream which supplies three fountains, and two delightful baths, a marvel of delicate delight framed in with trees--i bathe there twice a day--and then what wonderful views from the chalet on every side! geneva lying under us, with the lake and the whole plain bounded by the jura and our own saleve, which latter seems rather close behind our house, and yet takes a hard hour and a half to ascend--all this you can imagine since you know the environs of the town; the peace and quiet move me the most--and i fancy i shall drowse out the two months or more, doing no more of serious work than reading--and that is virtuous renunciation of the glorious view to my right here--as i sit aerially like euripides, and see the clouds come and go and the view change in correspondence with them. it will help me to get rid of the pain which attaches itself to the recollections of lucerne and berne "in the old days when the greeks suffered so much," as homer says. but a very real and sharp pain touched me here when i heard of the death of poor virginia march whom i knew particularly, and parted with hardly a fortnight ago, leaving her affectionate and happy as ever. the tones of her voice as on one memorable occasion she ejaculated repeatedly 'good friend!' are fresh still. poor virginia! . . .' mr. browning was more than quiescent during this stay in the savoyard mountains. he was unusually depressed, and unusually disposed to regard the absence from home as a banishment; and he tried subsequently to account for this condition by the shadow which coming trouble sometimes casts before it. it was more probably due to the want of the sea air which he had enjoyed for so many years, and to that special oppressive heat of the swiss valleys which ascends with them to almost their highest level. when he said that the saleve seemed close behind the house, he was saying in other words that the sun beat back from, and the air was intercepted by it. we see, nevertheless, in his description of the surrounding scenery, a promise of the contemplative delight in natural beauty to be henceforth so conspicuous in his experience, and which seemed a new feature in it. he had hitherto approached every living thing with curious and sympathetic observation--this hardly requires saying of one who had animals for his first and always familiar friends. flowers also attracted him by their perfume. but what he loved in nature was essentially its prefiguring of human existence, or its echo of it; and it never appeared, in either his works or his conversation, that he was much impressed by its inanimate forms--by even those larger phenomena of mountain and cloud-land on which the latter dwells. such beauty as most appealed to him he had left behind with the joys and sorrows of his italian life, and it had almost inevitably passed out of his consideration. during years of his residence in london he never thought of the country as a source of pleasurable emotions, other than those contingent on renewed health; and the places to which he resorted had often not much beyond their health-giving qualities to recommend them; his appetite for the beautiful had probably dwindled for lack of food. but when a friend once said to him: 'you have not a great love for nature, have you?' he had replied: 'yes, i have, but i love men and women better;' and the admission, which conveyed more than it literally expressed, would have been true i believe at any, up to the present, period of his history. even now he did not cease to love men and women best; but he found increasing enjoyment in the beauties of nature, above all as they opened upon him on the southern slopes of the alps; and the delight of the aesthetic sense merged gradually in the satisfied craving for pure air and brilliant sunshine which marked his final struggle for physical life. a ring of enthusiasm comes into his letters from the mountains, and deepens as the years advance; doubtless enhanced by the great--perhaps too great--exhilaration which the alpine atmosphere produced, but also in large measure independent of it. each new place into which the summer carries him he declares more beautiful than the last. it possibly was so. a touch of autumnal freshness had barely crept into the atmosphere of the saleve, when a moral thunderbolt fell on the little group of persons domiciled at its base: miss egerton-smith died, in what had seemed for her unusually good health, in the act of preparing for a mountain excursion with her friends--the words still almost on her lips in which she had given some directions for their comfort. mr. browning's impressionable nervous system was for a moment paralyzed by the shock. it revived in all the emotional and intellectual impulses which gave birth to 'la saisiaz'. this poem contains, besides its personal reference and association, elements of distinctive biographical interest. it is the author's first--as also last--attempt to reconstruct his hope of immortality by a rational process based entirely on the fundamental facts of his own knowledge and consciousness--god and the human soul; and while the very assumption of these facts, as basis for reasoning, places him at issue with scientific thought, there is in his way of handling them a tribute to the scientific spirit, perhaps foreshadowed in the beautiful epilogue to 'dramatis personae', but of which there is no trace in his earlier religious works. it is conclusive both in form and matter as to his heterodox attitude towards christianity. he was no less, in his way, a christian when he wrote 'la saisiaz' than when he published 'a death in the desert' and 'christmas eve and easter day'; or at any period subsequent to that in which he accepted without questioning what he had learned at his mother's knee. he has repeatedly written or declared in the words of charles lamb:* 'if christ entered the room i should fall on my knees;' and again, in those of napoleon: 'i am an understander of men, and _he_ was no man.' he has even added: 'if he had been, he would have been an impostor.' but the arguments, in great part negative, set forth in 'la saisiaz' for the immortality of the soul, leave no place for the idea, however indefinite, of a christian revelation on the subject. christ remained for mr. browning a mystery and a message of divine love, but no messenger of divine intention towards mankind. * these words have more significance when taken with their context. 'if shakespeare was to come into the room, we should all rise up to meet him; but if that person [meaning christ] was to come into the room, we should all fall down and try to kiss the hem of his garment.' the dialogue between fancy and reason is not only an admission of uncertainty as to the future of the soul: it is a plea for it; and as such it gathers up into its few words of direct statement, threads of reasoning which have been traceable throughout mr. browning's work. in this plea for uncertainty lies also a full and frank acknowledgment of the value of the earthly life; and as interpreted by his general views, that value asserts itself, not only in the means of probation which life affords, but in its existing conditions of happiness. no one, he declares, possessing the certainty of a future state would patiently and fully live out the present; and since the future can be only the ripened fruit of the present, its promise would be neutralized, as well as actual experience dwarfed, by a definite revelation. nor, conversely, need the want of a certified future depress the present spiritual and moral life. it is in the nature of the soul that it would suffer from the promise. the existence of god is a justification for hope. and since the certainty would be injurious to the soul, hence destructive to itself, the doubt--in other words, the hope--becomes a sufficient approach to, a working substitute for it. it is pathetic to see how in spite of the convictions thus rooted in mr. browning's mind, the expressed craving for more knowledge, for more light, will now and then escape him. even orthodox christianity gives no assurance of reunion to those whom death has separated. it is obvious that mr. browning's poetic creed could hold no conviction regarding it. he hoped for such reunion in proportion as he wished. there must have been moments in his life when the wish in its passion overleapt the bounds of hope. 'prospice' appears to prove this. but the wide range of imagination, no less than the lack of knowledge, forbade in him any forecast of the possibilities of the life to come. he believed that if granted, it would be an advance on the present--an accession of knowledge if not an increase of happiness. he was satisfied that whatever it gave, and whatever it withheld, it would be good. in his normal condition this sufficed to him. 'la saisiaz' appeared in the early summer of , and with it 'the two poets of croisic', which had been written immediately after it. the various incidents of this poem are strictly historical; they lead the way to a characteristic utterance of mr. browning's philosophy of life to which i shall recur later. in mr. browning had published a first series of selections from his works; it was to be followed by a second in . in a preface to the earlier volume, he indicates the plan which he has followed in the choice and arrangement of poems; and some such intention runs also through the second; since he declined a suggestion made to him for the introduction or placing of a special poem, on the ground of its not conforming to the end he had in view. it is difficult, in the one case as in the other, to reconstruct the imagined personality to which his preface refers; and his words on the later occasion pointed rather to that idea of a chord of feeling which is raised by the correspondence of the first and last poems of the respective groups. but either clue may be followed with interest. chapter - he revisits italy; asolo; letters to mrs. fitz-gerald--venice--favourite alpine retreats--mrs. arthur bronson--life in venice--a tragedy at saint-pierre--mr. cholmondeley--mr. browning's patriotic feeling; extract from letter to mrs. charles skirrow--'dramatic idyls'--'jocoseria'--'ferishtah's fancies'. the catastrophe of la saisiaz closed a comprehensive chapter in mr. browning's habits and experience. it impelled him finally to break with the associations of the last seventeen autumns, which he remembered more in their tedious or painful circumstances than in the unexciting pleasure and renewed physical health which he had derived from them. he was weary of the ever-recurring effort to uproot himself from his home life, only to become stationary in some more or less uninteresting northern spot. the always latent desire for italy sprang up in him, and with it the often present thought and wish to give his sister the opportunity of seeing it. florence and rome were not included in his scheme; he knew them both too well; but he hankered for asolo and venice. he determined, though as usual reluctantly, and not till the last moment, that they should move southwards in the august of . their route lay over the spluegen; and having heard of a comfortable hotel near the summit of the pass, they agreed to remain there till the heat had sufficiently abated to allow of the descent into lombardy. the advantages of this first arrangement exceeded their expectations. it gave them solitude without the sense of loneliness. a little stream of travellers passed constantly over the mountain, and they could shake hands with acquaintances at night, and know them gone in the morning. they dined at the table d'hote, but took all other meals alone, and slept in a detached wing or 'dependance' of the hotel. their daily walks sometimes carried them down to the via mala; often to the top of the ascent, where they could rest, looking down into italy; and would even be prolonged over a period of five hours and an extent of seventeen miles. now, as always, the mountain air stimulated mr. browning's physical energy; and on this occasion it also especially quickened his imaginative powers. he was preparing the first series of 'dramatic idylls'; and several of these, including 'ivan ivanovitch', were produced with such rapidity that miss browning refused to countenance a prolonged stay on the mountain, unless he worked at a more reasonable rate. they did not linger on their way to asolo and venice, except for a night's rest on the lake of como and two days at verona. in their successive journeys through northern italy they visited by degrees all its notable cities, and it would be easy to recall, in order and detail, most of these yearly expeditions. but the account of them would chiefly resolve itself into a list of names and dates; for mr. browning had seldom a new impression to receive, even from localities which he had not seen before. i know that he and his sister were deeply struck by the deserted grandeurs of ravenna; and that it stirred in both of them a memorable sensation to wander as they did for a whole day through the pinewoods consecrated by dante. i am nevertheless not sure that when they performed the repeated round of picture-galleries and palaces, they were not sometimes simply paying their debt to opportunity, and as much for each other's sake as for their own. where all was italy, there was little to gain or lose in one memorial of greatness, one object of beauty, visited or left unseen. but in asolo, even in venice, mr. browning was seeking something more: the remembrance of his own actual and poetic youth. how far he found it in the former place we may infer from a letter to mrs. fitz-gerald. sept. , . and from 'asolo', at last, dear friend! so can dreams come _false_.--s., who has been writing at the opposite side of the table, has told you about our journey and adventures, such as they were: but she cannot tell you the feelings with which i revisit this--to me--memorable place after above forty years' absence,--such things have begun and ended with me in the interval! it was _too_ strange when we reached the ruined tower on the hill-top yesterday, and i said 'let me try if the echo still exists which i discovered here,' (you can produce it from only _one_ particular spot on a remainder of brickwork--) and thereupon it answered me plainly as ever, after all the silence: for some children from the adjoining 'podere', happening to be outside, heard my voice and its result--and began trying to perform the feat--calling 'yes, yes'--all in vain: so, perhaps, the mighty secret will die with me! we shall probably stay here a day or two longer,--the air is so pure, the country so attractive: but we must go soon to venice, stay our allotted time there, and then go homeward: you will of course address letters to venice, not this place: it is a pleasure i promise myself that, on arriving i shall certainly hear you speak in a letter which i count upon finding. the old inn here, to which i would fain have betaken myself, is gone--levelled to the ground: i remember it was much damaged by a recent earthquake, and the cracks and chasms may have threatened a downfall. this stella d'oro is, however, much such an unperverted 'locanda' as its predecessor--primitive indeed are the arrangements and unsophisticate the ways: but there is cleanliness, abundance of goodwill, and the sweet italian smile at every mistake: we get on excellently. to be sure never was such a perfect fellow-traveller, for my purposes, as s., so that i have no subject of concern--if things suit me they suit her--and vice-versa. i daresay she will have told you how we trudged together, this morning to possagno--through a lovely country: how we saw all the wonders--and a wonder of detestability is the paint-performance of the great man!--and how, on our return, we found the little town enjoying high market day, and its privilege of roaring and screaming over a bargain. it confuses me altogether,--but at venice i may write more comfortably. you will till then, dear friend, remember me ever as yours affectionately, robert browning. if the tone of this does not express disappointment, it has none of the rapture which his last visit was to inspire. the charm which forty years of remembrance had cast around the little city on the hill was dispelled for, at all events, the time being. the hot weather and dust-covered landscape, with the more than primitive accommodation of which he spoke in a letter to another friend, may have contributed something to this result. at venice the travellers fared better in some essential respects. a london acquaintance, who passed them on their way to italy, had recommended a cool and quiet hotel there, the albergo dell' universo. the house, palazzo brandolin-rota, was situated on the shady side of the grand canal, just below the accademia and the suspension bridge. the open stretches of the giudecca lay not far behind; and a scrap of garden and a clean and open little street made pleasant the approach from back and side. it accommodated few persons in proportion to its size, and fewer still took up their abode there; for it was managed by a lady of good birth and fallen fortunes whose home and patrimony it had been; and her husband, a retired austrian officer, and two grown-up daughters did not lighten her task. every year the fortunes sank lower; the upper storey of the house was already falling into decay, and the fine old furniture passing into the brokers' or private buyers' hands. it still, however, afforded sufficiently comfortable, and, by reason of its very drawbacks, desirable quarters to mr. browning. it perhaps turned the scale in favour of his return to venice; for the lady whose hospitality he was to enjoy there was as yet unknown to him; and nothing would have induced him to enter, with his eyes open, one of the english-haunted hotels, in which acquaintance, old and new, would daily greet him in the public rooms or jostle him in the corridors. he and his sister remained at the universo for a fortnight; their programme did not this year include a longer stay; but it gave them time to decide that no place could better suit them for an autumn holiday than venice, or better lend itself to a preparatory sojourn among the alps; and the plan of their next, and, though they did not know it, many a following summer, was thus sketched out before the homeward journey had begun. mr. browning did not forget his work, even while resting from it; if indeed he did rest entirely on this occasion. he consulted a russian lady whom he met at the hotel, on the names he was introducing in 'ivan ivanovitch'. it would be interesting to know what suggestions or corrections she made, and how far they adapted themselves to the rhythm already established, or compelled changes in it; but the one alternative would as little have troubled him as the other. mrs. browning told mr. prinsep that her husband could never alter the wording of a poem without rewriting it, indeed, practically converting it into another; though he more than once tried to do so at her instigation. but to the end of his life he could at any moment recast a line or passage for the sake of greater correctness, and leave all that was essential in it untouched. seven times more in the eleven years which remained to him, mr. browning spent the autumn in venice. once also, in , he had proceeded towards it as far as verona, when the floods which marked the autumn of that year arrested his farther course. each time he had halted first in some more or less elevated spot, generally suggested by his french friend, monsieur dourlans, himself an inveterate wanderer, whose inclinations also tempted him off the beaten track. the places he most enjoyed were saint-pierre la chartreuse, and gressoney saint-jean, where he stayed respectively in and , and . both of these had the drawbacks, and what might easily have been the dangers, of remoteness from the civilized world. but this weighed with him so little, that he remained there in each case till the weather had broken, though there was no sheltered conveyance in which he and his sister could travel down; and on the later occasions at least, circumstances might easily have combined to prevent their departure for an indefinite time. he became, indeed, so attached to gressoney, with its beautiful outlook upon monte rosa, that nothing i believe would have hindered his returning, or at least contemplating a return to it, but the great fatigue to his sister of the mule ride up the mountain, by a path which made walking, wherever possible, the easier course. they did walk _down_ it in the early october of , and completed the hard seven hours' trudge to san martino d'aosta, without an atom of refreshment or a minute's rest. one of the great attractions of saint-pierre was the vicinity of the grande chartreuse, to which mr. browning made frequent expeditions, staying there through the night in order to hear the midnight mass. miss browning also once attempted the visit, but was not allowed to enter the monastery. she slept in the adjoining convent. the brother and sister were again at the universo in , , and ; but the crash was rapidly approaching, and soon afterwards it came. the old palazzo passed into other hands, and after a short period of private ownership was consigned to the purposes of an art gallery. in , however, they had been introduced by mrs. story to an american resident, mrs. arthur bronson, and entered into most friendly relations with her; and when, after a year's interval, they were again contemplating an autumn in venice, she placed at their disposal a suite of rooms in the palazzo giustiniani recanati, which formed a supplement to her own house--making the offer with a kindly urgency which forbade all thought of declining it. they inhabited these for a second time in , keeping house for themselves in the simple but comfortable foreign manner they both so well enjoyed, only dining and spending the evening with their friend. but when, in , they were going, as they thought, to repeat the arrangement, they found, to their surprise, a little apartment prepared for them under mrs. bronson's own roof. this act of hospitality involved a special kindness on her part, of which mr. browning only became aware at the close of a prolonged stay; and a sense of increased gratitude added itself to the affectionate regard with which his hostess had already inspired both his sister and him. so far as he is concerned, the fact need only be indicated. it is fully expressed in the preface to 'asolando'. during the first and fresher period of mr. browning's visits to venice, he found a passing attraction in its society. it held an historical element which harmonized well with the decayed magnificence of the city, its old-world repose, and the comparatively simple modes of intercourse still prevailing there. mrs. bronson's 'salon' was hospitably open whenever her health allowed; but her natural refinement, and the conservatism which so strongly marks the higher class of americans, preserved it from the heterogeneous character which anglo-foreign sociability so often assumes. very interesting, even important names lent their prestige to her circle; and those of don carlos and his family, of prince and princess iturbide, of prince and princess metternich, and of princess montenegro, were on the list of her 'habitues', and, in the case of the royal spaniards, of her friends. it need hardly be said that the great english poet, with his fast spreading reputation and his infinite social charm, was kindly welcomed and warmly appreciated amongst them. english and american acquaintances also congregated in venice, or passed through it from london, florence, and rome. those resident in italy could make their visits coincide with those of mr. browning and his sister, or undertake the journey for the sake of seeing them; while the outward conditions of life were such as to render friendly intercourse more satisfactory, and common social civilities less irksome than they could be at home. mr. browning was, however, already too advanced in years, too familiar with everything which the world can give, to be long affected by the novelty of these experiences. it was inevitable that the need of rest, though often for the moment forgotten, should assert itself more and more. he gradually declined on the society of a small number of resident or semi-resident friends; and, due exception being made for the hospitalities of his temporary home, became indebted to the kindness of sir henry and lady layard, of mr. and mrs. curtis of palazzo barbaro, and of mr. and mrs. frederic eden, for most of the social pleasure and comfort of his later residences in venice. part of a letter to mrs. fitz-gerald gives an insight into the character of his life there: all the stronger that it was written under a temporary depression which it partly serves to explain. albergo dell' universo, venezia, italia: sept. , ' . 'dear friend,--on arriving here i found your letter to my great satisfaction--and yesterday brought the 'saturday review'--for which, many thanks. 'we left our strange but lovely place on the th, reaching chambery at evening,--stayed the next day there,--walking, among other diversions to "les charmettes", the famous abode of rousseau--kept much as when he left it: i visited it with my wife perhaps twenty-five years ago, and played so much of "rousseau's dream" as could be effected on his antique harpsichord: this time i attempted the same feat, but only two notes or thereabouts out of the octave would answer the touch. next morning we proceeded to turin, and on wednesday got here, in the middle of the last night of the congress carnival--rowing up the canal to our albergo through a dazzling blaze of lights and throng of boats,--there being, if we are told truly, , strangers in the city. rooms had been secured for us, however: and the festivities are at an end, to my great joy,--for venice is resuming its old quiet aspect--the only one i value at all. our american friends wanted to take us in their gondola to see the principal illuminations _after_ the "serenade", which was not over before midnight--but i was contented with _that_--being tired and indisposed for talking, and, having seen and heard quite enough from our own balcony, went to bed: s. having betaken her to her own room long before. 'next day we took stock of our acquaintances,--found that the storys, on whom we had counted for company, were at vallombrosa, though the two sons have a studio here--other friends are in sufficient number however--and last evening we began our visits by a very classical one--to the countess mocenigo, in her palace which byron occupied: she is a charming widow since two years,--young, pretty and of the prettiest manners: she showed us all the rooms byron had lived in,--and i wrote my name in her album _on_ the desk himself wrote the last canto of 'ch. harold' and 'beppo' upon. there was a small party: we were taken and introduced by the layards who are kind as ever, and i met old friends--lord aberdare, charles bowen, and others. while i write comes a deliciously fresh 'bouquet' from mrs. bronson, an american lady,--in short we shall find a week or two amusing enough; though--where are the pinewoods, mountains and torrents, and wonderful air? venice is under a cloud,--dull and threatening,--though we were apprehensive of heat, arriving, as we did, ten days earlier than last year. . . .' the evening's programme was occasionally varied by a visit to one of the theatres. the plays given were chiefly in the venetian dialect, and needed previous study for their enjoyment; but mr. browning assisted at one musical performance which strongly appealed to his historical and artistic sensibilities: that of the 'barbiere' of paisiello in the rossini theatre and in the presence of wagner, which took place in the autumn of . although the manner of his sojourn in the italian city placed all the resources of resident life at his command, mr. browning never abjured the active habits of the english traveller. he daily walked with his sister, as he did in the mountains, for walking's sake, as well as for the delight of what his expeditions showed him; and the facilities which they supplied for this healthful pleasurable exercise were to his mind one of the great merits of his autumn residences in italy. he explored venice in all directions, and learned to know its many points of beauty and interest, as those cannot who believe it is only to be seen from a gondola; and when he had visited its every corner, he fell back on a favourite stroll along the riva to the public garden and back again; never failing to leave the house at about the same hour of the day. later still, when a friend's gondola was always at hand, and air and sunshine were the one thing needful, he would be carried to the lido, and take a long stretch on its farther shore. the letter to mrs. fitz-gerald, from which i have already quoted, concludes with the account of a tragic occurrence which took place at saint-pierre just before his departure, and in which mr. browning's intuitions had played a striking part. 'and what do you think befell us in this abode of peace and innocence? our journey was delayed for three hours in consequence of the one mule of the village being requisitioned by the 'juge d'instruction' from grenoble, come to enquire into a murder committed two days before. my sister and i used once a day to walk for a couple of hours up a mountain-road of the most lovely description, and stop at the summit whence we looked down upon the minute hamlet of st.-pierre d'entremont,--even more secluded than our own: then we got back to our own aforesaid. and in this paradisial place, they found, yesterday week, a murdered man--frightfully mutilated--who had been caught apparently in the act of stealing potatoes in a field: such a crime had never occurred in the memory of the oldest of our folk. who was the murderer is the mystery--whether the field's owner--in his irritation at discovering the robber,--or one of a band of similar 'charbonniers' (for they suppose the man to be a piedmontese of that occupation) remains to be proved: they began by imprisoning the owner, who denies his guilt energetically. now the odd thing is, that, either the day of, or after the murder,--as i and s. were looking at the utter solitude, i had the fancy "what should i do if i suddenly came upon a dead body in this field? go and proclaim it--and subject myself to all the vexations inflicted by the french way of procedure (which begins by assuming that you may be the criminal)--or neglect an obvious duty, and return silently." i, of course, saw that the former was the only proper course, whatever the annoyance involved. and, all the while, there was just about to be the very same incident for the trouble of somebody.' here the account breaks off; but writing again from the same place, august , , he takes up the suspended narrative with this question: 'did i tell you of what happened to me on the last day of my stay here last year?' and after repeating the main facts continues as follows: 'this morning, in the course of my walk, i entered into conversation with two persons of whom i made enquiry myself. they said the accused man, a simple person, had been locked up in a high chamber,--protesting his innocence strongly,--and troubled in his mind by the affair altogether and the turn it was taking, had profited by the gendarme's negligence, and thrown himself out of the window--and so died, continuing to the last to protest as before. my presentiment of what such a person might have to undergo was justified you see--though i should not in any case have taken _that_ way of getting out of the difficulty. the man added, "it was not he who committed the murder, but the companions of the man, an italian charcoal-burner, who owed him a grudge, killed him, and dragged him to the field--filling his sack with potatoes as if stolen, to give a likelihood that the field's owner had caught him stealing and killed him,--so m. perrier the greffier told me." enough of this grim story. . . . . . 'my sister was anxious to know exactly where the body was found: "vouz savez la croix au sommet de la colline? a cette distance de cela!" that is precisely where i was standing when the thought came over me.' a passage in a subsequent letter of september clearly refers to some comment of mrs. fitz-gerald's on the peculiar nature of this presentiment: 'no--i attribute no sort of supernaturalism to my fancy about the thing that was really about to take place. by a law of the association of ideas--_contraries_ come into the mind as often as _similarities_--and the peace and solitude readily called up the notion of what would most jar with them. i have often thought of the trouble that might have befallen me if poor miss smith's death had happened the night before, when we were on the mountain alone together--or next morning when we were on the proposed excursion--only _then_ we should have had companions.' the letter then passes to other subjects. 'this is the fifth magnificent day--like magnificence, unfit for turning to much account--for we cannot walk till sunset. i had two hours' walk, or nearly, before breakfast, however: it is the loveliest country i ever had experience of, and we shall prolong our stay perhaps--apart from the concern for poor cholmondeley and his friends, i should be glad to apprehend no long journey--besides the annoyance of having to pass florence and rome unvisited, for s.'s sake, i mean: even naples would have been with its wonderful environs a tantalizing impracticability. 'your "academy" came and was welcomed. the newspaper is like an electric eel, as one touches it and expects a shock. i am very anxious about the archbishop who has always been strangely kind to me.' he and his sister had accepted an invitation to spend the month of october with mr. cholmondeley at his villa in ischia; but the party assembled there was broken up by the death of one of mr. cholmondeley's guests, a young lady who had imprudently attempted the ascent of a dangerous mountain without a guide, and who lost her life in the experiment. a short extract from a letter to mrs. charles skirrow will show that even in this complete seclusion mr. browning's patriotism did not go to sleep. there had been already sufficient evidence that his friendship did not; but it was not in the nature of his mental activities that they should be largely absorbed by politics, though he followed the course of his country's history as a necessary part of his own life. it needed a crisis like that of our egyptian campaign, or the subsequent irish struggle, to arouse him to a full emotional participation in current events. how deeply he could be thus aroused remained yet to be seen. 'if the george smiths are still with you, give them my love, and tell them we shall expect to see them at venice,--which was not so likely to be the case when we were bound for ischia. as for lady wolseley--one dares not pretend to vie with her in anxiety just now; but my own pulses beat pretty strongly when i open the day's newspaper--which, by some new arrangement, reaches us, oftener than not, on the day after publication. where is your bertie? i had an impassioned letter, a fortnight ago, from a nephew of mine, who is in the second division [battalion?] of the black watch; he was ordered to edinburgh, and the regiment not dispatched, after all,--it having just returned from india; the poor fellow wrote in his despair "to know if i could do anything!" he may be wanted yet: though nothing seems wanted in egypt, so capital appears to be the management.' in mr. browning published the first series of his 'dramatic idyls'; and their appearance sent a thrill of surprised admiration through the public mind. in 'la saisiaz' and the accompanying poems he had accomplished what was virtually a life's work. for he was approaching the appointed limit of man's existence; and the poetic, which had been nourished in him by the natural life--which had once outstripped its developments, but on the whole remained subject to them--had therefore, also, passed through the successive phases of individual growth. he had been inspired as dramatic poet by the one avowed conviction that little else is worth study but the history of a soul; and outward act or circumstance had only entered into his creations as condition or incident of the given psychological state. his dramatic imagination had first, however unconsciously, sought its materials in himself; then gradually been projected into the world of men and women, which his widening knowledge laid open to him; it is scarcely necessary to say that its power was only fully revealed when it left the remote regions of poetical and metaphysical self-consciousness, to invoke the not less mysterious and far more searching utterance of the general human heart. it was a matter of course that in this expression of his dramatic genius, the intellectual and emotional should exhibit the varying relations which are developed by the natural life: that feeling should begin by doing the work of thought, as in 'saul', and thought end by doing the work of feeling, as in 'fifine at the fair'; and that the two should alternate or combine in proportioned intensity in such works of an intermediate period as 'cleon', 'a death in the desert', the 'epistle of karshish', and 'james lee's wife'; the sophistical ingenuities of 'bishop blougram', and 'sludge'; and the sad, appealing tenderness of 'andrea del sarto' and 'the worst of it'. it was also almost inevitable that so vigorous a genius should sometimes falsify calculations based on the normal life. the long-continued force and freshness of mr. browning's general faculties was in itself a protest against them. we saw without surprise that during the decade which produced 'prince hohenstiel-schwangau', 'fifine at the fair', and 'red cotton nightcap country', he could give us 'the inn album', with its expression of the higher sexual love unsurpassed, rarely equalled, in the whole range of his work: or those two unique creations of airy fancy and passionate symbolic romance, 'saint martin's summer', and 'numpholeptos'. it was no ground for astonishment that the creative power in him should even ignore the usual period of decline, and defy, so far as is humanly possible, its natural laws of modification. but in the 'dramatic idyls' he did more than proceed with unflagging powers on a long-trodden, distinctive course; he took a new departure. mr. browning did not forsake the drama of motive when he imagined and worked out his new group of poems; he presented it in a no less subtle and complex form. but he gave it the added force of picturesque realization; and this by means of incidents both powerful in themselves, and especially suited for its development. it was only in proportion to this higher suggestiveness that a startling situation ever seemed to him fit subject for poetry. where its interest and excitement exhausted themselves in the external facts, it became, he thought, the property of the chronicler, but supplied no material for the poet; and he often declined matter which had been offered him for dramatic treatment because it belonged to the more sensational category. it is part of the vital quality of the 'dramatic idyls' that, in them, the act and the motive are not yet finally identified with each other. we see the act still palpitating with the motive; the motive dimly striving to recognize or disclaim itself in the act. it is in this that the psychological poet stands more than ever strongly revealed. such at least is the case in 'martin relph', and the idealized russian legend, 'ivan ivanovitch'. the grotesque tragedy of 'ned bratts' has also its marked psychological aspects, but they are of a simpler and broader kind. the new inspiration slowly subsided through the second series of 'idyls', , and 'jocoseria', . in 'ferishtah's fancies', , mr. browning returned to his original manner, though carrying into it something of the renewed vigour which had marked the intervening change. the lyrics which alternate with its parables include some of the most tender, most impassioned, and most musical of his love-poems. the moral and religious opinions conveyed in this later volume may be accepted without reserve as mr. browning's own, if we subtract from them the exaggerations of the figurative and dramatic form. it is indeed easy to recognize in them the under currents of his whole real and imaginative life. they have also on one or two points an intrinsic value which will justify a later allusion. chapter - the browning society; mr. furnivall; miss e. h. hickey--his attitude towards the society; letter to mrs. fitz-gerald--mr. thaxter, mrs. celia thaxter--letter to miss hickey; 'strafford'--shakspere and wordsworth societies--letters to professor knight--appreciation in italy; professor nencioni--the goldoni sonnet--mr. barrett browning; palazzo manzoni--letters to mrs. charles skirrow--mrs. bloomfield moore--llangollen; sir theodore and lady martin--loss of old friends--foreign correspondent of the royal academy--'parleyings with certain people of importance in their day'. this indian summer of mr. browning's genius coincided with the highest manifestation of public interest, which he, or with one exception, any living writer, had probably yet received: the establishment of a society bearing his name, and devoted to the study of his poetry. the idea arose almost simultaneously in the mind of dr., then mr. furnivall, and of miss e. h. hickey. one day, in the july of , as they were on their way to warwick crescent to pay an appointed visit there, miss hickey strongly expressed her opinion of the power and breadth of mr. browning's work; and concluded by saying that much as she loved shakespeare, she found in certain aspects of browning what even shakespeare could not give her. mr. furnivall replied to this by asking what she would say to helping him to found a browning society; and it then appeared that miss hickey had recently written to him a letter, suggesting that he should found one; but that it had miscarried, or, as she was disposed to think, not been posted. being thus, at all events, agreed as to the fitness of the undertaking, they immediately spoke of it to mr. browning, who at first treated the project as a joke; but did not oppose it when once he understood it to be serious. his only proviso was that he should remain neutral in respect to its fulfilment. he refused even to give mr. furnivall the name or address of any friends, whose interest in himself or his work might render their co-operation probable. this passive assent sufficed. a printed prospectus was now issued. about two hundred members were soon secured. a committee was elected, of which mr. j. t. nettleship, already well known as a browning student, was one of the most conspicuous members; and by the end of october a small society had come into existence, which held its inaugural meeting in the botanic theatre of university college. mr. furnivall, its principal founder, and responsible organizer, was chairman of the committee, and miss e. h. hickey, the co-founder, was honorary secretary. when, two or three years afterwards, illness compelled her to resign this position, it was assumed by mr. j. dykes campbell. although nothing could be more unpretending than the action of this browning society, or in the main more genuine than its motive, it did not begin life without encountering ridicule and mistrust. the formation of a ruskin society in the previous year had already established a precedent for allowing a still living worker to enjoy the fruits of his work, or, as some one termed it, for making a man a classic during his lifetime. but this fact was not yet generally known; and meanwhile a curious contradiction developed itself in the public mind. the outer world of mr. browning's acquaintance continued to condemn the too great honour which was being done to him; from those of the inner circle he constantly received condolences on being made the subject of proceedings which, according to them, he must somehow regard as an offence. this was the last view of the case which he was prepared to take. at the beginning, as at the end, he felt honoured by the intentions of the society. he probably, it is true, had occasional misgivings as to its future. he could not be sure that its action would always be judicious, still less that it would be always successful. he was prepared for its being laughed at, and for himself being included in the laughter. he consented to its establishment for what seemed to him the one unanswerable reason, that he had, even on the ground of taste, no just cause for forbidding it. no line, he considered, could be drawn between the kind of publicity which every writer seeks, which, for good or evil, he had already obtained, and that which the browning society was conferring on him. his works would still, as before, be read, analyzed, and discussed 'viva voce' and in print. that these proceedings would now take place in other localities than drawing-rooms or clubs, through other organs than newspapers or magazines, by other and larger groups of persons than those usually gathered round a dinner-or a tea-table, involved no real change in the situation. in any case, he had made himself public property; and those who thus organized their study of him were exercising an individual right. if his own rights had been assailed he would have guarded them also; but the circumstances of the case precluded such a contingency. and he had his reward. how he felt towards the society at the close of its first session is better indicated in the following letter to mrs. fitz-gerald than in the note to mr. yates which mr. sharp has published, and which was written with more reserve and, i believe, at a rather earlier date. even the shade of condescension which lingers about his words will have been effaced by subsequent experience; and many letters written to dr. furnivall must, since then, have attested his grateful and affectionate appreciation of kindness intended and service done to him. . . . they always treat me gently in 'punch'--why don't you do the same by the browning society? i see you emphasize miss hickey's acknowledgement of defects in time and want of rehearsal: but i look for no great perfection in a number of kindly disposed strangers to me personally, who try to interest people in my poems by singing and reading them. they give their time for nothing, offer their little entertainment for nothing, and certainly get next to nothing in the way of thanks--unless from myself who feel grateful to the faces i shall never see, the voices i shall never hear. the kindest notices i have had, or at all events those that have given me most pleasure, have been educed by this society--a. sidgwick's paper, that of professor corson, miss lewis' article in this month's 'macmillan'--and i feel grateful for it all, for my part,--and none the less for a little amusement at the wonder of some of my friends that i do not jump up and denounce the practices which must annoy me so much. oh! my 'gentle shakespeare', how well you felt and said--'never anything can be amiss when simpleness and duty tender it.' so, dear lady, here is my duty and simplicity tendering itself to you, with all affection besides, and i being ever yours, r. browning. that general disposition of the london world which left the ranks of the little society to be three-fourths recruited among persons, many living at a distance, whom the poet did not know, became also in its way a satisfaction. it was with him a matter of course, though never of indifference, that his closer friends of both sexes were among its members; it was one of real gratification that they included from the beginning such men as dean boyle of salisbury, the rev. llewellyn davies, george meredith, and james cotter morison--that they enjoyed the sympathy and co-operation of such a one as archdeacon farrar. but he had an ingenuous pride in reading the large remainder of the society's lists of names, and pointing out the fact that there was not one among them which he had ever heard. it was equivalent to saying, 'all these people care for me as a poet. no social interest, no personal prepossession, has attracted them to my work.' and when the unknown name was not only appended to a list; when it formed the signature of a paper--excellent or indifferent as might be--but in either case bearing witness to a careful and unobtrusive study of his poems, by so much was the gratification increased. he seldom weighed the intrinsic merit of such productions; he did not read them critically. no man was ever more adverse to the seeming ungraciousness of analyzing the quality of a gift. in real life indeed this power of gratitude sometimes defeated its own end, by neutralizing his insight into the motive or effort involved in different acts of kindness, and placing them all successively on the same plane. in the present case, however, an ungraduated acceptance of the labour bestowed on him was part of the neutral attitude which it was his constant endeavour to maintain. he always refrained from noticing any erroneous statement concerning himself or his works which might appear in the papers of the society: since, as he alleged, if he once began to correct, he would appear to endorse whatever he left uncorrected, and thus make himself responsible, not only for any interpretation that might be placed on his poems, but, what was far more serious, for every eulogium that was bestowed upon them. he could not stand aloof as entirely as he or even his friends desired, since it was usual with some members of the society to seek from him elucidations of obscure passages which, without these, it was declared, would be a stumbling-block to future readers. but he disliked being even to this extent drawn into its operation; and his help was, i believe, less and less frequently invoked. nothing could be more false than the rumour which once arose that he superintended those performances of his plays which took place under the direction of the society. once only, and by the urgent desire of some of the actors, did he witness a last rehearsal of one of them. it was also a matter of course that men and women brought together by a pre-existing interest in mr. browning's work should often ignore its authorized explanations, and should read and discuss it in the light of personal impressions more congenial to their own mind; and the various and circumstantial views sometimes elicited by a given poem did not serve to render it more intelligible. but the merit of true poetry lies so largely in its suggestiveness, that even mistaken impressions of it have their positive value and also their relative truth; and the intellectual friction which was thus created, not only in the parent society, but in its offshoots in england and america, was not their least important result. these societies conferred, it need hardly be said, no less real benefits on the public at large. they extended the sale of mr. browning's works, and with it their distinct influence for intellectual and moral good. they not only created in many minds an interest in these works, but aroused the interest where it was latent, and gave it expression where it had hitherto found no voice. one fault, alone, could be charged against them; and this lay partly in the nature of all friendly concerted action: they stirred a spirit of enthusiasm in which it was not easy, under conditions equally genuine, to distinguish the individual element from that which was due to contagion; while the presence among us of the still living poet often infused into that enthusiasm a vaguely emotional element, which otherwise detracted from its intellectual worth. but in so far as this was a drawback to the intended action of the societies, it was one only in the most negative sense; nor can we doubt, that, to a certain extent, mr. browning's best influence was promoted by it. the hysterical sensibilities which, for some years past, he had unconsciously but not unfrequently aroused in the minds of women, and even of men, were a morbid development of that influence, which its open and systematic extension tended rather to diminish than to increase. it is also a matter of history that robert browning had many deep and constant admirers in england, and still more in america,* long before this organized interest had developed itself. letters received from often remote parts of the united states had been for many years a detail of his daily experience; and even when they consisted of the request for an autograph, an application to print selections from his works, or a mere expression of schoolboy pertness or schoolgirl sentimentality, they bore witness to his wide reputation in that country, and the high esteem in which he was held there.** the names of levi and celia thaxter of boston had long, i believe, been conspicuous in the higher ranks of his disciples, though they first occur in his correspondence at about this date. i trust i may take for granted mrs. thaxter's permission to publish a letter from her. * the cheapening of his works in america, induced by the absence of international copyright, accounts of course in some degree for their wider diffusion, and hence earlier appreciation there. ** one of the most curious proofs of this was the californian railway time-table edition of his poems. newtonville, massachusetts: march , . my dear mr. browning: your note reached me this morning, but it belonged to my husband, for it was he who wrote to you; so i gave it to him, glad to put into his hands so precious a piece of manuscript, for he has for you and all your work an enthusiastic appreciation such as is seldom found on this planet: it is not possible that the admiration of one mortal for another can exceed his feeling for you. you might have written for him, i've a friend over the sea, . . . . it all grew out of the books i write, &c. you should see his fine wrath and scorn for the idiocy that doesn't at once comprehend you! he knows every word you have ever written; long ago 'sordello' was an open book to him from title-page to closing line, and _all_ you have printed since has been as eagerly and studiously devoured. he reads you aloud (and his reading is a fine art) to crowds of astonished people, he swears by you, he thinks no one save shakspere has a right to be mentioned in the same century with you. you are the great enthusiasm of his life. pardon me, you are smiling, i dare say. you hear any amount of such things, doubtless. but a genuine living appreciation is always worth having in this old world, it is like a strong fresh breeze from off the brine, that puts a sense of life and power into a man. you cannot be the worse for it. yours very sincerely, celia thaxter. when mr. thaxter died, in february , his son wrote to mr. browning to beg of him a few lines to be inscribed on his father's tombstone. the little poem by which the request was answered has not yet, i believe, been published. 'written to be inscribed on the gravestone of levi thaxter.' thou, whom these eyes saw never,--say friends true who say my soul, helped onward by my song, though all unwittingly, has helped thee too? i gave but of the little that i knew: how were the gift requited, while along life's path i pace, could'st thou make weakness strong, help me with knowledge--for life's old, death's new! r. b. april , ' . a publication which connected itself with the labours of the society, without being directly inspired by it, was the annotated 'strafford' prepared by miss hickey for the use of students. it may be agreeable to those who use the little work to know the estimate in which mr. browning held it. he wrote as follows: , warwick crescent, w.: february , . dear miss hickey,--i have returned the proofs by post,--nothing can be better than your notes--and with a real wish to be of use, i read them carefully that i might detect never so tiny a fault,--but i found none--unless (to show you how minutely i searched,) it should be one that by 'thriving in your contempt,' i meant simply 'while you despise them, and for all that, they thrive and are powerful to do you harm.' the idiom you prefer--quite an authorized one--comes to much the same thing after all. you must know how much i grieve at your illness--temporary as i will trust it to be--i feel all your goodness to me--or whatever in my books may be taken for me--well, i wish you knew how thoroughly i feel it--and how truly i am and shall ever be yours affectionately, robert browning. from the time of the foundation of the new shakspere society, mr. browning was its president. in he became a member of the wordsworth society. two interesting letters to professor knight, dated respectively and , connect themselves with the working of the latter; and, in spite of their distance in time, may therefore be given together. the poem which formed the subject of the first was 'the daisy';* the selection referred to in the second was that made in by professor knight for the wordsworth society, with the co-operation of mr. browning and other eminent literary men. * that beginning 'in youth from rock to rock, i went.' , warwick crescent, w.: july , ' . my dear sir,--you pay me a compliment in caring for my opinion--but, such as it is, a very decided one it must be. on every account, your method of giving the original text, and subjoining in a note the variations, each with its proper date, is incontestably preferable to any other. it would be so, if the variations were even improvements--there would be pleasure as well as profit in seeing what was good grow visibly better. but--to confine ourselves to the single 'proof' you have sent me--in every case the change is sadly for the worse: i am quite troubled by such spoilings of passage after passage as i should have chuckled at had i chanced upon them in some copy pencil-marked with corrections by jeffrey or gifford: indeed, they are nearly as wretched as the touchings-up of the 'siege of corinth' by the latter. if ever diabolic agency was caught at tricks with 'apostolic' achievement (see page )--and 'apostolic', with no 'profanity' at all, i esteem these poems to be--surely you may bid it 'aroint' 'about and all about' these desecrated stanzas--each of which, however, thanks to your piety, we may hail, i trust, with a hearty thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain nor be less dear to future men than in old time! believe me, my dear sir, yours very sincerely, robert browning. , warwick crescent, w.: march , ' . dear professor knight,--i have seemed to neglect your commission shamefully enough: but i confess to a sort of repugnance to classifying the poems as even good and less good: because in my heart i fear i should do it almost chronologically--so immeasureably superior seem to me the 'first sprightly runnings'. your selection would appear to be excellent; and the partial admittance of the later work prevents one from observing the too definitely distinguishing black line between supremely good and--well, what is fairly tolerable--from wordsworth, always understand! i have marked a few of the early poems, not included in your list--i could do no other when my conscience tells me that i never can be tired of loving them: while, with the best will in the world, i could never do more than try hard to like them.* * by 'them' mr. browning clearly means the later poems, and probably has omitted a few words which would have shown this. you see, i go wholly upon my individual likings and distastes: that other considerations should have their weight with other people is natural and inevitable. ever truly yours, robert browning. many thanks for the volume just received--that with the correspondence. i hope that you restore the swan simile so ruthlessly cut away from 'dion'. in he was again invited, and again declined, to stand for the lord rectorship of the university of st. andrews. in the same year he received the ll.d. degree of the university of edinburgh; and in the following was made honorary president of the associated societies of that city.* during the few days spent there on the occasion of his investiture, he was the guest of professor masson, whose solicitous kindness to him is still warmly remembered in the family. * this association was instituted in , and is a union of literary and debating societies. it is at present composed of five: the dialectic, scots law, diagnostic, philosophical, and philomathic. the interest in mr. browning as a poet is beginning to spread in germany. there is room for wonder that it should not have done so before, though the affinities of his genius are rather with the older than with the more modern german mind. it is much more remarkable that, many years ago, his work had already a sympathetic exponent in italy. signor nencioni, professor of literature in florence, had made his acquaintance at siena, and was possibly first attracted to him through his wife, although i never heard that it was so. he was soon, however, fascinated by mr. browning's poetry, and made it an object of serious study; he largely quoted from, and wrote on it, in the roman paper 'fanfulla della domenica', in and ; and published last winter what is, i am told, an excellent article on the same subject, in the 'nuova antologia'. two years ago he travelled from rome to venice (accompanied by signor placci), for the purpose of seeing him. he is fond of reciting passages from the works, and has even made attempts at translation: though he understands them too well not to pronounce them, what they are for every latin language, untranslatable. in mr. browning added another link to the 'golden' chain of verse which united england and italy. a statue of goldoni was about to be erected in venice. the ceremonies of the occasion were to include the appearance of a volume--or album--of appropriate poems; and cavaliere molmenti, its intending editor, a leading member of the 'erection committee', begged mr. browning to contribute to it. it was also desired that he should be present at the unveiling.* he was unable to grant this request, but consented to write a poem. this sonnet to goldoni also deserves to be more widely known, both for itself and for the manner of its production. mr. browning had forgotten, or not understood, how soon the promise concerning it must be fulfilled, and it was actually scribbled off while a messenger, sent by signor molmenti, waited for it. * it was, i think, during this visit to venice that he assisted at a no less interesting ceremony: the unveiling of a commemorative tablet to baldassaro galuppi, in his native island of burano. 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. , . a complete bibliography would take account of three other sonnets, 'the founder of the feast', , 'the names', , and 'why i am a liberal', , to which i shall have occasion to refer; but we decline insensibly from these on to the less important or more fugitive productions which such lists also include, and on which it is unnecessary or undesirable that any stress should be laid. in he was joined in venice by his son. it was 'penini's' first return to the country of his birth, his first experience of the city which he had only visited in his nurse's arms; and his delight in it was so great that the plan shaped itself in his father's mind of buying a house there, which should serve as 'pied-a-terre' for the family, but more especially as a home for him. neither the health nor the energies of the younger mr. browning had ever withstood the influence of the london climate; a foreign element was undoubtedly present in his otherwise thoroughly english constitution. everything now pointed to his settling in italy, and pursuing his artist life there, only interrupting it by occasional visits to london and paris. his father entered into negotiations for the palazzo manzoni, next door to the former hotel de l'univers; and the purchase was completed, so far as he was concerned, before he returned to england. the fact is related, and his own position towards it described in a letter to mrs. charles skirrow, written from venice. palazzo giustiniani recanati, s. moise: nov. , ' . my two dear friends will have supposed, with plenty of reason, that i never got the kind letter some weeks ago. when it came, i was in the middle of an affair, conducted by letters of quite another kind, with people abroad: and as i fancied that every next day might bring me news very interesting to me and likely to be worth telling to the dear friends, i waited and waited--and only two days since did the matter come to a satisfactory conclusion--so, as the irish song has it, 'open your eyes and die with surprise' when i inform you that i have purchased the manzoni palace here, on the canal grande, of its owner, marchese montecucculi, an austrian and an absentee--hence the delay of communication. i did this purely for pen--who became at once simply infatuated with the city which won my whole heart long before he was born or thought of. i secure him a perfect domicile, every facility for his painting and sculpture, and a property fairly worth, even here and now, double what i gave for it--such is the virtue in these parts of ready money! i myself shall stick to london--which has been so eminently good and gracious to me--so long as god permits; only, when the inevitable outrage of time gets the better of my body--(i shall not believe in his reaching my soul and proper self)--there will be a capital retreat provided: and meantime i shall be able to 'take mine ease in mine own inn' whenever so minded. there, my dear friends! i trust now to be able to leave very shortly; the main business cannot be formally concluded before two months at least--through the absence of the marchese,--who left at once to return to his duties as commander of an austrian ship; but the necessary engagement to sell and buy at a specified price is made in due legal form, and the papers will be sent to me in london for signature. i hope to get away the week after next at latest,--spite of the weather in england which to-day's letters report as 'atrocious',--and ours, though variable, is in the main very tolerable and sometimes perfect; for all that, i yearn to be at home in poor warwick crescent, which must do its best to make me forget my new abode. i forget you don't know venice. well then, the palazzo manzoni is situate on the grand canal, and is described by ruskin,--to give no other authority,--as 'a perfect and very rich example of byzantine renaissance: its warm yellow marbles are magnificent.' and again--'an exquisite example (of byzantine renaissance) as applied to domestic architecture.' so testify the 'stones of venice'. but we will talk about the place, over a photograph, when i am happy enough to be with you again. of venetian gossip there is next to none. we had an admirable venetian company,--using the dialect,--at the goldoni theatre. the acting of zago, in his various parts, and zenon-palladini, in her especial character of a venetian piece of volubility and impulsiveness in the shape of a servant, were admirable indeed. the manager, gallina, is a playwright of much reputation, and gave us some dozen of his own pieces, mostly good and clever. s. is very well,--much improved in health: we walk sufficiently in this city where walking is accounted impossible by those who never attempt it. have i tired your good temper? no! you ever wished me well, and i love you both with my whole heart. s.'s love goes with mine--who am ever yours robert browning. he never, however, owned the manzoni palace. the austrian gentlemen* whose property it was, put forward, at the last moment, unexpected and to his mind unreasonable claims; and he was preparing to contest the position, when a timely warning induced him to withdraw from it altogether. the warning proceeded from his son, who had remained on the spot, and was now informed on competent authority that the foundations of the house were insecure. * two or three brothers. in the early summer of , and again in , miss browning had a serious illness; and though she recovered, in each case completely, and in the first rapidly, it was considered desirable that she should not travel so far as usual from home. she and her brother therefore accepted for the august and september of the urgent invitation of an american friend, mrs. bloomfield moore, to stay with her at a villa which she rented for some seasons at st. moritz. mr. browning was delighted with the engadine, where the circumstances of his abode, and the thoughtful kindness of his hostess, allowed him to enjoy the benefits of comparative civilization together with almost perfect repose. the weather that year was brilliant until the end of september, if not beyond it; and his letters tell the old pleasant story of long daily walks and a general sense of invigoration. one of these, written to mr. and mrs. skirrow, also contains some pungent remarks on contemporary events, with an affectionate allusion to one of the chief actors in them. 'anyhow, i have the sincerest hope that wolseley may get done as soon, and kill as few people, as possible,--keeping himself safe and sound--brave dear fellow--for the benefit of us all.' he also speaks with great sympathy of the death of mr. charles sartoris, which had just taken place at st.-moritz. in , miss browning was not allowed to leave england; and she and mr. browning established themselves for the autumn at the hand hotel at llangollen, where their old friends, sir theodore and lady martin, would be within easy reach. mr. browning missed the exhilarating effects of the alpine air; but he enjoyed the peaceful beauty of the welsh valley, and the quiet and comfort of the old-fashioned english inn. a new source of interest also presented itself to him in some aspects of the life of the english country gentleman. he was struck by the improvements effected by its actual owner* on a neighbouring estate, and by the provisions contained in them for the comfort of both the men and the animals under his care; and he afterwards made, in reference to them, what was for a professing liberal, a very striking remark: 'talk of abolishing that class of men! they are the salt of the earth!' every sunday afternoon he and his sister drank tea--weather permitting--on the lawn with their friends at brintysilio; and he alludes gracefully to these meetings in a letter written in the early summer of , when lady martin had urged him to return to wales. * i believe a captain best. the poet left another and more pathetic remembrance of himself in the neighbourhood of llangollen: his weekly presence at the afternoon sunday service in the parish church of llantysilio. churchgoing was, as i have said, no part of his regular life. it was no part of his life in london. but i do not think he ever failed in it at the universities or in the country. the assembling for prayer meant for him something deeper in both the religious and the human sense, where ancient learning and piety breathed through the consecrated edifice, or where only the figurative 'two or three' were 'gathered together' within it. a memorial tablet now marks the spot at which on this occasion the sweet grave face and the venerable head were so often seen. it has been placed by the direction of lady martin on the adjoining wall. it was in the september of this year that mr. browning heard of the death of m. joseph milsand. this name represented for him one of the few close friendships which were to remain until the end, unclouded in fact and in remembrance; and although some weight may be given to those circumstances of their lives which precluded all possibility of friction and risk of disenchantment, i believe their rooted sympathy, and mr. browning's unfailing powers of appreciation would, in all possible cases, have maintained the bond intact. the event was at the last sudden, but happily not quite unexpected. many other friends had passed by this time out of the poet's life--those of a younger, as well as his own and an older generation. miss haworth died in . charles dickens, with whom he had remained on the most cordial terms, had walked between him and his son at thackeray's funeral, to receive from him, only seven years later, the same pious office. lady augusta stanley, the daughter of his old friend, lady elgin, was dead, and her husband, the dean of westminster. so also were 'barry cornwall' and john forster, alfred domett, and thomas carlyle, mr. cholmondeley and lord houghton; others still, both men and women, whose love for him might entitle them to a place in his biography, but whom i could at most only mention by name. for none of these can his feeling have been more constant or more disinterested than that which bound him to carlyle. he visited him at chelsea in the last weary days of his long life, as often as their distance from each other and his own engagements allowed. even the man's posthumous self-disclosures scarcely availed to destroy the affectionate reverence which he had always felt for him. he never ceased to defend him against the charge of unkindness to his wife, or to believe that in the matter of their domestic unhappiness she was the more responsible of the two.* yet carlyle had never rendered him that service, easy as it appears, which one man of letters most justly values from another: that of proclaiming the admiration which he privately expresses for his works. the fact was incomprehensible to mr. browning--it was so foreign to his own nature; and he commented on it with a touch, though merely a touch, of bitterness, when repeating to a friend some almost extravagant eulogium which in earlier days he had received from him tete-a-tete. 'if only,' he said, 'those words had been ever repeated in public, what good they might have done me!' * he always thought her a hard and unlovable woman, and i believe little liking was lost between them. he told a comical story of how he had once, unintentionally but rather stupidly, annoyed her. she had asked him, as he was standing by her tea-table, to put the kettle back on the fire. he took it out of her hands, but, preoccupied by the conversation he was carrying on, deposited it on the hearthrug. it was some time before he could be made to see that this was wrong; and he believed mrs. carlyle never ceased to think that he had a mischievous motive for doing it. in the spring of , he accepted the post of foreign correspondent to the royal academy, rendered vacant by the death of lord houghton. he had long been on very friendly terms with the leading academicians, and a constant guest at the banquet; and his fitness for the office admitted of no doubt. but his nomination by the president, and the manner in which it was ratified by the council and general body, gave him sincere pleasure. early in , the 'parleyings' appeared. their author is still the same robert browning, though here and there visibly touched by the hand of time. passages of sweet or majestic music, or of exquisite fancy, alternate with its long stretches of argumentative thought; and the light of imagination still plays, however fitfully, over statements of opinion to which constant repetition has given a suggestion of commonplace. but the revision of the work caused him unusual trouble. the subjects he had chosen strained his powers of exposition; and i think he often tried to remedy by mere verbal correction, what was a defect in the logical arrangement of his ideas. they would slide into each other where a visible dividing line was required. the last stage of his life was now at hand; and the vivid return of fancy to his boyhood's literary loves was in pathetic, perhaps not quite accidental, coincidence with the fact. it will be well to pause at this beginning of his decline, and recall so far as possible the image of the man who lived, and worked, and loved, and was loved among us, during that brief old age, and the lengthened period of level strength which had preceded it. the record already given of his life and work supplies the outline of the picture; but a few more personal details are required for its completion. chapter constancy to habit--optimism--belief in providence--political opinions--his friendships--reverence for genius--attitude towards his public--attitude towards his work--habits of work--his reading--conversational powers--impulsiveness and reserve--nervous peculiarities--his benevolence--his attitude towards women. when mr. browning wrote to miss haworth, in the july of , he had said: 'i shall still grow, i hope; but my root is taken, and remains.' he was then alluding to a special offshoot of feeling and association, on the permanence of which it is not now necessary to dwell; but it is certain that he continued growing up to a late age, and that the development was only limited by those general roots, those fixed conditions of his being, which had predetermined its form. this progressive intellectual vitality is amply represented in his works; it also reveals itself in his letters in so far as i have been allowed to publish them. i only refer to it to give emphasis to a contrasted or corresponding characteristic: his aversion to every thought of change. i have spoken of his constancy to all degrees of friendship and love. what he loved once he loved always, from the dearest man or woman to whom his allegiance had been given, to the humblest piece of furniture which had served him. it was equally true that what he had done once he was wont, for that very reason, to continue doing. the devotion to habits of feeling extended to habits of life; and although the lower constancy generally served the purposes of the higher, it also sometimes clashed with them. it conspired with his ready kindness of heart to make him subject to circumstances which at first appealed to him through that kindness, but lay really beyond its scope. this statement, it is true, can only fully apply to the latter part of his life. his powers of reaction must originally have been stronger, as well as freer from the paralysis of conflicting motive and interest. the marked shrinking from effort in any untried direction, which was often another name for his stability, could scarcely have coexisted with the fresher and more curious interest in men and things; we know indeed from recorded facts that it was a feeling of later growth; and it visibly increased with the periodical nervous exhaustion of his advancing years. i am convinced, nevertheless, that, when the restiveness of boyhood had passed away, mr. browning's strength was always more passive than active; that he habitually made the best of external conditions rather than tried to change them. he was a 'fighter' only by the brain. and on this point, though on this only, his work is misleading. the acquiescent tendency arose in some degree from two equally prominent characteristics of mr. browning's nature: his optimism, and his belief in direct providence; and these again represented a condition of mind which was in certain respects a quality, but must in others be recognized as a defect. it disposed him too much to make a virtue of happiness. it tended also to the ignoring or denying of many incidental possibilities, and many standing problems of human suffering. the first part of this assertion is illustrated by 'the two poets of croisic', in which mr. browning declares that, other conditions being equal, the greater poet will have been he who led the happier life, who most completely--and we must take this in the human as well as religious sense--triumphed over suffering. the second has its proof in the contempt for poetic melancholy which flashes from the supposed utterance of shakespeare in 'at the mermaid'; its negative justification in the whole range of his work. such facts may be hard to reconcile with others already known of mr. browning's nature, or already stated concerning it; but it is in the depths of that nature that the solution of this, as of more than one other anomaly, must be sought. it is true that remembered pain dwelt longer with him than remembered pleasure. it is true that the last great sorrow of his life was long felt and cherished by him as a religion, and that it entered as such into the courage with which he first confronted it. it is no less true that he directly and increasingly cultivated happiness; and that because of certain sufferings which had been connected with them, he would often have refused to live his happiest days again. it seems still harder to associate defective human sympathy with his kind heart and large dramatic imagination, though that very imagination was an important factor in the case. it forbade the collective and mathematical estimate of human suffering, which is so much in favour with modern philanthropy, and so untrue a measure for the individual life; and he indirectly condemns it in 'ferishtah's fancies' in the parable of 'bean stripes'. but his dominant individuality also barred the recognition of any judgment or impression, any thought or feeling, which did not justify itself from his own point of view. the barrier would melt under the influence of a sympathetic mood, as it would stiffen in the atmosphere of disagreement. it would yield, as did in his case so many other things, to continued indirect pressure, whether from his love of justice, the strength of his attachments, or his power of imaginative absorption. but he was bound by the conditions of an essentially creative nature. the subjectiveness, if i may for once use that hackneyed word, had passed out of his work only to root itself more strongly in his life. he was self-centred, as the creative nature must inevitably be. he appeared, for this reason, more widely sympathetic in his works than in his life, though even in the former certain grounds of vicarious feeling remained untouched. the sympathy there displayed was creative and obeyed its own law. that which was demanded from him by reality was responsive, and implied submission to the law of other minds. such intellectual egotism is unconnected with moral selfishness, though it often unconsciously does its work. were it otherwise, i should have passed over in silence this aspect, comprehensive though it is, of mr. browning's character. he was capable of the largest self-sacrifice and of the smallest self-denial; and would exercise either whenever love or duty clearly pointed the way. he would, he believed, cheerfully have done so at the command, however arbitrary, of a higher power; he often spoke of the absence of such injunction, whether to endurance or action, as the great theoretical difficulty of life for those who, like himself, rejected or questioned the dogmatic teachings of christianity. this does not mean that he ignored the traditional moralities which have so largely taken their place. they coincided in great measure with his own instincts; and few occasions could have arisen in which they would not be to him a sufficient guide. i may add, though this is a digression, that he never admitted the right of genius to defy them; when such a right had once been claimed for it in his presence, he rejoined quickly, 'that is an error! _noblesse oblige_.' but he had difficulty in acknowledging any abstract law which did not derive from a higher power; and this fact may have been at once cause and consequence of the special conditions of his own mind. all human or conventional obligation appeals finally to the individual judgment; and in his case this could easily be obscured by the always militant imagination, in regard to any subject in which his feelings were even indirectly concerned. no one saw more justly than he, when the object of vision was general or remote. whatever entered his personal atmosphere encountered a refracting medium in which objects were decomposed, and a succession of details, each held as it were close to the eye, blocked out the larger view. we have seen, on the other hand, that he accepted imperfect knowledge as part of the discipline of experience. it detracted in no sense from his conviction of direct relations with the creator. this was indeed the central fact of his theology, as the absolute individual existence had been the central fact of his metaphysics; and when he described the fatal leap in 'red cotton nightcap country' as a frantic appeal to the higher powers for the 'sign' which the man's religion did not afford, and his nature could not supply, a special dramatic sympathy was at work within him. the third part of the epilogue to 'dramatis personae' represented his own creed; though this was often accentuated in the sense of a more personal privilege, and a perhaps less poetic mystery, than the poem conveys. the evangelical christian and the subjective idealist philosopher were curiously blended in his composition. the transition seems violent from this old-world religion to any system of politics applicable to the present day. they were, nevertheless, closely allied in mr. browning's mind. his politics were, so far as they went, the practical aspect of his religion. their cardinal doctrine was the liberty of individual growth; removal of every barrier of prejudice or convention by which it might still be checked. he had been a radical in youth, and probably in early manhood; he remained, in the truest sense of the word, a liberal; and his position as such was defined in the sonnet prefixed in to mr. andrew reid's essay, 'why i am a liberal', and bearing the same name. its profession of faith did not, however, necessarily bind him to any political party. it separated him from all the newest developments of so-called liberalism. he respected the rights of property. he was a true patriot, hating to see his country plunged into aggressive wars, but tenacious of her position among the empires of the world. he was also a passionate unionist; although the question of our political relations with ireland weighed less with him, as it has done with so many others, than those considerations of law and order, of honesty and humanity, which have been trampled under foot in the name of home rule. it grieved and surprised him to find himself on this subject at issue with so many valued friends; and no pain of lost leadership was ever more angry or more intense, than that which came to him through the defection of a great statesman whom he had honoured and loved, from what he believed to be the right cause. the character of mr. browning's friendships reveals itself in great measure in even a simple outline of his life. his first friends of his own sex were almost exclusively men of letters, by taste if not by profession; the circumstances of his entrance into society made this a matter of course. in later years he associated on cordial terms with men of very various interests and professions; and only writers of conspicuous merit, whether in prose or poetry, attracted him as such. no intercourse was more congenial to him than that of the higher class of english clergymen. he sympathized in their beliefs even when he did not share them. above all he loved their culture; and the love of culture in general, of its old classic forms in particular, was as strong in him as if it had been formed by all the natural and conventional associations of a university career. he had hearty friends and appreciators among the dignitaries of the church--successive archbishops and bishops, deans of westminster and st. paul's. they all knew the value of the great freelance who fought like the gods of old with the regular army. no name, however, has been mentioned in the poet's family more frequently or with more affection than that of the rev. j. d. w. williams, vicar of bottisham in cambridgeshire. the mutual acquaintance, which was made through mr. browning's brother-in-law, mr. george moulton-barrett, was prepared by mr. williams' great love for his poems, of which he translated many into latin and greek; but i am convinced that mr. browning's delight in his friend's classical attainments was quite as great as his gratification in the tribute he himself derived from them. his love of genius was a worship: and in this we must include his whole life. nor was it, as this feeling so often is, exclusively exercised upon the past. i do not suppose his more eminent contemporaries ever quite knew how generous his enthusiasm for them had been, how free from any under-current of envy, or impulse to avoidable criticism. he could not endure even just censure of one whom he believed, or had believed to be great. i have seen him wince under it, though no third person was present, and heard him answer, 'don't! don't!' as if physical pain were being inflicted on him. in the early days he would make his friend, m. de monclar, draw for him from memory the likenesses of famous writers whom he had known in paris; the sketches thus made of george sand and victor hugo are still in the poet's family. a still more striking and very touching incident refers to one of the winters, probably the second, which he spent in paris. he was one day walking with little pen, when beranger came in sight, and he bade the child 'run up to' or 'run past that gentleman, and put his hand for a moment upon him.' this was a great man, he afterwards explained, and he wished his son to be able by-and-by to say that if he had not known, he had at all events touched him. scientific genius ranked with him only second to the poetical. mr. browning's delicate professional sympathies justified some sensitiveness on his own account; but he was, i am convinced, as free from this quality as a man with a poet-nature could possibly be. it may seem hazardous to conjecture how serious criticism would have affected him. few men so much 'reviewed' have experienced so little. he was by turns derided or ignored, enthusiastically praised, zealously analyzed and interpreted: but the independent judgment which could embrace at once the quality of his mind and its defects, is almost absent--has been so at all events during later years--from the volumes which have been written about him. i am convinced, nevertheless, that he would have accepted serious, even adverse criticism, if it had borne the impress of unbiassed thought and genuine sincerity. it could not be otherwise with one in whom the power of reverence was so strongly marked. he asked but one thing of his reviewers, as he asked but one thing of his larger public. the first demand is indicated in a letter to mrs. frank hill, of january , . dear mrs. hill,--could you befriend me? the 'century' prints a little insignificance of mine--an impromptu sonnet--but prints it _correctly_. the 'pall mall' pleases to extract it--and produces what i enclose: one line left out, and a note of admiration (!) turned into an i, and a superfluous 'the' stuck in--all these blunders with the correctly printed text before it! so does the charge of unintelligibility attach itself to your poor friend--who can kick nobody. robert browning. the carelessness often shown in the most friendly quotation could hardly be absent from that which was intended to support a hostile view; and the only injustice of which he ever complained, was what he spoke of as falsely condemning him out of his own mouth. he used to say: 'if a critic declares that any poem of mine is unintelligible, the reader may go to it and judge for himself; but, if it is made to appear unintelligible by a passage extracted from it and distorted by misprints, i have no redress.' he also failed to realize those conditions of thought, and still more of expression, which made him often on first reading difficult to understand; and as the younger generation of his admirers often deny those difficulties where they exist, as emphatically as their grandfathers proclaimed them where they did not, public opinion gave him little help in the matter. the second (unspoken) request was in some sense an antithesis to the first. mr. browning desired to be read accurately but not literally. he deprecated the constant habit of reading him into his work; whether in search of the personal meaning of a given passage or poem, or in the light of a foregone conclusion as to what that meaning must be. the latter process was that generally preferred, because the individual mind naturally seeks its own reflection in the poet's work, as it does in the facts of nature. it was stimulated by the investigations of the browning societies, and by the partial familiarity with his actual life which constantly supplied tempting, if untrustworthy clues. it grew out of the strong personal as well as literary interest which he inspired. but the tendency to listen in his work for a single recurrent note always struck him as analogous to the inspection of a picture gallery with eyes blind to every colour but one; and the act of sympathy often involved in this mode of judgment was neutralized for him by the limitation of his genius which it presupposed. his general objection to being identified with his works is set forth in 'at the mermaid', and other poems of the same volume, in which it takes the form of a rather captious protest against inferring from the poet any habit or quality of the man; and where also, under the impulse of the dramatic mood, he enforces the lesson by saying more than he can possibly mean. his readers might object that his human personality was so often plainly revealed in his poetic utterance (whether or not that of shakespeare was), and so often also avowed by it, that the line which divided them became impossible to draw. but he again would have rejoined that the poet could never express himself with any large freedom, unless a fiction of impersonality were granted to him. he might also have alleged, he often did allege, that in his case the fiction would hold a great deal of truth; since, except in the rarest cases, the very fact of poetic, above all of dramatic reproduction, detracts from the reality of the thought or feeling reproduced. it introduces the alloy of fancy without which the fixed outlines of even living experience cannot be welded into poetic form. he claimed, in short, that in judging of his work, one should allow for the action in it of the constructive imagination, in the exercise of which all deeper poetry consists. the form of literalism, which showed itself in seeking historical authority for every character or incident which he employed by way of illustration, was especially irritating to him. i may (as indeed i must) concede this much, without impugning either the pleasure or the gratitude with which he recognized the increasing interest in his poems, and, if sometimes exhibited in a mistaken form, the growing appreciation of them. there was another and more striking peculiarity in mr. browning's attitude towards his works: his constant conviction that the latest must be the best, because the outcome of the fullest mental experience, and of the longest practice in his art. he was keenly alive to the necessary failings of youthful literary production; he also practically denied to it that quality which so often places it at an advantage over that, not indeed of more mature manhood, but at all events of advancing age. there was much in his own experience to blind him to the natural effects of time; it had been a prolonged triumph over them. but the delusion, in so far as it was one, lay deeper than the testimony of such experience, and would i think have survived it. it was the essence of his belief that the mind is superior to physical change; that it may be helped or hindered by its temporary alliance with the body, but will none the less outstrip it in their joint course; and as intellect was for him the life of poetry, so was the power of poetry independent of bodily progress and bodily decline. this conviction pervaded his life. he learned, though happily very late, to feel age an impediment; he never accepted it as a disqualification. he finished his work very carefully. he had the better right to resent any garbling of it, that this habitually took place through his punctuation, which was always made with the fullest sense of its significance to any but the baldest style, and of its special importance to his own. i have heard him say: 'people accuse me of not taking pains! i take nothing _but_ pains!' and there was indeed a curious contrast between the irresponsible, often strangely unquestioned, impulse to which the substance of each poem was due, and the conscientious labour which he always devoted to its form. the laborious habit must have grown upon him; it was natural that it should do so as thought gained the ascendency over emotion in what he had to say. mrs. browning told mr. val prinsep that her husband 'worked at a great rate;' and this fact probably connected itself with the difficulty he then found in altering the form or wording of any particular phrase; he wrote most frequently under that lyrical inspiration in which the idea and the form are least separable from each other. we know, however, that in the later editions of his old work he always corrected where he could; and if we notice the changed lines in 'paracelsus' or 'sordello', as they appear in the edition of , or the slighter alterations indicated for the last reprint of his works, we are struck by the care evinced in them for greater smoothness of expression, as well as for greater accuracy and force. he produced less rapidly in later life, though he could throw off impromptu verses, whether serious or comical, with the utmost ease. his work was then of a kind which required more deliberation; and other claims had multiplied upon his time and thoughts. he was glad to have accomplished twenty or thirty lines in a morning. after lunch-time, for many years, he avoided, when possible, even answering a note. but he always counted a day lost on which he had not written something; and in those last years on which we have yet to enter, he complained bitterly of the quantity of ephemeral correspondence which kept him back from his proper work. he once wrote, on the occasion of a short illness which confined him to the house, 'all my power of imagination seems gone. i might as well be in bed!' he repeatedly determined to write a poem every day, and once succeeded for a fortnight in doing so. he was then in paris, preparing 'men and women'. 'childe roland' and 'women and roses' were among those produced on this plan; the latter having been suggested by some flowers sent to his wife. the lyrics in 'ferishtah's fancies' were written, i believe, on consecutive days; and the intention renewed itself with his last work, though it cannot have been maintained. he was not as great a reader in later as in earlier years; he had neither time nor available strength to be so if he had wished; and he absorbed almost unconsciously every item which added itself to the sum of general knowledge. books had indeed served for him their most important purpose when they had satisfied the first curiosities of his genius, and enabled it to establish its independence. his mind was made up on the chief subjects of contemporary thought, and what was novel or controversial in its proceeding had no attraction for him. he would read anything, short of an english novel, to a friend whose eyes required this assistance; but such pleasure as he derived from the act was more often sympathetic than spontaneous, even when he had not, as he often had, selected for it a book which he already knew. in the course of his last decade he devoted himself for a short time to the study of spanish and hebrew. the spanish dramatists yielded him a fund of new enjoyment; and he delighted in his power of reading hebrew in its most difficult printed forms. he also tried, but with less result, to improve his knowledge of german. his eyesight defied all obstacles of bad paper and ancient type, and there was anxiety as well as pleasure to those about him in his unfailing confidence in its powers. he never wore spectacles, nor had the least consciousness of requiring them. he would read an old closely printed volume by the waning light of a winter afternoon, positively refusing to use a lamp. indeed his preference of the faintest natural light to the best that could be artificially produced was perhaps the one suggestion of coming change. he used for all purposes a single eye; for the two did not combine in their action, the right serving exclusively for near, the left for distant objects. this was why in walking he often closed the right eye; while it was indispensable to his comfort in reading, not only that the light should come from the right side, but that the left should be shielded from any luminous object, like the fire, which even at the distance of half the length of a room would strike on his field of vision and confuse the near sight. his literary interest became increasingly centred on records of the lives of men and women; especially of such men and women as he had known; he was generally curious to see the newly published biographies, though often disappointed by them. he would also read, even for his amusement, good works of french or italian fiction. his allegiance to balzac remained unshaken, though he was conscious of lengthiness when he read him aloud. this author's deep and hence often poetic realism was, i believe, bound up with his own earliest aspirations towards dramatic art. his manner of reading aloud a story which he already knew was the counterpart of his own method of construction. he would claim his listener's attention for any apparently unimportant fact which had a part to play in it: he would say: 'listen to this description: it will be important. observe this character: you will see a great deal more of him or her.' we know that in his own work nothing was thrown away; no note was struck which did not add its vibration to the general utterance of the poem; and his habitual generosity towards a fellow-worker prompted him to seek and recognize the same quality, even in productions where it was less conspicuous than in his own. the patient reading which he required for himself was justified by that which he always demanded for others; and he claimed it less in his own case for his possible intricacies of thought or style, than for that compactness of living structure in which every detail or group of details was essential to the whole, and in a certain sense contained it. he read few things with so much pleasure as an occasional chapter in the old testament. mr. browning was a brilliant talker; he was admittedly more a talker than a conversationalist. but this quality had nothing in common with self-assertion or love of display. he had too much respect for the acquirements of other men to wish to impose silence on those who were competent to speak; and he had great pleasure in listening to a discussion on any subject in which he was interested, and on which he was not specially informed. he never willingly monopolized the conversation; but when called upon to take a prominent part in it, either with one person or with several, the flow of remembered knowledge and revived mental experience, combined with the ingenuous eagerness to vindicate some point in dispute would often carry him away; while his hearers, nearly as often, allowed him to proceed from absence of any desire to interrupt him. this great mental fertility had been prepared by the wide reading and thorough assimilation of his early days; and it was only at a later, and in certain respects less vigorous period, that its full bearing could be seen. his memory for passing occurrences, even such as had impressed him, became very weak; it was so before he had grown really old; and he would urge this fact in deprecation of any want of kindness or sympathy, which a given act of forgetfulness might seem to involve. he had probably always, in matters touching his own life, the memory of feelings more than that of facts. i think this has been described as a peculiarity of the poet-nature; and though this memory is probably the more tenacious of the two, it is no safe guide to the recovery of facts, still less to that of their order and significance. yet up to the last weeks, even the last conscious days of his life, his remembrance of historical incident, his aptness of literary illustration, never failed him. his dinner-table anecdotes supplied, of course, no measure for this spontaneous reproductive power; yet some weight must be given to the number of years during which he could abound in such stories, and attest their constant appropriateness by not repeating them. this brilliant mental quality had its drawback, on which i have already touched in a rather different connection: the obstacle which it created to even serious and private conversation on any subject on which he was not neutral. feeling, imagination, and the vividness of personal points of view, constantly thwarted the attempt at a dispassionate exchange of ideas. but the balance often righted itself when the excitement of the discussion was at an end; and it would even become apparent that expressions or arguments which he had passed over unheeded, or as it seemed unheard, had stored themselves in his mind and borne fruit there. i think it is mr. sharp who has remarked that mr. browning combined impulsiveness of manner with much real reserve. he was habitually reticent where his deeper feelings were concerned; and the impulsiveness and the reticence were both equally rooted in his poetic and human temperament. the one meant the vital force of his emotions, the other their sensibility. in a smaller or more prosaic nature they must have modified each other. but the partial secretiveness had also occasionally its conscious motives, some unselfish, and some self-regarding; and from this point of view it stood in marked apparent antagonism to the more expansive quality. he never, however, intentionally withheld from others such things as it concerned them to know. his intellectual and religious convictions were open to all who seriously sought them; and if, even on such points, he did not appear communicative, it was because he took more interest in any subject of conversation which did not directly centre in himself. setting aside the delicacies which tend to self-concealment, and for which he had been always more or less conspicuous; excepting also the pride which would co-operate with them, all his inclinations were in the direction of truth; there was no quality which he so much loved and admired. he thought aloud wherever he could trust himself to do so. impulse predominated in all the active manifestations of his nature. the fiery child and the impatient boy had left their traces in the man; and with them the peculiar childlike quality which the man of genius never outgrows, and which, in its mingled waywardness and sweetness, was present in robert browning till almost his dying day. there was also a recurrent touch of hardness, distinct from the comparatively ungenial mood of his earlier years of widowhood; and this, like his reserve, seemed to conflict with his general character, but in reality harmonized with it. it meant, not that feeling was suspended in him, but that it was compressed. it was his natural response to any opposition which his reasonings could not shake nor his will overcome, and which, rightly or not, conveyed to him the sense of being misunderstood. it reacted in pain for others, but it lay with an aching weight on his own heart, and was thrown off in an upheaval of the pent-up kindliness and affection, the moment their true springs were touched. the hardening power in his composition, though fugitive and comparatively seldom displayed, was in fact proportioned to his tenderness; and no one who had not seen him in the revulsion from a hard mood, or the regret for it, knew what that tenderness could be. underlying all the peculiarities of his nature, its strength and its weakness, its exuberance and its reserves, was the nervous excitability of which i have spoken in an earlier chapter. i have heard him say: 'i am nervous to such a degree that i might fancy i could not enter a drawing-room, if i did not know from long experience that i can do it.' he did not desire to conceal this fact, nor need others conceal it for him; since it was only calculated to disarm criticism and to strengthen sympathy. the special vital power which he derived from this organization need not be reaffirmed. it carried also its inevitable disablements. its resources were not always under his own control; and he frequently complained of the lack of presence of mind which would seize him on any conventional emergency not included in the daily social routine. in a real one he was never at fault. he never failed in a sympathetic response or a playful retort; he was always provided with the exact counter requisite in a game of words. in this respect indeed he had all the powers of the conversationalist; and the perfect ease and grace and geniality of his manner on such occasions, arose probably far more from his innate human and social qualities than from even his familiar intercourse with the world. but he could not extemporize a speech. he could not on the spur of the moment string together the more or less set phrases which an after-dinner oration demands. all his friends knew this, and spared him the necessity of refusing. he had once a headache all day, because at a dinner, the night before, a false report had reached him that he was going to be asked to speak. this alone would have sufficed to prevent him from accepting any public post. he confesses the disability in a pretty note to professor knight, written in reference to a recent meeting of the wordsworth society. , warwick crescent, w.: may , ' . my dear professor knight,--i seem ungracious and ungrateful, but am neither; though, now that your festival is over, i wish i could have overcome my scruples and apprehensions. it is hard to say--when kind people press one to 'just speak for a minute'--that the business, so easy to almost anybody, is too bewildering for oneself. ever truly yours, robert browning. a rectorial address need probably not have been extemporized, but it would also have been irksome to him to prepare. he was not accustomed to uttering himself in prose except within the limits, and under the incitements, of private correspondence. the ceremonial publicity attaching to all official proceedings would also have inevitably been a trial to him. he did at one of the wordsworth society meetings speak a sentence from the chair, in the absence of the appointed chairman, who had not yet arrived; and when he had received his degree from the university of edinburgh he was persuaded to say a few words to the assembled students, in which i believe he thanked them for their warm welcome; but such exceptions only proved the rule. we cannot doubt that the excited stream of talk which sometimes flowed from him was, in the given conditions of mind and imagination, due to a nervous impulse which he could not always restrain; and that the effusiveness of manner with which he greeted alike old friends and new, arose also from a momentary want of self-possession. we may admit this the more readily that in both cases it was allied to real kindness of intention, above all in the latter, where the fear of seeming cold towards even a friend's friend, strove increasingly with the defective memory for names and faces which were not quite familiar to him. he was also profoundly averse to the idea of posing as a man of superior gifts; having indeed, in regard to social intercourse, as little of the fastidiousness of genius as of its bohemianism. he, therefore, made it a rule, from the moment he took his place as a celebrity in the london world, to exert himself for the amusement of his fellow-guests at a dinner-table, whether their own mental resources were great or small; and this gave rise to a frequent effort at conversation, which converted itself into a habit, and ended by carrying him away. this at least was his own conviction in the matter. the loud voice, which so many persons must have learned to think habitual with him, bore also traces of this half-unconscious nervous stimulation.* it was natural to him in anger or excitement, but did not express his gentler or more equable states of feeling; and when he read to others on a subject which moved him, his utterance often subsided into a tremulous softness which left it scarcely audible. * miss browning reminds me that loud speaking had become natural to him through the deafness of several of his intimate friends: landor, kirkup, barry cornwall, and previously his uncle reuben, whose hearing had been impaired in early life by a blow from a cricket ball. this fact necessarily modifies my impression of the case, but does not quite destroy it. the mental conditions under which his powers of sympathy were exercised imposed no limits on his spontaneous human kindness. this characteristic benevolence, or power of love, is not fully represented in mr. browning's works; it is certainly not prominent in those of the later period, during which it found the widest scope in his life; but he has in some sense given its measure in what was intended as an illustration of the opposite quality. he tells us, in 'fifine at the fair', that while the best strength of women is to be found in their love, the best product of a man is only yielded to hate. it is the 'indignant wine' which has been wrung from the grape plant by its external mutilation. he could depict it dramatically in more malignant forms of emotion; but he could only think of it personally as the reaction of a nobler feeling which has been gratuitously outraged or repressed. he more directly, and still more truly, described himself when he said at about the same time, 'i have never at any period of my life been deaf to an appeal made to me in the name of love.' he was referring to an experience of many years before, in which he had even yielded his better judgment to such an appeal; and it was love in the larger sense for which the concession had been claimed. it was impossible that so genuine a poet, and so real a man, should be otherwise than sensitive to the varied forms of feminine attraction. he avowedly preferred the society of women to that of men; they were, as i have already said, his habitual confidants, and, evidently, his most frequent correspondents; and though he could have dispensed with woman friends as he dispensed with many other things--though he most often won them without knowing it--his frank interest in their sex, and the often caressing kindness of manner in which it was revealed, might justly be interpreted by individual women into a conscious appeal to their sympathy. it was therefore doubly remarkable that on the ground of benevolence, he scarcely discriminated between the claim on him of a woman, and that of a man; and his attitude towards women was in this respect so distinctive as to merit some words of notice. it was large, generous, and unconventional; but, for that very reason, it was not, in the received sense of the word, chivalrous. chivalry proceeds on the assumption that women not only cannot, but should not, take care of themselves in any active struggle with life; mr. browning had no theoretical objection to a woman's taking care of herself. he saw no reason why, if she was hit, she should not hit back again, or even why, if she hit, she should not receive an answering blow. he responded swiftly to every feminine appeal to his kindness or his protection, whether arising from physical weakness or any other obvious cause of helplessness or suffering; but the appeal in such cases lay first to his humanity, and only in second order to his consideration of sex. he would have had a man flogged who beat his wife; he would have had one flogged who ill-used a child--or an animal: he was notedly opposed to any sweeping principle or practice of vivisection. but he never quite understood that the strongest women are weak, or at all events vulnerable, in the very fact of their sex, through the minor traditions and conventions with which society justly, indeed necessarily, surrounds them. still less did he understand those real, if impalpable, differences between men and women which correspond to the difference of position. he admitted the broad distinctions which have become proverbial, and are therefore only a rough measure of the truth. he could say on occasion: 'you ought to _be_ better; you are a woman; i ought to _know_ better; i am a man.' but he had had too large an experience of human nature to attach permanent weight to such generalizations; and they found certainly no expression in his works. scarcely an instance of a conventional, or so-called man's woman, occurs in their whole range. excepting perhaps the speaker in 'a woman's last word', 'pompilia' and 'mildred' are the nearest approach to it; and in both of these we find qualities of imagination or thought which place them outside the conventional type. he instinctively judged women, both morally and intellectually, by the same standards as men; and when confronted by some divergence of thought or feeling, which meant, in the woman's case, neither quality nor defect in any strict sense of the word, but simply a nature trained to different points of view, an element of perplexity entered into his probable opposition. when the difference presented itself in a neutral aspect, it affected him like the casual peculiarities of a family or a group, or a casual disagreement between things of the same kind. he would say to a woman friend: 'you women are so different from men!' in the tone in which he might have said, 'you irish, or you scotch, are so different from englishmen;' or again, 'it is impossible for a man to judge how a woman would act in such or such a case; you are so different;' the case being sometimes one in which it would be inconceivable to a normal woman, and therefore to the generality of men, that she should act in any but one way. the vague sense of mystery with which the poet's mind usually invests a being of the opposite sex, had thus often in him its counterpart in a puzzled dramatic curiosity which constituted an equal ground of interest. this virtual admission of equality between the sexes, combined with his liberal principles to dispose him favourably towards the movement for female emancipation. he approved of everything that had been done for the higher instruction of women, and would, not very long ago, have supported their admission to the franchise. but he was so much displeased by the more recent action of some of the lady advocates of women's rights, that, during the last year of his life, after various modifications of opinion, he frankly pledged himself to the opposite view. he had even visions of writing a tragedy or drama in support of it. the plot was roughly sketched, and some dialogue composed, though i believe no trace of this remains. it is almost implied by all i have said, that he possessed in every mood the charm of perfect simplicity of manner. on this point he resembled his father. his tastes lay also in the direction of great simplicity of life, though circumstances did not allow of his indulging them to the same extent. it may interest those who never saw him to know that he always dressed as well as the occasion required, and always with great indifference to the subject. in florence he wore loose clothes which were adapted to the climate; in london his coats were cut by a good tailor in whatever was the prevailing fashion; the change was simply with him an incident of the situation. he had also a look of dainty cleanliness which was heightened by the smooth healthy texture of the skin, and in later life by the silvery whiteness of his hair. his best photographic likenesses were those taken by mr. fradelle in , mr. cameron and mr. william grove in and . chapter - marriage of mr. barrett browning--removal to de vere gardens--symptoms of failing strength--new poems; new edition of his works--letters to mr. george bainton, mr. smith, and lady martin--primiero and venice--letters to miss keep--the last year in london--asolo--letters to mrs. fitz-gerald, mrs. skirrow, and mr. g. m. smith. the last years of mr. browning's life were introduced by two auspicious events, in themselves of very unequal importance, but each in its own way significant for his happiness and his health. one was his son's marriage on october , , to miss fannie coddington, of new york, a lady towards whom mr. barrett browning had been strongly attracted when he was a very young man and she little more than a child; the other, his own removal from warwick crescent to de vere gardens, which took place in the previous june. the change of residence had long been with him only a question of opportunity. he was once even in treaty for a piece of ground at kensington, and intended building a house. that in which he had lived for so many years had faults of construction and situation which the lapse of time rendered only more conspicuous; the regent's canal bill had also doomed it to demolition; and when an opening presented itself for securing one in all essentials more suitable, he was glad to seize it, though at the eleventh hour. he had mentally fixed on the new locality in those earlier days in which he still thought his son might eventually settle in london; and it possessed at the same time many advantages for himself. it was warmer and more sheltered than any which he could have found on the north side of the park; and, in that close vicinity to kensington gardens, walking might be contemplated as a pleasure, instead of mere compulsory motion from place to place. it was only too soon apparent that the time had passed when he could reap much benefit from the event; but he became aware from the first moment of his installation in the new home that the conditions of physical life had become more favourable for him. he found an almost pathetic pleasure in completing the internal arrangements of the well-built, commodious house. it seems, on looking back, as if the veil had dropped before his eyes which sometimes shrouds the keenest vision in face of an impending change; and he had imagined, in spite of casual utterances which disclaimed the hope, that a new lease of life was being given to him. he had for several years been preparing for the more roomy dwelling which he would probably some day inhabit; and handsome pieces of old furniture had been stowed away in the house in warwick crescent, pending the occasion for their use. he loved antiquities of this kind, in a manner which sometimes recalled his father's affection for old books; and most of these had been bought in venice, where frequent visits to the noted curiosity-shops had been his one bond of habit with his tourist countrymen in that city. they matched the carved oak and massive gildings and valuable tapestries which had carried something of casa guidi into his first london home. brass lamps that had once hung inside chapels in some catholic church, had long occupied the place of the habitual gaselier; and to these was added in the following year one of silver, also brought from venice--the jewish 'sabbath lamp'. another acquisition, made only a few months, if indeed so long, before he left london for the last time, was that of a set of casts representing the seasons, which were to stand at intervals on brackets in a certain unsightly space on his drawing-room wall; and he had said of these, which i think his son was procuring for him: 'only my four little heads, and then i shall not buy another thing for the house'--in a tone of childlike satisfaction at his completed work. this summer he merely went to st. moritz, where he and his sister were, for the greater part of their stay, again guests of mrs. bloomfield moore. he was determined to give the london winter a fuller trial in the more promising circumstances of his new life, and there was much to be done in de vere gardens after his return. his father's six thousand books, together with those he had himself accumulated, were for the first time to be spread out in their proper array, instead of crowding together in rows, behind and behind each other. the new bookcases, which could stand in the large new study, were waiting to receive them. he did not know until he tried to fulfil it how greatly the task would tax his strength. the library was, i believe, never completely arranged. during this winter of - his friends first perceived that a change had come over him. they did not realize that his life was drawing to a close; it was difficult to do so when so much of the former elasticity remained; when he still proclaimed himself 'quite well' so long as he was not definitely suffering. but he was often suffering; one terrible cold followed another. there was general evidence that he had at last grown old. he, however, made no distinct change in his mode of life. old habits, suspended by his longer imprisonments to the house, were resumed as soon as he was set free. he still dined out; still attended the private view of every, or almost every art exhibition. he kept up his unceasing correspondence--in one or two cases voluntarily added to it; though he would complain day after day that his fingers ached from the number of hours through which he had held his pen. one of the interesting letters of this period was written to mr. george bainton, of coventry, to be used, as that gentleman tells me, in the preparation of a lecture on the 'art of effective written composition'. it confirms the statement i have had occasion to make, that no extraneous influence ever permanently impressed itself on mr. browning's style. , de vere gardens: oct. , ' . dear sir,--i was absent from london when your kind letter reached this house, to which i removed some time ago--hence the delay in acknowledging your kindness and replying, in some degree, to your request. all i can say, however, is this much--and very little--that, by the indulgence of my father and mother, i was allowed to live my own life and choose my own course in it; which, having been the same from the beginning to the end, necessitated a permission to read nearly all sorts of books, in a well-stocked and very miscellaneous library. i had no other direction than my parents' taste for whatever was highest and best in literature; but i found out for myself many forgotten fields which proved the richest of pastures: and, so far as a preference of a particular 'style' is concerned, i believe mine was just the same at first as at last. i cannot name any one author who exclusively influenced me in that respect,--as to the fittest expression of thought--but thought itself had many impulsions from very various sources, a matter not to your present purpose. i repeat, this is very little to say, but all in my power--and it is heartily at your service--if not as of any value, at least as a proof that i gratefully feel your kindness, and am, dear sir yours very truly, robert browning. in december he wrote 'rosny', the first poem in 'asolando', and that which perhaps most displays his old subtle dramatic power; it was followed by 'beatrice signorini' and 'flute-music'. of the 'bad dreams' two or three were also written in london, i think, during that winter. the 'ponte dell' angelo' was imagined during the next autumn in venice. 'white witchcraft' had been suggested in the same summer by a letter from a friend in the channel islands which spoke of the number of toads to be seen there. in the spring of he began revising his works for the last, and now entirely uniform edition, which was issued in monthly volumes, and completed by the july of . important verbal corrections were made in 'the inn album', though not, i think, in many of the later poems; but that in which he found most room for improvement was, very naturally, 'pauline'; and he wrote concerning it to mr. smith the following interesting letter. , de vere gardens, w.: feb. , ' . my dear smith,--when i received the proofs of the st. vol. on friday evening, i made sure of returning them next day--so accurately are they printed. but on looking at that unlucky 'pauline', which i have not touched for half a century, a sudden impulse came over me to take the opportunity of just correcting the most obvious faults of expression, versification and construction,--letting the _thoughts_--such as they are--remain exactly as at first: i have only treated the imperfect expression of these just as i have now and then done for an amateur friend, if he asked me and i liked him enough to do so. not a line is displaced, none added, none taken away. i have just sent it to the printer's with an explanatory word: and told him that he will have less trouble with all the rest of the volumes put together than with this little portion. i expect to return all the rest to-morrow or next day. as for the sketch--the portrait--it admits of no very superior treatment: but, as it is the only one which makes me out youngish,--i should like to know if an artist could not strengthen the thing by a pencil touch or two in a few minutes--improve the eyes, eyebrows, and mouth somewhat. the head too wants improvement: were pen here he could manage it all in a moment. ever truly yours, robert browning. any attempt at modifying the expressed thoughts of his twenty-first year would have been, as he probably felt, a futile tampering with the work of another man; his literary conscience would have forbidden this, if it had been otherwise possible. but he here proves by his own words what i have already asserted, that the power of detail correction either was, or had become by experience, very strong in him. the history of this summer of is partly given in a letter to lady martin. , de vere gardens, w.: aug. , ' . dear lady martin,--the date of your kind letter,--june ,--would affect me indeed, but for the good conscience i retain despite of appearances. so uncertain have i been as to the course we should take,--my sister and myself--when the time came for leaving town, that it seemed as if 'next week' might be the eventful week when all doubts would disappear--perhaps the strange cold weather and interminable rain made it hard to venture from under one's roof even in fancy of being better lodged elsewhere. this very day week it was the old story--cold--then followed the suffocating eight or nine tropical days which forbade any more delay, and we leave to-morrow for a place called primiero, near feltre--where my son and his wife assure us we may be comfortably--and coolly--housed, until we can accompany them to venice, which we may stay at for a short time. you remember our troubles at llangollen about the purchase of a venetian house . . . ? my son, however, nothing daunted, and acting under abler counsels than i was fortunate enough to obtain,* has obtained a still more desirable acquisition, in the shape of the well-known rezzonico palace (that of pope clement th)--and, i believe, is to be congratulated on his bargain. i cannot profess the same interest in this as in the earlier object of his ambition, but am quite satisfied by the evident satisfaction of the 'young people'. so,--by the old law of compensation,--while we may expect pleasant days abroad--our chance is gone of once again enjoying your company in your own lovely vale of llangollen;--had we not been pulled otherwise by the inducements we could not resist,--another term of delightful weeks--each tipped with a sweet starry sunday at the little church leading to the house beautiful where we took our rest of an evening spent always memorably--this might have been our fortunate lot once again! as it is, perhaps we need more energetic treatment than we should get with you --for both of us are more oppressed than ever by the exigencies of the lengthy season, and require still more bracing air than the gently lulling temperature of wales. may it be doing you, and dear sir theodore, all the good you deserve--throwing in the share due to us, who must forego it! with all love from us both, ever affectionately yours robert browning. * those of mr. alexander malcolm. he did start for italy on the following day, but had become so ill, that he was on the point of postponing his departure. he suffered throughout the journey as he had never suffered on any journey before; and during his first few days at primiero, could only lead the life of an invalid. he rallied, however, as usual, under the potent effects of quiet, fresh air, and sunshine; and fully recovered his normal state before proceeding to venice, where the continued sense of physical health combined with many extraneous circumstances to convert his proposed short stay into a long one. a letter from the mountains, addressed to a lady who had never been abroad, and to whom he sometimes wrote with more descriptive detail than to other friends, gives a touching glimpse of his fresh delight in the beauties of nature, and his tender constant sympathy with the animal creation. primiero: sept. , ' . . . . . . 'the weather continues exquisitely temperate, yet sunny, ever since the clearing thunderstorm of which i must have told you in my last. it is, i am more and more confirmed in believing, the most beautiful place i was ever resident in: far more so than gressoney or even st.-pierre de chartreuse. you would indeed delight in seeing the magnificence of the mountains,--the range on either side, which morning and evening, in turn, transmute literally to gold,--i mean what i say. their utterly bare ridges of peaks and crags of all shape, quite naked of verdure, glow like yellow ore; and, at times, there is a silver change, as the sun prevails or not. 'the valley is one green luxuriance on all sides; indian corn, with beans, gourds, and even cabbages, filling up the interstices; and the flowers, though not presenting any novelty to my uninstructed eyes, yet surely more large and purely developed than i remember to have seen elsewhere. for instance, the tiger-lilies in the garden here must be above ten feet high, every bloom faultless, and, what strikes me as peculiar, every leaf on the stalk from bottom to top as perfect as if no insect existed to spoil them by a notch or speck. . . . '. . . did i tell you we had a little captive fox,--the most engaging of little vixens? to my great joy she has broken her chain and escaped, never to be recaptured, i trust. the original wild and untameable nature was to be plainly discerned even in this early stage of the whelp's life: she dug herself, with such baby feet, a huge hole, the use of which was evident, when, one day, she pounced thence on a stray turkey--allured within reach by the fragments of fox's breakfast,--the intruder escaping with the loss of his tail. the creature came back one night to explore the old place of captivity,--ate some food and retired. for myself,--i continue absolutely well: i do not walk much, but for more than amends, am in the open air all day long.' no less striking is a short extract from a letter written in venice to the same friend, miss keep. ca' alvise: oct. , ' . 'every morning at six, i see the sun rise; far more wonderfully, to my mind, than his famous setting, which everybody glorifies. my bedroom window commands a perfect view: the still, grey lagune, the few seagulls flying, the islet of s. giorgio in deep shadow, and the clouds in a long purple rack, behind which a sort of spirit of rose burns up till presently all the rims are on fire with gold, and last of all the orb sends before it a long column of its own essence apparently: so my day begins.' we feel, as we read these late, and even later words, that the lyric imagination was renewing itself in the incipient dissolution of other powers. it is the browning of 'pippa passes' who speaks in them. he suffered less on the whole during the winter of - . it was already advanced when he returned to england; and the attacks of cold and asthma were either shorter or less frequent. he still maintained throughout the season his old social routine, not omitting his yearly visit, on the anniversary of waterloo, to lord albemarle, its last surviving veteran. he went for some days to oxford during the commemoration week, and had for the first, as also last time, the pleasure of dr. jowett's almost exclusive society at his beloved balliol college. he proceeded with his new volume of poems. a short letter written to professor knight, june , and of which the occasion speaks for itself, fitly closes the labours of his life; for it states his view of the position and function of poetry, in one brief phrase, which might form the text to an exhaustive treatise upon them. , de vere gardens, w.: june , . my dear professor knight,--i am delighted to hear that there is a likelihood of your establishing yourself in glasgow, and illustrating literature as happily as you have expounded philosophy at st. andrews. it is certainly the right order of things: philosophy first, and poetry, which is its highest outcome, afterward--and much harm has been done by reversing the natural process. how capable you are of doing justice to the highest philosophy embodied in poetry, your various studies of wordsworth prove abundantly; and for the sake of both literature and philosophy i wish you success with all my heart. believe me, dear professor knight, yours very truly, robert browning. but he experienced, when the time came, more than his habitual disinclination for leaving home. a distinct shrinking from the fatigue of going to italy now added itself to it; for he had suffered when travelling back in the previous winter, almost as much as on the outward journey, though he attributed the distress to a different cause: his nerves were, he thought, shaken by the wearing discomforts incidental on a broken tooth. he was for the first time painfully sensitive to the vibration of the train. he had told his friends, both in venice and london, that so far as he was able to determine, he would never return to italy. but it was necessary he should go somewhere, and he had no alternative plan. for a short time in this last summer he entertained the idea of a visit to scotland; it had indeed definitely shaped itself in his mind; but an incident, trivial in itself, though he did not think it so, destroyed the first scheme, and it was then practically too late to form another. during the second week in august the weather broke. there could no longer be any question of the northward journey without even a fixed end in view. his son and daughter had taken possession of their new home, the palazzo rezzonico, and were anxious to see him and miss browning there; their wishes naturally had weight. the casting vote in favour of venice was given by a letter from mrs. bronson, proposing asolo as the intermediate stage. she had fitted up for herself a little summer retreat there, and promised that her friends should, if they joined her, be also comfortably installed. the journey was this time propitious. it was performed without imprudent haste, and mr. browning reached asolo unfatigued and to all appearance well. he saw this, his first love among italian cities, at a season of the year more favourable to its beauty than even that of his first visit; yet he must himself have been surprised by the new rapture of admiration which it created in him, and which seemed to grow with his lengthened stay. this state of mind was the more striking, that new symptoms of his physical decline were now becoming apparent, and were in themselves of a depressing kind. he wrote to a friend in england, that the atmosphere of asolo, far from being oppressive, produced in him all the effects of mountain air, and he was conscious of difficulty of breathing whenever he walked up hill. he also suffered, as the season advanced, great inconvenience from cold. the rooms occupied by himself and his sister were both unprovided with fireplaces; and though the daily dinner with mrs. bronson obviated the discomfort of the evenings, there remained still too many hours of the autumnal day in which the impossibility of heating their own little apartment must have made itself unpleasantly felt. the latter drawback would have been averted by the fulfilment of mr. browning's first plan, to be in venice by the beginning of october, and return to the comforts of his own home before the winter had quite set in; but one slight motive for delay succeeded another, till at last a more serious project introduced sufficient ground of detention. he seemed possessed by a strange buoyancy--an almost feverish joy in life, which blunted all sensations of physical distress, or helped him to misinterpret them. when warned against the imprudence of remaining where he knew he suffered from cold, and believed, rightly or wrongly, that his asthmatic tendencies were increased, he would reply that he was growing acclimatized--that he was quite well. and, in a fitful or superficial sense, he must have been so. his letters of that period are one continuous picture, glowing with his impressions of the things which they describe. the same words will repeat themselves as the same subject presents itself to his pen; but the impulse to iteration scarcely ever affects us as mechanical. it seems always a fresh response to some new stimulus to thought or feeling, which he has received. these reach him from every side. it is not only the asolo of this peaceful later time which has opened before him, but the asolo of 'pippa passes' and 'sordello'; that which first stamped itself on his imagination in the echoes of the court life of queen catharine,* and of the barbaric wars of the eccelini. some of his letters dwell especially on these early historical associations: on the strange sense of reopening the ancient chronicle which he had so deeply studied fifty years before. the very phraseology of the old italian text, which i am certain he had never glanced at from that distant time, is audible in an account of the massacre of san zenone, the scene of which he has been visiting. to the same correspondent he says that his two hours' drive to asolo 'seemed to be a dream;' and again, after describing, or, as he thinks, only trying to describe some beautiful feature of the place, 'but it is indescribable!' * catharine cornaro, the dethroned queen of cyprus. a letter addressed to mrs. fitzgerald, october , , is in part a fitting sequel to that which he had written to her from the same spot, eleven years before. '. . . fortunately there is little changed here: my old albergo,--ruinous with earthquake--is down and done with--but few novelties are observable--except the regrettable one that the silk industry has been transported elsewhere--to cornuda and other places nearer the main railway. no more pippas--at least of the silk-winding sort! 'but the pretty type is far from extinct. 'autumn is beginning to paint the foliage, but thin it as well; and the sea of fertility all round our height, which a month ago showed pomegranates and figs and chestnuts,--walnuts and apples all rioting together in full glory,--all this is daily disappearing. i say nothing of the olive and the vine. i find the turret rather the worse for careful weeding--the hawks which used to build there have been "shot for food"--and the echo is sadly curtailed of its replies; still, things are the same in the main. shall i ever see them again, when--as i suppose--we leave for venice in a fortnight? . . .' in the midst of this imaginative delight he carried into his walks the old keen habits of observation. he would peer into the hedges for what living things were to be found there. he would whistle softly to the lizards basking on the low walls which border the roads, to try his old power of attracting them. on the th of october he wrote to mrs. skirrow, after some preliminary description: then--such a view over the whole lombard plain; not a site in view, or _approximate_ view at least, without its story. autumn is now painting all the abundance of verdure,--figs, pomegranates, chestnuts, and vines, and i don't know what else,--all in a wonderful confusion,--and now glowing with all the colours of the rainbow. some weeks back, the little town was glorified by the visit of a decent theatrical troop who played in a theatre _in_side the old palace of queen catharine cornaro--utilized also as a prison in which i am informed are at present full five if not six malefactors guilty of stealing grapes, and the like enormities. well, the troop played for a fortnight together exceedingly well--high tragedy and low comedy--and the stage-box which i occupied cost francs. the theatre had been out of use for six years, for we are out of the way and only a baiting-place for a company pushing on to venice. in fine, we shall stay here probably for a week or more,--and then proceed to pen, at the rezzonico; a month there, and then homewards! . . . i delight in finding that the beloved husband and precious friend manages to do without the old yoke about his neck, and enjoys himself as never anybody had a better right to do. i continue to congratulate him on his emancipation and ourselves on a more frequent enjoyment of his company in consequence.* give him my true love; take mine, dearest friend,--and my sister's love to you both goes with it. ever affectionately yours robert browning. * mr. skirrow had just resigned his post of master in chancery. the cry of 'homewards!' now frequently recurs in his letters. we find it in one written a week later to mr. g. m. smith, otherwise very expressive of his latest condition of mind and feeling. asolo, veneto, italia: oct. , ' . my dear smith,--i was indeed delighted to get your letter two days ago-- for there _are_ such accidents as the loss of a parcel, even when it has been despatched from so important a place as this city--for a regular city it is, you must know, with all the rights of one,--older far than rome, being founded by the euganeans who gave their name to the adjoining hills. 'fortified' is was once, assuredly, and the walls still surround it most picturesquely though mainly in utter ruin, and you even overrate the population, which does not now much exceed souls--in the city proper, that is--for the territory below and around contains some , . but we are at the very top of things, garlanded about, as it were, with a narrow line of houses,--some palatial, such as you would be glad to see in london,--and above all towers the old dwelling of queen cornaro, who was forced to exchange her kingdom of cyprus for this pretty but petty dominion where she kept state in a mimic court, with bembo, afterwards cardinal, for her secretary--who has commemorated the fact in his 'asolani' or dialogues inspired by the place: and i do assure you that, after some experience of beautiful sights in italy and elsewhere i know nothing comparable to the view from the queen's tower and palace, still perfect in every respect. whenever you pay pen and his wife the visit you are pledged to, * it will go hard but you spend five hours in a journey to asolo. the one thing i am disappointed in is to find that the silk-cultivation with all the pretty girls who were engaged in it are transported to cornuda and other places,--nearer the railway, i suppose: and to this may be attributed the decrease in the number of inhabitants. the weather when i wrote last _was_ 'blue and blazing--(at noon-day)--' but we share in the general plague of rain,--had a famous storm yesterday: while to-day is blue and sunny as ever. lastly, for your admonition: we _have_ a perfect telegraphic communication; and at the passage above, where i put a * i was interrupted by the arrival of a telegram: thank you all the same for your desire to relieve my anxiety. and now, to our immediate business-- which is only to keep thanking you for your constant goodness, present and future: do with the book just as you will. i fancy it is bigger in bulk than usual. as for the 'proofs'--i go at the end of the month to venice, whither you will please to send whatever is necessary. . . . i shall do well to say as little as possible of my good wishes for you and your family, for it comes to much the same thing as wishing myself prosperity: no matter, my sister's kindest regards shall excuse mine, and i will only add that i am, as ever, affectionately yours robert browning. a general quickening of affectionate impulse seemed part of this last leap in the socket of the dying flame. chapter proposed purchase of land at asolo--venice--letter to mr. g. moulton-barrett--lines in the 'athenaeum'--letter to miss keep--illness--death-- funeral ceremonial at venice--publication of 'asolando'--interment in poets' corner. he had said in writing to mrs. fitzgerald, 'shall i ever see them' (the things he is describing) 'again?' if not then, soon afterwards, he conceived a plan which was to insure his doing so. on a piece of ground belonging to the old castle, stood the shell of a house. the two constituted one property which the municipality of asolo had hitherto refused to sell. it had been a dream of mr. browning's life to possess a dwelling, however small, in some beautiful spot, which should place him beyond the necessity of constantly seeking a new summer resort, and above the alternative of living at an inn, or accepting--as he sometimes feared, abusing--the hospitality of his friends. he was suddenly fascinated by the idea of buying this piece of ground; and, with the efficient help which his son could render during his absence, completing the house, which should be christened 'pippa's tower'. it was evident, he said in one of his letters, that for his few remaining years his summer wanderings must always end in venice. what could he do better than secure for himself this resting-place by the way? his offer of purchase was made through mrs. bronson, to count loredano and other important members of the municipality, and their personal assent to it secured. but the town council was on the eve of re-election; no important business could be transacted by it till after this event; and mr. browning awaited its decision till the end of october at asolo, and again throughout november in venice, without fully understanding the delay. the vote proved favourable; but the night on which it was taken was that of his death. the consent thus given would have been only a first step towards the accomplishment of his wish. it was necessary that it should be ratified by the prefecture of treviso, in the district of which asolo lies; and mr. barrett browning, who had determined to carry on the negotiations, met with subsequent opposition in the higher council. this has now, however, been happily overcome. a comprehensive interest attaches to one more letter of the asolo time. it was addressed to mr. browning's brother-in-law, mr. george moulton-barrett. asolo, veneto: oct. , ' . my dear george,--it was a great pleasure to get your kind letter; though after some delay. we were not in the tyrol this year, but have been for six weeks or more in this little place which strikes me,--as it did fifty years ago, which is something to say, considering that, properly speaking, it was the first spot of italian soil i ever set foot upon-- having proceeded to venice by sea--and thence here. it is an ancient city, older than rome, and the scene of queen catharine cornaro's exile, where she held a mock court, with all its attendants, on a miniature scale; bembo, afterwards cardinal, being her secretary. her palace is still above us all, the old fortifications surround the hill-top, and certain of the houses are stately--though the population is not above , souls: the province contains many more of course. but the immense charm of the surrounding country is indescribable--i have never seen its like--the alps on one side, the asolan mountains all round,--and opposite, the vast lombard plain,--with indications of venice, padua, and the other cities, visible to a good eye on a clear day; while everywhere are sites of battles and sieges of bygone days, described in full by the historians of the middle ages. we have a valued friend here, mrs. bronson, who for years has been our hostess at venice, and now is in possession of a house here (built into the old city wall)--she was induced to choose it through what i have said about the beauties of the place: and through her care and kindness we are comfortably lodged close by. we think of leaving in a week or so for venice--guests of pen and his wife; and after a short stay with them we shall return to london. pen came to see us for a couple of days: i was hardly prepared for his surprise and admiration which quite equalled my own and that of my sister. all is happily well with them--their palazzo excites the wonder of everybody, so great is pen's cleverness, and extemporised architectural knowledge, as apparent in all he has done there; why, _why_ will you not go and see him there? he and his wife are very hospitable and receive many visitors. have i told you that there was a desecrated chapel which he has restored in honour of his mother-- putting up there the inscription by tommaseo now above casa guidi? fannie is all you say,--and most dear and precious to us all. . . . pen's medal to which you refer, is awarded to him in spite of his written renunciation of any sort of wish to contend for a prize. he will now resume painting and sculpture--having been necessarily occupied with the superintendence of his workmen--a matter capitally managed, i am told. for the rest, both sarianna and myself are very well; i have just sent off my new volume of verses for publication. the complete edition of the works of e. b. b. begins in a few days. the second part of this letter is very forcibly written, and, in a certain sense, more important than the first; but i suppress it by the desire of mr. browning's sister and son, and in complete concurrence with their judgment in the matter. it was a systematic defence of the anger aroused in him by a lately published reference to his wife's death; and though its reasonings were unanswerable as applied to the causes of his emotion, they did not touch the manner in which it had been displayed. the incident was one which deserved only to be forgotten; and if an injudicious act had not preserved its memory, no word of mine should recall it. since, however, it has been thought fit to include the 'lines to edward fitzgerald' in a widely circulated bibliography of mr. browning's works,* i owe it to him to say--what i believe is only known to his sister and myself--that there was a moment in which he regretted those lines, and would willingly have withdrawn them. this was the period, unfortunately short, which intervened between his sending them to the 'athenaeum', and their appearance there. when once public opinion had expressed itself upon them in its too extreme forms of sympathy and condemnation, the pugnacity of his mind found support in both, and regret was silenced if not destroyed. in so far as his published words remained open to censure, i may also, without indelicacy, urge one more plea in his behalf. that which to the merely sympathetic observer appeared a subject for disapprobation, perhaps disgust, had affected him with the directness of a sharp physical blow. he spoke of it, and for hours, even days, was known to feel it, as such. the events of that distant past, which he had lived down, though never forgotten, had flashed upon him from the words which so unexpectedly met his eye, in a vividness of remembrance which was reality. 'i felt as if she had died yesterday,' he said some days later to a friend, in half deprecation, half denial, of the too great fierceness of his reaction. he only recovered his balance in striking the counter-blow. that he could be thus affected at an age usually destructive of the more violent emotions, is part of the mystery of those closing days which had already overtaken him. * that contained in mr. sharp's 'life'. a still more recent publication gives the lines in full. by the first of november he was in venice with his son and daughter; and during the three following weeks was apparently well, though a physician whom he met at a dinner party, and to whom he had half jokingly given his pulse to feel, had learned from it that his days were numbered. he wrote to miss keep on the th of the month: '. . . mrs. bronson has bought a house at asolo, and beautified it indeed,--niched as it is in an old tower of the fortifications still partly surrounding the city (for a city it is), and eighteen towers, more or less ruinous, are still discoverable there: it is indeed a delightful place. meantime, to go on,--we came here, and had a pleasant welcome from our hosts--who are truly magnificently lodged in this vast palazzo which my son has really shown himself fit to possess, so surprising are his restorations and improvements: the whole is all but complete, decorated,--that is, renewed admirably in all respects. 'what strikes me as most noteworthy is the cheerfulness and comfort of the huge rooms. 'the building is warmed throughout by a furnace and pipes. 'yesterday, on the lido, the heat was hardly endurable: bright sunshine, blue sky,--snow-tipped alps in the distance. no place, i think, ever suited my needs, bodily and intellectual, so well. 'the first are satisfied--i am _quite_ well, every breathing inconvenience gone: and as for the latter, i got through whatever had given me trouble in london. . . .' but it was winter, even in venice, and one day began with an actual fog. he insisted, notwithstanding, on taking his usual walk on the lido. he caught a bronchial cold of which the symptoms were aggravated not only by the asthmatic tendency, but by what proved to be exhaustion of the heart; and believing as usual that his liver alone was at fault, he took little food, and refused wine altogether.* * he always declined food when he was unwell; and maintained that in this respect the instinct of animals was far more just than the idea often prevailing among human beings that a failing appetite should be assisted or coerced. he did not yield to the sense of illness; he did not keep his bed. some feverish energy must have supported him through this avoidance of every measure which might have afforded even temporary strength or relief. on friday, the th, he wrote to a friend in london that he had waited thus long for the final answer from asolo, but would wait no longer. he would start for england, if possible, on the wednesday or thursday of the following week. it was true 'he had caught a cold; he felt sadly asthmatic, scarcely fit to travel; but he hoped for the best, and would write again soon.' he wrote again the following day, declaring himself better. he had been punished, he said, for long-standing neglect of his 'provoking liver'; but a simple medicine, which he had often taken before, had this time also relieved the oppression of his chest; his friend was not to be uneasy about him; 'it was in his nature to get into scrapes of this kind, but he always managed, somehow or other, to extricate himself from them.' he concluded with fresh details of his hopes and plans. in the ensuing night the bronchial distress increased; and in the morning he consented to see his son's physician, dr. cini, whose investigation of the case at once revealed to him its seriousness. the patient had been removed two days before, from the second storey of the house, which the family then inhabited, to an entresol apartment just above the ground-floor, from which he could pass into the dining-room without fatigue. its lower ceilings gave him (erroneously) an impression of greater warmth, and he had imagined himself benefited by the change. a freer circulation of air was now considered imperative, and he was carried to mrs. browning's spacious bedroom, where an open fireplace supplied both warmth and ventilation, and large windows admitted all the sunshine of the grand canal. everything was done for him which professional skill and loving care could do. mrs. browning, assisted by her husband, and by a young lady who was then her guest,* filled the place of the trained nurses until these could arrive; for a few days the impending calamity seemed even to have been averted. the bronchial attack was overcome. mr. browning had once walked from the bed to the sofa; his sister, whose anxiety had perhaps been spared the full knowledge of his state, could send comforting reports to his friends at home. but the enfeebled heart had made its last effort. attacks of faintness set in. special signs of physical strength maintained themselves until within a few hours of the end. on wednesday, december , a consultation took place between dr. cini, dr. da vigna, and dr. minich; and the opinion was then expressed for the first time that recovery, though still possible, was not within the bounds of probability. weakness, however, rapidly gained upon him towards the close of the following day. two hours before midnight of this thursday, december , he breathed his last. * miss evelyn barclay, now mrs. douglas giles. he had been a good patient. he took food and medicine whenever they were offered to him. doctors and nurses became alike warmly interested in him. his favourite among the latter was, i think, the venetian, a widow, margherita fiori, a simple kindly creature who had known much sorrow. to her he said, about five hours before the end, 'i feel much worse. i know now that i must die.' he had shown at intervals a perception, even conviction, of his danger; but the excitement of the brain, caused by exhaustion on the one hand and the necessary stimulants on the other, must have precluded all systematic consciousness of approaching death. he repeatedly assured his family that he was not suffering. a painful and urgent question now presented itself for solution: where should his body find its last rest? he had said to his sister in the foregoing summer, that he wished to be buried wherever he might die: if in england, with his mother; if in france, with his father; if in italy, with his wife. circumstances all pointed to his removal to florence; but a recent decree had prohibited further interment in the english cemetery there, and the town had no power to rescind it. when this was known in venice, that city begged for itself the privilege of retaining the illustrious guest, and rendering him the last honours. for the moment the idea even recommended itself to mr. browning's son. but he felt bound to make a last effort in the direction of the burial at florence; and was about to despatch a telegram, in which he invoked the mediation of lord dufferin, when all difficulties were laid at rest by a message from the dean of westminster, conveying his assent to an interment in the abbey.* he had already telegraphed for information concerning the date of the funeral, with a view to the memorial service, which he intended to hold on the same day. nor would the further honour have remained for even twenty-four hours ungranted, because unasked, but for the belief prevailing among mr. browning's friends that there was no room for its acceptance. * the assent thus conveyed had assumed the form of an offer, and was characterized as such by the dean himself. it was still necessary to provide for the more immediate removal of the body. local custom forbade its retention after the lapse of two days and nights; and only in view of the special circumstances of the case could a short respite be granted to the family. arrangements were therefore at once made for a private service, to be conducted by the british chaplain in one of the great halls of the rezzonico palace; and by two o'clock of the following day, sunday, a large number of visitors and residents had assembled there. the subsequent passage to the mortuary island of san michele had been organized by the city, and was to display so much of the character of a public pageant as the hurried preparation allowed. the chief municipal officers attended the service. when this had been performed, the coffin was carried by eight firemen (pompieri), arrayed in their distinctive uniform, to the massive, highly decorated municipal barge (barca delle pompe funebri) which waited to receive it. it was guarded during the transit by four 'uscieri' in 'gala' dress, two sergeants of the municipal guard, and two of the firemen bearing torches: the remainder of these following in a smaller boat. the barge was towed by a steam launch of the royal italian marine. the chief officers of the city, the family and friends in their separate gondolas, completed the procession. on arriving at san michele, the firemen again received their burden, and bore it to the chapel in which its place had been reserved. when 'pauline' first appeared, the author had received, he never learned from whom, a sprig of laurel enclosed with this quotation from the poem, trust in signs and omens. very beautiful garlands were now piled about his bier, offerings of friendship and affection. conspicuous among these was the ceremonial structure of metallic foliage and porcelain flowers, inscribed 'venezia a roberto browning', which represented the municipality of venice. on the coffin lay one comprehensive symbol of the fulfilled prophecy: a wreath of laurel-leaves which his son had placed there. a final honour was decreed to the great english poet by the city in which he had died; the affixing of a memorial tablet to the outer wall of the rezzonico palace. since these pages were first written, the tablet has been placed. it bears the following inscription: a roberto browning morto in questo palazzo il dicembre venezia pose below this, in the right-hand corner appear two lines selected from his works: open my heart and you will see graved inside of it, 'italy'. nor were these the only expressions of italian respect and sympathy. the municipality of florence sent its message of condolence. asolo, poor in all but memories, itself bore the expenses of a mural tablet for the house which mr. browning had occupied. it is now known that signor crispi would have appealed to parliament to rescind the exclusion from the florentine cemetery, if the motive for doing so had been less promptly removed. mr. browning's own country had indeed opened a way for the reunion of the husband and wife. the idea had rapidly shaped itself in the public mind that, since they might not rest side by side in italy, they should be placed together among the great of their own land; and it was understood that the dean would sanction mrs. browning's interment in the abbey, if a formal application to this end were made to him. but mr. barrett browning could not reconcile himself to the thought of disturbing his mother's grave, so long consecrated to florence by her warm love and by its grateful remembrance; and at the desire of both surviving members of the family the suggestion was set aside. two days after his temporary funeral, privately and at night, all that remained of robert browning was conveyed to the railway station; and thence, by a trusted servant, to england. the family followed within twenty-four hours, having made the necessary preparations for a long absence from venice; and, travelling with the utmost speed, arrived in london on the same day. the house in de vere gardens received its master once more. 'asolando' was published on the day of mr. browning's death. the report of his illness had quickened public interest in the forthcoming work, and his son had the satisfaction of telling him of its already realized success, while he could still receive a warm, if momentary, pleasure from the intelligence. the circumstances of its appearance place it beyond ordinary criticism; they place it beyond even an impartial analysis of its contents. it includes one or two poems to which we would gladly assign a much earlier date; i have been told on good authority that we may do this in regard to one of them. it is difficult to refer the 'epilogue' to a coherent mood of any period of its author's life. it is certain, however, that by far the greater part of the little volume was written in - , and i believe all that is most serious in it was the product of the later year. it possesses for many readers the inspiration of farewell words; for all of us it has their pathos. he was buried in westminster abbey, in poets' corner, on the st of december, . in this tardy act of national recognition england claimed her own. a densely packed, reverent and sympathetic crowd of his countrymen and countrywomen assisted at the consignment of the dead poet to his historic resting place. three verses of mrs. browning's poem, 'the sleep', set to music by dr. bridge, were sung for the first time on this occasion. conclusion a few words must still be said upon that purport and tendency of robert browning's work, which has been defined by a few persons, and felt by very many as his 'message'. the definition has been disputed on the ground of art. we are told by mr. sharp, though in somewhat different words, that the poet, qua poet, cannot deliver a 'message' such as directly addresses itself to the intellectual or moral sense; since his special appeal to us lies not through the substance, but through the form, or presentment, of what he has had to say; since, therefore (by implication), in claiming for it an intellectual--as distinct from an aesthetic--character, we ignore its function as poetry. it is difficult to argue justly, where the question at issue turns practically on the meaning of a word. mr. sharp would, i think, be the first to admit this; and it appears to me that, in the present case, he so formulates his theory as to satisfy his artistic conscience, and yet leave room for the recognition of that intellectual quality so peculiar to mr. browning's verse. but what one member of the aesthetic school may express with a certain reserve is proclaimed unreservedly by many more; and mr. sharp must forgive me, if for the moment i regard him as one of these; and if i oppose his arguments in the words of another poet and critic of poetry, whose claim to the double title is i believe undisputed--mr. roden noel. i quote from an unpublished fragment of a published article on mr. sharp's 'life of browning'. 'browning's message is an integral part of himself as writer; (whether as poet, since we agree that he is a poet, were surely a too curious and vain discussion;) but some of his finest things assuredly are the outcome of certain very definite personal convictions. "the question," mr. sharp says, "is not one of weighty message, but of artistic presentation." there seems to be no true contrast here. "the primary concern of the artist must be with his vehicle of expression"--no--not the primary concern. since the critic adds--(for a poet) "this vehicle is language emotioned to the white heat of rhythmic music by impassioned thought or sensation." exactly--"thought" it may be. now part of this same "thought" in browning is the message. and therefore it is part of his "primary concern". "it is with presentment," says mr. sharp, "that the artist has fundamentally to concern himself." granted: but it must surely be presentment of _something_. . . . i do not understand how to separate the substance from the form in true poetry. . . . if the message be not well delivered, it does not constitute literature. but if it be well delivered, the primary concern of the poet lay with the message after all!' more cogent objection has been taken to the character of the 'message' as judged from a philosophic point of view. it is the expression or exposition of a vivid a priori religious faith confirmed by positive experience; and it reflects as such a double order of thought, in which totally opposite mental activities are often forced into co-operation with each other. mr. sharp says, this time quoting from mr. mortimer ('scottish art review', december ): 'his position in regard to the thought of the age is paradoxical, if not inconsistent. he is in advance of it in every respect but one, the most important of all, the matter of fundamental principles; in these he is behind it. his processes of thought are often scientific in their precision of analysis; the sudden conclusion which he imposes upon them is transcendental and inept.' this statement is relatively true. mr. browning's positive reasonings often do end with transcendental conclusions. they also start from transcendental premises. however closely his mind might follow the visible order of experience, he never lost what was for him the consciousness of a supreme eternal will as having existed before it; he never lost the vision of an intelligent first cause, as underlying all minor systems of causation. but such weaknesses as were involved in his logical position are inherent to all the higher forms of natural theology when once it has been erected into a dogma. as maintained by mr. browning, this belief held a saving clause, which removed it from all dogmatic, hence all admissible grounds of controversy: the more definite or concrete conceptions of which it consists possessed no finality for even his own mind; they represented for him an absolute truth in contingent relations to it. no one felt more strongly than he the contradictions involved in any conceivable system of divine creation and government. no one knew better that every act and motive which we attribute to a supreme being is a virtual negation of his existence. he believed nevertheless that such a being exists; and he accepted his reflection in the mirror of the human consciousness, as a necessarily false image, but one which bears witness to the truth. his works rarely indicate this condition of feeling; it was not often apparent in his conversation. the faith which he had contingently accepted became absolute for him from all practical points of view; it became subject to all the conditions of his humanity. on the ground of abstract logic he was always ready to disavow it; the transcendental imagination and the acknowledged limits of human reason claimed the last word in its behalf. this philosophy of religion is distinctly suggested in the fifth parable of 'ferishtah's fancies'. but even in defending what remains, from the most widely accepted point of view, the validity of mr. browning's 'message', we concede the fact that it is most powerful when conveyed in its least explicit form; for then alone does it bear, with the full weight of his poetic utterance, on the minds to which it is addressed. his challenge to faith and hope imposes itself far less through any intellectual plea which he can advance in its support, than through the unconscious testimony of all creative genius to the marvel of conscious life; through the passionate affirmation of his poetic and human nature, not only of the goodness and the beauty of that life, but of its reality and its persistence. we are told by mr. sharp that a new star appeared in orion on the night on which robert browning died. the alleged fact is disproved by the statement of the astronomer royal, to whom it has been submitted; but it would have been a beautiful symbol of translation, such as affectionate fancy might gladly cherish if it were true. it is indeed true that on that twelfth of december, a vivid centre of light and warmth was extinguished upon our earth. the clouded brightness of many lives bears witness to the poet spirit which has departed, the glowing human presence which has passed away. we mourn the poet whom we have lost far less than we regret the man: for he had done his appointed work; and that work remains to us. but the two beings were in truth inseparable. the man is always present in the poet; the poet was dominant in the man. this fact can never be absent from our loving remembrance of him. no just estimate of his life and character will fail to give it weight. index [the index is included only as a rough guide to what is in this book. the numbers in brackets indicate the number of index entries: as each reference, short or long, is counted as one, the numbers may be misleading if observed too closely.] abel, mr. (musician) [ ] adams, mrs. sarah flower [ ] albemarle, lord [ ] alford, lady marian [ ] allingham, mr. william [ ] american appreciation of browning [ ] ampere, m. [ ] ancona [ ] anderson, mr. (actor) [ ] arnold, matthew [ ] arnould, mr. (afterwards sir joseph) [ ] ashburton, lady [ ] asolo [ ] associated societies of edinburgh, the [ ] athenaeum, the (review of 'pauline') [ ] audierne (finisterre, brittany) [ ] azeglio, massimo d' [ ] balzac's works, the brownings' admiration of [ ] barrett, miss arabel [ ] barrett, miss henrietta (afterwards mrs. surtees cook [altham]) [ ] barrett, mr. (the poet's father-in-law) [ ] barrett, mr. laurence (actor) [ ] bartoli's 'de' simboli trasportati al morale' [ ] benckhausen, mr. (russian consul-general) [ ] benzon, mr. ernest [ ] beranger, m. [ ] berdoe, dr. edward: his paper on 'paracelsus, the reformer of medicine' [ ] biarritz [ ] blackwood's magazine (on 'a blot in the 'scutcheon') [ ] blagden, miss isa [ ] blundell, dr. (physician) [ ] boyle, dean (salisbury) [ ] boyle, miss (niece of the earl of cork) [ ] bridell-fox, mrs. [ ] bronson, mrs. arthur [ ] browning, robert (grandfather of the poet): account of his life, two marriages, and two families [ ] browning, mrs. (step-grandmother of the poet) [ ] browning, robert (father of the poet): marriage; clerk in the bank of england; comparison between him and his son; scholarly and artistic tastes; simplicity and genuineness of his character; his strong health; mr. locker-lampson's account of him; his religious opinions; renewed relations with his father's widow and second family; death [ ] browning, mrs. (the poet's mother): her family; her nervous temperament transmitted to her son; her death [ ] browning, mr. reuben (the poet's uncle), (incl. lord beaconsfield's appreciation of his latinity) [ ] browning, mr. william shergold (the poet's uncle), (incl. his literary work) [ ] browning, miss jemima (the poet's aunt) [ ] browning, miss (the poet's sister), (incl. comes to live with her brother) [ ] browning, robert: - --the notion of his jewish extraction disproved; his family anciently established in dorsetshire; his carelessness as to genealogical record; account of his grandfather's life and second marriage; his father's unhappy youth; his paternal grandmother; his father's position; comparison of father and son; the father's use of grotesque rhymes in teaching him; qualities he inherited from his mother; weak points in regard to health throughout his life; characteristics in early childhood; great quickness in learning; an amusing prank; passion for his mother; fondness for animals; his collections; experiences of school life; extensive reading in his father's library; early acquaintance with old books; his early attempts in verse; spurious poems in circulation; 'incondita', the production of the twelve-year-old poet; introduction to mr. fox; his boyish love and lasting affection for miss flower; first acquaintance with shelley's and keats' works; his admiration for shelley; home education under masters, his manly accomplishments; his studies chiefly literary; love of home; associates of his youth: arnould and domett; the silverthornes; his choice of poetry as a profession; other possible professions considered; admiration for good acting; his father's support in his literary career; reads and digests johnson's dictionary by way of preparation [ ] browning, robert: - --publication of 'pauline'; correspondence with mr. fox; the poet's later opinion of it; characteristics of the poem; mr. fox's review of it; other notices; browning's visit to russia; contributions to the 'monthly repository': his first sonnet; the 'trifler' (amateur periodical); a comic defence of debt; preparing to publish 'paracelsus'; friendship with count de ripert-monclar; browning's treatment of 'paracelsus'; the original preface; john forster's article on it in the 'examiner' [ ] browning, robert: - --removal of the family to hatcham; renewed intimacy with his grandfather's second family; friendly relations with carlyle; recognition by men of the day; introduction to macready; first meeting with forster; miss euphrasia fanny haworth; at the 'ion' supper; prospects of 'strafford'; its production and reception; a personal description of him at this period; mr. john robertson and the 'westminster review' [ ] browning, robert: - --first italian journey; a striking experience of the voyage; preparations for writing other tragedies; meeting with mr. john kenyon; appearance of 'sordello'; mental developments; 'pippa passes'; alfred domett on the critics; 'bells and pomegranates'; explanation of its title. list of the poems; 'a blot in the 'scutcheon', written for macready; browning's later account and discussion of the breach between him and macready; 'colombe's birthday'; other dramas; the 'dramatic lyrics'; 'the lost leader'; browning's life before his second italian journey; in naples; visit to mr. trelawney at leghorn [ ] browning, robert: - --introduction to miss barrett; his admiration for her poetry; his proposal to her; reasons for concealing the engagement; their marriage; journey to italy; life at pisa; florence; browning's request for appointment on a british mission to the vatican; settling in casa guidi; fano and ancona; 'a blot in the 'scutcheon' at sadler's wells; birth of browning's son, and death of his mother; wanderings in italy: the baths of lucca; venice; friendship with margaret fuller ossoli; winter in paris; carlyle; george sand. close friendship with m. joseph milsand; milsand's appreciation of browning; new edition of browning's poems; 'christmas eve and easter day'; the essay on shelley; summer in london; introduction to dante g. rossetti; again in florence; production of 'colombe's birthday' ( ); again at lucca, mr. and mrs. w. story; first winter in rome; the kembles; again in london ( ): tennyson, ruskin [ ] browning, robert: - --publication of 'men and women'; 'karshook'; 'two in the campagna'; another winter in paris: lady elgin; legacies to the brownings from mr. kenyon; mr. browning's little son; a carnival masquerade; spiritualism; 'sludge the medium'; count ginnasi's clairvoyance; at siena; walter savage landor; illness of mrs. browning; american appreciation of browning's works; his social life in rome; last winter in rome; madame du quaire; mrs. browning's illness and death; the comet of [ ] browning, robert: - --miss blagden's helpful sympathy; journey to england; feeling in regard to funeral ceremonies; established in london with his son; miss arabel barrett; visit to biarritz; origin of 'the ring and the book'; his views as to the publication of letters; new edition of his works, selection of poems. residence at pornic; a meeting at mr. f. palgrave's; his literary position in ; his own estimate of it; death of his father; with his sister at le croisic; academic honours: letter to the master of balliol (dr. scott); curious circumstance connected with the death of miss a. barrett; at audierne; the uniform edition of his works; publication of 'the ring and the book'; inspiration of pompilia [ ] browning, robert: - --'helen's tower'; at st.-aubin; escape from france during the war ( ); publication of 'balaustion's adventure' and 'prince hohenstiel-schwangau'; 'herve riel' sold for the benefit of french sufferers by the war; 'fifine at the fair'; mistaken theories of that work; 'red cotton nightcap country' [ ] browning, robert: - --his manner of life in london; his love of music; friendship with miss egerton-smith; summers spent at mers, villers, isle of arran, and la saisiaz; 'aristophanes' apology'; 'pacchiarotto', 'the inn album', the translation of the 'agamemnon'; description of a visit to oxford; visit to cambridge; offered the rectorships of the universities of glasgow and st. andrews; description of la saisiaz; sudden death of miss egerton-smith; the poem 'la saisiaz': browning's position towards christianity; 'the two poets of croisic', and selections from his works [ ] browning, robert: - --he revisits italy; spluegen; asolo; venice; favourite alpine retreats; friendly relations with mrs. arthur bronson; life in venice; a tragedy at saint-pierre; the first series of 'dramatic idyls'; the second series, 'jocoseria', and 'ferishtah's fancies' [ ] browning, robert: - --the browning society; browning's attitude in regard to it; similar societies in england and america; wide diffusion of browning's works in america; lines for the gravestone of mr. levi thaxter; president of the new shakspere society, and member of the wordsworth society; honorary president of the associated societies of edinburgh; appreciation of his works in italy; sonnet to goldoni; attempt to purchase the palazzo manzoni, venice; saint-moritz; mrs. bloomfield moore; at llangollen; loss of old friends; foreign correspondent to the royal academy; publication of 'parleyings' [ ] browning, robert: his character--constancy in friendship; optimism and belief in a direct providence; political principles; character of his friendships; attitude towards his reviewers and his readers; attitude towards his works; his method of work; study of spanish, hebrew, and german; conversational powers and the stores of his memory; nervous peculiarities; his innate kindliness; attitude towards women; final views on the women's suffrage question [ ] browning, robert: his last years--marriage of his son; his change of abode; symptoms of declining strength; new poems, and revision of the old; journey to italy: primiero and venice; last winter in england: visit to balliol college; last visit to italy: asolo once more; proposed purchase of land there; the 'lines to edward fitzgerald'; with his son at palazzo rezzonico; last illness; death; funeral honours in italy; 'asolando' published on the day of his death; his burial in westminster abbey; the purport and tendency of his work [ ] browning, robert: letters to--bainton, mr. george (coventry) [ ] blagden, miss isa [ ] fitz-gerald, mrs. [ ] flower, miss [ ] fox, mr. [ ] haworth, miss e. f. [ ] hickey, miss e. h. [ ] hill, mr. frank (editor of the 'daily news') [ ] hill, mrs. frank [ ] keep, miss [ ] knight, professor (st. andrews) [ ] lee, miss (maidstone) [ ] leighton, mr. (afterwards sir frederic) [ ] martin, mrs. theodore (afterwards lady) [ ] moulton-barrett, mr. g. [ ] quaire, madame du [ ] robertson, mr. john (editor of 'westminster review', ) [ ] scott, rev. dr. [ ] skirrow, mrs. charles [ ] smith, mr. g. m. [ ] browning, robert: works of--'a blot in the 'scutcheon' [ ] 'a death in the desert' [ ] 'agamemnon' [ ] 'andrea del sarto' [ ] 'aristophanes' apology' [ ] 'artemis prologuizes' [ ] 'asolando' [ ] 'at the mermaid' [ ] 'a woman's last word' [ ] 'bad dreams' [ ] 'balaustion's adventure' [ ] 'bean stripes' [ ] 'beatrice signorini' [ ] 'bells and pomegranates' (incl. meaning of the title, and list of the dramas and poems) [ ] 'ben karshook's wisdom' [ ] 'bishop blougram' [ ] 'by the fireside' [ ] 'childe roland' [ ] 'christmas eve and easter day' [ ] 'cleon' [ ] 'colombe's birthday' [ ] 'crescentius, the pope's legate' [ ] 'cristina' [ ] 'dramatic idyls' [ ] 'dramatic lyrics' [ ] 'dramatis personae' [ ] 'essay on shelley' [ ] 'ferishtah's fancies' [ ] 'fifine at the fair' [ ] 'flute-music' [ ] 'goldoni', sonnet to [ ] 'helen's tower' (sonnet) [ ] 'herve riel' (ballad) [ ] 'home thoughts from the sea' [ ] 'how they brought the good news from ghent to aix' [ ] 'in a balcony' [ ] 'in a gondola' [ ] 'ivan ivanovitch' [ ] 'james lee's wife' [ ] 'jocoseria' [ ] 'johannes agricola in meditation' [ ] 'king victor and king charles' [ ] 'la saisiaz' [ ] 'luria' [ ] 'madhouse cells' [ ] 'martin relph' [ ] 'may and death' [ ] 'men and women' [ ] 'ned bratts' [ ] 'numpholeptos' [ ] 'one word more' [ ] 'pacchiarotto' [ ] 'paracelsus' [ ] 'parleyings' [ ] 'pauline' [ ] 'pippa passes' (incl. the preface to) [ ] 'ponte dell' angelo' [ ] 'porphyria's lover' [ ] 'prince hohenstiel-schwangau' [ ] 'red cotton nightcap country' [ ] 'rosny' [ ] 'saint martin's summer' [ ] 'saul' [ ] 'sludge the medium' [ ] 'sordello' [ ] 'strafford' [ ] 'the epistle of karshish' [ ] 'the flight of the duchess' [ ] 'the inn album' [ ] 'the lost leader' [ ] 'the pied piper of hamelin' [ ] 'the return of the druses' [ ] 'the ring and the book' [ ] 'the two poets of croisic' [ ] 'the worst of it' [ ] 'two in the campagna' [ ] 'white witchcraft' [ ] 'why i am a liberal' (sonnet) [ ] 'women and roses' [ ] browning, mrs. (the poet's wife: elizabeth barrett moulton-barrett): browning's introduction to her; her ill health; the reasons for their secret marriage; causes of her ill health; happiness of her married life; estrangement from her father; her visit to mrs. theodore martin; 'aurora leigh': her methods of work; a legacy from mr. kenyon; her feeling about spiritualism; success of 'aurora leigh'; her sister's illness and death; her own death; proposed reinterment in westminster abbey [ ] browning, mrs.: extracts from her letters--on her husband's devotion; life in pisa, and on french literature; vallombrosa; their acquaintances in florence; their dwelling in piazza pitti; 'father prout's' cure for a sore throat; apartments in the casa guidi; visits to fano and ancona; phelps's production of 'a blot in the 'scutcheon'; birth of her son; the effect of his mother's death on her husband; wanderings in northern italy; the neighbourhood of lucca; venice; life in paris ( ); esteem for her husband's family; description of george sand; the personal appearance of that lady; her impression of m. joseph milsand; the first performance of 'colombe's birthday' ( ); rome: death in the story family; mrs. sartoris and the kembles; society in rome; a visit to mr. ruskin; about 'penini'; description of a carnival masquerade (florence, ); impressions of landor; tribute to the unselfish character of her father-in-law; on her husband's work; on the contrast of his (then) appreciation in england and america; massimo d' azeglio; on her sister henrietta (mrs. surtees cook); on the death of count cavour [ ] browning, mr. robert wiedemann barrett (the poet's son): his birth; incidents of his childhood; his pet-name--penini, peni, pen; in charge of miss isa blagden on his mother's death; taken to england by his father; manner of his education; studying art in antwerp; with his father in venice ( ); his marriage; purchase of the rezzonico palace (venice); death of his father there [ ] browning, mrs. r. barrett [ ] browning, mr. robert jardine (crown prosecutor in new south wales) [ ] browning society, the: its establishment [ ] brownlow, lord [ ] bruce, lady augusta [ ] bruce, lady charlotte (wife of mr. f. locker) [ ] buckstone, mr. (actor) [ ] buloz, m. [ ] burne jones, mr. [ ] burns, major (son of the poet) [ ] californian railway time-table edition of browning's poems [ ] cambo [ ] cambridge, browning's visit to [ ] campbell dykes, mr. j. [ ] carducci, countess (rome) [ ] carlyle, mr. thomas [ ] carlyle, mrs. thomas (incl. anecdote) [ ] carnarvon, lord [ ] carnival masquerade, a [ ] cartwright, mr. and mrs. (of aynhoe) [ ] casa guidi (browning's residence at florence) [ ] cattermole, mr. [ ] cavour, count, death of [ ] channel, mr. (afterwards sir william), and frank [ ] chapman & hall, messrs. (publishers) [ ] cholmondeley, mr. (condover) [ ] chorley, mr. [ ] cini, dr. (venice) [ ] clairvoyance, an instance of [ ] coddington, miss fannie (afterwards mrs. r. barrett browning) [ ] colvin, mr. sidney [ ] corkran, mrs. fraser [ ] cornaro, catharine [ ] cornhill magazine: why 'herve riel' appeared in it [ ] corson, professor [ ] crosse, mrs. andrew [ ] 'croxall's fables', browning's early fondness for [ ] curtis, mr. [ ] dale, mr. (actor) [ ] davidson, captain (of the 'norham castle', ) [ ] davies, rev. llewellyn [ ] debt, browning's mock defence of (in the 'trifler') [ ] dickens, charles [ ] domett, alfred (incl. 'on a certain critique of pippa passes') [ ] dourlans, m. gustave [ ] doyle, sir francis h. [ ] dufferin, lord [ ] dulwich gallery [ ] eclectic review, the (review of browning's works) [ ] eden, mr. frederic [ ] egerton-smith, miss [ ] elgin, lady [ ] elstree (macready's residence) [ ] elton, mr. (actor) [ ] engadine, the [ ] examiner (review of 'paracelsus') [ ] fano [ ] 'father prout' (mr. mahoney) [ ] faucit, miss helen--as lady carlisle in 'strafford'; as mildred in 'a blot in the 'scutcheon'; as colombe in 'colombe's birthday' [ ] fiori, margherita (browning's nurse) [ ] fisher, mr. (artist) [ ] fitzgerald, mr. edward [ ] fitz-gerald, mrs. [ ] florence [ ] flower, miss [ ] flower, mr. benjamin (editor of the 'cambridge intelligencer') [ ] fontainebleau [ ] forster, mr. john [ ] fortia, marquis de [ ] fox, miss caroline [ ] fox, miss sarah [ ] fox, mr. w. j. (incl. election for oldham) [ ] furnivall, dr. [ ] gaisford, mr., and lady alice [ ] galuppi, baldassaro [ ] gibraltar [ ] ginnasi, count (ravenna) [ ] giustiniani-recanati, palazzo (venice) [ ] gladstone, mr. [ ] glasgow, university of [ ] goldoni, browning's sonnet to [ ] goltz, m. (austrian minister at rome) [ ] gosse's 'personalia' [ ] green, mr. [ ] gressoney saint-jean [ ] guerande (brittany) [ ] guidi palace (casa guidi) [ ] gurney, rev. archer [ ] hanmer, sir john (afterwards lord hanmer) [ ] haworth, miss euphrasia fanny [ ] haworth, mr. frederick [ ] hawthorne, nathaniel [ ] hazlitt, mr. [ ] heyermans, m. (artist; antwerp) [ ] hickey, miss e. h. [ ] hill, mr. frank (editor of the 'daily news', ) [ ] hood, mr. thomas [ ] horne, mr. [ ] hugo, victor [ ] ion, the ion supper [ ] jameson, mrs. anna [ ] jebb-dyke, mrs. [ ] jerningham, miss [ ] jersey [ ] jewsbury, miss geraldine [ ] joachim, professor [ ] jones, mr. edward burne [ ] jones, rev. thomas [ ] jowett, dr. [ ] kean, mr. edmund [ ] keats [ ] keepsake, the [ ] kemble, mrs. fanny [ ] kenyon, mr. john [ ] king, mr. joseph [ ] kirkup, mr. [ ] knight, professor (st. andrews) [ ] lamartine, m. de [ ] lamb, charles [ ] landor, walter savage [ ] la saisiaz [ ] layard, sir henry and lady [ ] le croisic (brittany) [ ] leigh hunt [ ] leighton, mr. (afterwards sir frederic) [ ] 'les charmettes' (chambery: rousseau's residence) [ ] le strange, mrs. guy [ ] lewis, miss (harpton) [ ] literary gazette (review of 'pauline') [ ] literary world, the boston, u.s. (on 'colombe's birthday') [ ] llangollen [ ] llantysilio church [ ] lloyd, captain [ ] locker, mr. f. (now mr. locker-lampson) [ ] lockhart [ ] lucca [ ] lyons, mr. (son of sir edmund) [ ] lytton, mr. (now lord) [ ] maclise, mr. (artist) [ ] macready, mr. [ ] macready, willy (eldest son of the actor): his illustrations to the 'pied piper' [ ] mahoney, rev. francis ('father prout') [ ] manning, rev. dr. (afterwards cardinal) [ ] manzoni palace (venice) [ ] martin, lady [ ] martin, sir theodore [ ] martineau, miss [ ] mazzini, signor [ ] melvill, rev. h. (afterwards canon) [ ] meredith, mr. george [ ] mill, mr. j. s. [ ] milnes, mr. monckton (afterwards lord houghton) [ ] milsand, m. joseph [ ] minich, dr. (venice) [ ] mitford, miss [ ] mocenigo, countess (venice) [ ] mohl, madame [ ] monthly repository (incl. browning's contributions to) [ ] moore, mrs. bloomfield [ ] morgan, lady [ ] morison, mr. james cotter [ ] mortimer, mr. [ ] moulton-barrett, mr. george [ ] moxon, mr. (publisher) [ ] murray, miss alma (actress) [ ] musset, alfred and paul de [ ] naples [ ] national magazine, the: mrs. browning's portrait in ( ) [ ] nencioni, professor (florence) [ ] nettleship, mr. j. t. [ ] new shakspere society [ ] noel, mr. roden [ ] ogle, dr. john [ ] ogle, miss (author of 'a lost love') [ ] osbaldistone, mr. (manager of covent garden theatre, ) [ ] ossoli, countess margaret fuller [ ] oxford (incl. browning's visit to, ) [ ] palgrave, mr. francis [ ] palgrave, mr. reginald [ ] paris [ ] patterson, monsignor [ ] phelps, mr. (actor) [ ] pirate-ship, wreck of [ ] pisa [ ] poetical contest, a roman [ ] pollock, sir frederick ( ) [ ] pornic [ ] powell, mr. thomas [ ] power, miss (editor of 'the keepsake') [ ] powers, mr. (american sculptor) [ ] primiero [ ] prinsep, mr. val [ ] pritchard, captain [ ] procter, mr. bryan waller (barry cornwall) [ ] quaire, madame du [ ] quarles' emblemes [ ] ravenna [ ] ready, the two misses, preparatory school [ ] ready, rev. thomas (browning's first schoolmaster) [ ] regan, miss [ ] reid, mr. andrew [ ] relfe, mr. john (musician) [ ] rezzonico palace (venice), the [ ] richmond, rev. thomas [ ] ripert-monclar, count de [ ] robertson, mr. john (editor of 'westminster review', ) [ ] robinson, miss mary (now mrs. james darmesteter) [ ] rome [ ] rossetti, mr. dante gabriel (incl. death of his wife) [ ] ruskin, mr. [ ] russell, lady william [ ] russell, mr. odo (afterwards lord ampthill) [ ] sabatier, madame [ ] saleve, the [ ] sand, george [ ] sartoris, mrs. [ ] saunders & otley, messrs. [ ] scott, rev. dr. (master of balliol, ) [ ] scotti, mr. [ ] scottish art review, the, mr. mortimer's 'note on browning' in [ ] seraverra [ ] sharp, mr. [ ] shelley (incl. browning's essay on; his grave) [ ] shrewsbury, lord [ ] sidgwick, mr. a. [ ] siena [ ] silverthorne, mrs. [ ] simeon, sir john [ ] smith, miss (second wife of the poet's grandfather) [ ] smith, mr. george murray [ ] southey [ ] spezzia [ ] spiritualism (incl. a pretending medium) [ ] spluegen [ ] st. andrews university [ ] st.-aubin (m. milsand's residence) [ ] st.-enogat (near dinard) [ ] st.-pierre la chartreuse (incl. a tragic occurrence there) [ ] stanley, dean [ ] stanley, lady augusta [ ] stendhal, henri [ ] sterling, mr. john [ ] stirling, mrs. (actress) [ ] story, mr. and mrs. william [ ] sturtevant, miss [ ] sue, eugene [ ] tablets, memorial [ ] tait's magazine [ ] talfourd, serjeant [ ] taylor, sir henry [ ] tennyson, mr. alfred (afterwards lord tennyson) [ ] tennyson, mr. frederick [ ] thackeray, miss annie [ ] thackeray, mr. w. m. [ ] thaxter, mrs. (celia) (boston, u.s.) [ ] thaxter, mr. levi (boston, u.s.) [ ] thomson, mr. james: his application of the term 'gothic' to browning's work [ ] tittle, miss margaret [ ] trelawney, mr. e. j. ( ) [ ] trifler, the (amateur magazine) [ ] true sun, the (review of 'strafford') [ ] universo, hotel dell' (venice) [ ] vallombrosa [ ] venice [ ] vigna, dr. da (venice) [ ] wagner [ ] warburton, mr. eliot [ ] watts, dr. [ ] westminster, dean of [ ] widman, counts [ ] wiedemann, mr. william [ ] williams, rev. j. d. w. (vicar of bottisham, cambs.) [ ] wilson (mrs. browning's maid) [ ] wilson, mr. effingham (publisher) [ ] wiseman, mrs. (mother of cardinal wiseman) [ ] wolseley, lady [ ] wolseley, lord [ ] woolner, mr. [ ] wordsworth [ ] wordsworth society, the [ ] [illustration] if this is borrowed by a friend right welcome shall he be to read, to study, _not_ to _lend_ but to return to me. not that imparted knowledge doth diminish learning's store but books i find if often lent return to me no more. every boy's library for little boys new edition, = the man without a country= by rev. e. e. hale = the bicycle highwaymen= by frank m. bicknell = the railroad cut= by w. o. stoddard = j. cole= by emma gellibrand = laddie= by evelyn whitaker = miss toosey= by evelyn whitaker = elder leland's ghost= by hezekiah butterworth = wonder book stories= by nathaniel hawthorne = the prince of the pin elves= by charles lee sleight = the little lame prince= by miss mulock = one thousand men for a christmas present= by mary b. sheldon = the little earl= by ouida = the double prince= by frank m. bicknell = the young archer= by charles e. brimblecom = little peterkin vandike= by charles stuart pratt = christmas carol= by charles dickens = a great emergency= by juliana horatia ewing = the rose and the ring= by william m. thackeray = lazy lawrence and other stories= by maria edgeworth = forgive and forget and other stories= by maria edgeworth = the false key and other stories= by maria edgeworth = a boy's battle= by will allen dromgoole = the gold bug= by edgar allan poe = the pineboro quartette= by willis boyd allen = his majesty the king and wee willie winkie= by rudyard kipling = the old monday farm= by louise r. baker = daddy darwin's dovecote= by juliana h. ewing = little dick's christmas= by etheldred b. barry = what paul did= by etheldred b. barry = harum scarum joe= by will allen dromgoole = the drums of the fore and aft= by rudyard kipling = the child of urbino and moufflou= by ouida = hero-chums= by will allen dromgoole = little tong's mission= by etheldred b. barry h. m. caldwell company publishers new york and boston [illustration: the pied piper of hamelin] every boy's library the pied piper of hamelin and other poems by robert browning [illustration] illustrated h. m. caldwell co. publishers new york & boston _copyright, _ by dana estes & company contents. page the pied piper of hamelin hervÉ riel cavalier tunes "how they brought the good news from ghent to aix" through the metidja to abd-el-kadr incident of the french camp clive mulÉykeh tray a tale gold hair donald the glove list of illustrations. page the pied piper of hamelin _frontispiece_ "'leave to go and see my wife, whom i call the belle aurore'" "i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three" "a rider bound on bound full galloping, nor bridle drew until he reached the mound" "hair, such a wonder of flix and floss" "and full in the face of its owner flung the glove" the boys' browning. the pied piper of hamelin. a child's story. i. hamelin town's in brunswick, by famous hanover city; the river weser, deep and wide, washes its wall on the southern side; a pleasanter spot you never spied; but, when begins my ditty, almost five hundred years ago, to see the townsfolk suffer so from vermin, was a pity. ii. rats! they fought the dogs and killed the cats, and bit the babies in the cradles, and ate the cheeses out of the vats, and licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, split open the kegs of salted sprats, made nests inside men's sunday hats, and even spoiled the women's chats by drowning their speaking with shrieking and squeaking in fifty different sharps and flats. iii. at last the people in a body to the town hall came flocking: "'tis clear," cried they, "our mayor's a noddy; and as for our corporation--shocking to think we buy gowns lined with ermine for dolts that can't or won't determine what's best to rid us of our vermin! you hope, because you're old and obese, to find in the furry civic robe ease? rouse up, sirs! give your brains a racking to find the remedy we're lacking, or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" at this the mayor and corporation quaked with a mighty consternation. iv. an hour they sat in council; at length the mayor broke silence: "for a guilder i'd my ermine gown sell, i wish i were a mile hence! it's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- i'm sure my poor head aches again, i've scratched it so, and all in vain. oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!" just as he said this, what should hap at the chamber-door but a gentle tap? "bless us," cried the mayor, "what's that?" (with the corporation as he sat, looking little though wondrous fat; nor brighter was his eye, nor moister than a too-long-opened oyster, save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous for a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "only a scraping of shoes on the mat? anything like the sound of a rat makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" v. "come in!"--the mayor cried, looking bigger: and in did come the strangest figure! his queer long coat from heel to head was half of yellow and half of red, and he himself was tall and thin, with sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, and light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, no tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, but lips where smiles went out and in; there was no guessing his kith and kin: and nobody could enough admire the tall man and his quaint attire. quoth one: "it's as my great-grandsire, starting up at the trump of doom's tone, had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" vi. he advanced to the council-table: and, "please your honours," said he, "i'm able, by means of a secret charm, to draw all creatures living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run, after me so as you never saw! and i chiefly use my charm on creatures that do people harm, the mole and toad and newt and viper; and people call me the pied piper." (and here they noticed round his neck a scarf of red and yellow stripe, to match with his coat of the self-same cheque; and at the scarf's end hung a pipe; and his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying as if impatient to be playing upon this pipe, as low it dangled over his vesture so old-fangled.) "yet," said he, "poor piper as i am, in tartary i freed the cham, last june, from his huge swarms of gnats; i eased in asia the nizam of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: and as for what your brain bewilders, if i can rid your town of rats will you give me a thousand guilders?" "one? fifty thousand!"--was the exclamation of the astonished mayor and corporation. vii. into the street the piper stept, smiling first a little smile, as if he knew what magic slept in his quiet pipe the while; then, like a musical adept, to blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, and green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; and ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, you heard as if an army muttered; and the muttering grew to a grumbling; and the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; and out of the houses the rats came tumbling. great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats grave old plodders, gay young friskers, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, cocking tails and pricking whiskers, families by tens and dozens, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- followed the piper for their lives. from street to street he piped advancing, and step for step they followed dancing, until they came to the river weser, wherein all plunged and perished! --save one who, stout as julius cæsar, swam across and lived to carry (as he, the manuscript he cherished) to rat-land home his commentary: which was, "at the first shrill notes of the pipe, i heard a sound as of scraping tripe, and putting apples, wondrous ripe, into a cider-press's gripe: and a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, and a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, and a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, and a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: and it seemed as if a voice (sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery is breathed) called out, 'oh, rats, rejoice! the world is grown to one vast drysaltery! so munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' and just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, all ready staved, like a great sun shone glorious scarce an inch before me, just as methought it said, 'come, bore me!' --i found the weser rolling o'er me." viii. you should have heard the hamelin people ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "go," cried the mayor, "and get long poles, poke out the nests and block up the holes! consult with carpenters and builders, and leave in our town not even a trace of the rats!"--when suddenly, up the face of the piper perked in the market-place, with a, "first, if you please, my thousand guilders!" ix. a thousand guilders! the mayor looked blue; so did the corporation, too. for council dinners made rare havoc with claret, moselle, vin-de-grave, hock; and half the money would replenish their cellar's biggest butt with rhenish. to pay this sum to a wandering fellow with a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "beside," quoth the mayor with a knowing wink, "our business was done at the river's brink; we saw with our eyes the vermin sink, and what's dead can't come to life, i think. so, friend, we're not the folks to shrink from the duty of giving you something for drink, and a matter of money to put in your poke; but as for the guilders, what we spoke of them, as you very well know, was in joke. beside, our losses have made us thrifty. a thousand guilders! come, take fifty!" x. the piper's face fell, and he cried, "no trifling! i can't wait, beside! i've promised to visit by dinner-time bagdat, and accept the prime of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in, for having left, in the caliph's kitchen, of a nest of scorpions no survivor: with him i proved no bargain-driver, with you, don't think i'll bate a stiver! and folks who put me in a passion may find me pipe after another fashion." xi. "how?" cried the mayor, "d'ye think i brook being worse treated than a cook? insulted by a lazy ribald with idle pipe and vesture piebald? you threaten us, fellow? do your worst, blow your pipe there till you burst!" xii. once more he stept into the street, and to his lips again laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; and ere he blew three notes (such sweet soft notes as yet musician's cunning never gave the enraptured air) there was a rustling that seemed like a bustling of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, and, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering, out came the children running. all the little boys and girls, with rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, and sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, tripping and skipping, ran merrily after the wonderful music with shouting and laughter. xiii. the mayor was dumb, and the council stood as if they were changed into blocks of wood, unable to move a step, or cry to the children merrily skipping by, --could only follow with the eye that joyous crowd at the piper's back. but how the mayor was on the rack, and the wretched council's bosoms beat, as the piper turned from the high street to where the weser rolled its waters right in the way of their sons and daughters! however, he turned from south to west, and to koppelberg hill his steps addressed, and after him the children pressed; great was the joy in every breast. "he never can cross that mighty top! he's forced to let the piping drop, and we shall see our children stop!" when, lo, as they reached the mountainside, a wondrous portal opened wide, as if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; and the piper advanced and the children followed, and when all were in to the very last, the door in the mountainside shut fast. did i say, all? no! one was lame, and could not dance the whole of the way; and in after years, if you would blame his sadness, he was used to say,-- "it's dull in our town since my playmates left! i can't forget that i'm bereft of all the pleasant sights they see, which the piper also promised me. for he led us, he said, to a joyous land, joining the town and just at hand, where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew and flowers put forth a fairer hue, and everything was strange and new; the sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, and their dogs outran our fallow deer, and honey-bees had lost their stings, and horses were born with eagles' wings: and just as i became assured my lame foot would be speedily cured, the music stopped and i stood still, and found myself outside the hill, left alone against my will, to go now limping as before, and never hear of that country more!" xiv. alas, alas for hamelin! there came into many a burgher's pate a text which says that heaven's gate opes to the rich at as easy rate as the needle's eye takes a camel in! the mayor sent east, west, north, and south, to offer the piper, by word of mouth, wherever it was men's lot to find him, silver and gold to his heart's content, if he'd only return the way he went, and bring the children behind him. but when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, and piper and dancers were gone for ever, they made a decree that lawyers never should think their records dated duly if, after the day of the month and year, these words did not as well appear, "and so long after what happened here on the twenty-second of july, thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" and the better in memory to fix the place of the children's last retreat, they called it, the pied piper's street-- where any one playing on pipe or tabour was sure for the future to lose his labour. nor suffered they hostelry or tavern to shock with mirth a street so solemn; but opposite the place of the cavern they wrote the story on a column, and on the great church-window painted the same, to make the world acquainted how their children were stolen away, and there it stands to this very day. and i must not omit to say that in transylvania there's a tribe of alien people who ascribe the outlandish ways and dress on which their neighbours lay such stress, to their fathers and mothers having risen out of some subterraneous prison into which they were trepanned long time ago in a mighty band out of hamelin town in brunswick land, but how or why, they don't understand. xv. so, willy, let me and you be wipers of scores out with all men--especially pipers! and, whether they pipe us free fróm rats or fróm mice, if we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! hervÉ riel. i. on the sea and at the hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, did the english fight the french,--woe to france! and, the thirty-first of may, helter-skelter through the blue, like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, came crowding ship on ship to saint malo on the rance, with the english fleet in view. ii. 'twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; first and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, damfreville; close on him fled, great and small, twenty-two good ships in all; and they signalled to the place "help the winners of a race! get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick--or, quicker still, here's the english can and will!" iii. then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, shall the _formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, and with flow at full beside? now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. reach the mooring? rather say, while rock stands or water runs, not a ship will leave the bay!" iv. then was called a council straight. brief and bitter the debate: "here's the english at our heels; would you have them take in tow all that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, for a prize to plymouth sound? better run the ships aground!" (ended damfreville his speech.) "not a minute more to wait! let the captains all and each shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! france must undergo her fate. v. "give the word!" but no such word was ever spoke or heard; for up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these --a captain? a lieutenant? a mate--first, second, third? no such man of mark, and meet with his betters to compete! but a simple breton sailor pressed by tourville for the fleet, a poor coasting-pilot he, hervé riel the croisickese. vi. and "what mockery or malice have we here?" cries hervé riel: "are you mad, you malouins? are you cowards, fools, or rogues? talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell on my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'twixt the offing here and grève where the river disembogues? are you bought by english gold? is it love the lying's for? morn and eve, night and day, have i piloted your bay, entered free and anchored fast at the foot of solidor. burn the fleet and ruin france? that were worse than fifty hogues! sirs, they know i speak the truth! sirs, believe me there's a way! only let me lead the line, have the biggest ship to steer, get this _formidable_ clear, make the others follow mine, and i lead them, most and least, by a passage i know well, right to solidor past grève, and there lay them safe and sound; and if one ship misbehave, --keel so much as grate the ground, why, i've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries hervé riel. vii. not a minute more to wait. "steer us in, then, small and great! take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. captains, give the sailor place! he is admiral, in brief. still the north wind, by god's grace! see the noble fellow's face as the big ship, with a bound, clears the entry like a hound, keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! see, safe through shoal and rock, how they follow in a flock, not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, not a spar that comes to grief! the peril, see, is past, all are harboured to the last, and just as hervé riel hollas "anchor!"--sure as fate, up the english come--too late! viii. so, the storm subsides to calm: they see the green trees wave on the heights o'erlooking grève. hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "just our rapture to enhance, let the english rake the bay, gnash their teeth and glare askance as they cannonade away! 'neath rampired solidor pleasant riding on the rance!" how hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! out burst all with one accord, "this is paradise for hell! let france, let france's king thank the man that did the thing!" what a shout, and all one word, "hervé riel!" as he stepped in front once more, not a symptom of surprise in the frank blue breton eyes, just the same man as before. ix. then said damfreville, "my friend, i must speak out at the end, though i find the speaking hard. praise is deeper than the lips: you have saved the king his ships, you must name your own reward. 'faith, our sun was near eclipse! demand whate'er you will, france remains your debtor still. ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not damfreville." x. then a beam of fun outbroke on the bearded mouth that spoke, as the honest heart laughed through those frank eyes of breton blue: "since i needs must say my say, since on board the duty's done, and from malo roads to croisic point, what is it but a run?-- since 'tis ask and have, i may-- since the others go ashore-- come! a good whole holiday! leave to go and see my wife, whom i call the belle aurore!" that he asked and that he got,--nothing more. xi. name and deed alike are lost: not a pillar nor a post in his croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; not a head in white and black on a single fishing-smack, in memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack all that france saved from the fight whence england bore the bell. go to paris: rank on rank search the heroes flung pell-mell on the louvre, face and flank! you shall look long enough ere you come to hervé riel. so, for better and for worse, hervé riel, accept my verse! in my verse, hervé riel, do thou once more save the squadron, honour france, love thy wife the belle aurore! [illustration: "'leave to go and see my wife, whom i call the belle aurore.'"] cavalier tunes. i. marching along. kentish sir byng stood for his king, bidding the crop-headed parliament swing: and, pressing a troop unable to stoop and see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, marched them along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. god for king charles! pym and such carles to the devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles! cavaliers, up! lips from the cup, hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup till you're-- chorus.--marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell. serve hazelrig, fiennes, and young harry as well! england, good cheer! rupert is near! kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, cho.--marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song? then, god for king charles! pym and his snarls to the devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! hold by the right, you double your might; so, onward to nottingham, fresh for the fight, cho.--march we along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! ii. give a rouse. king charles, and who'll do him right now? king charles, and who's ripe for fight now? give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, king charles! who gave me the goods that went since? who raised me the house that sank once? who helped me to gold i spent since? who found me in wine you drank once? cho.--king charles, and who'll do him right now? king charles, and who's ripe for fight now? give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, king charles! to whom used my boy george quaff else, by the old fool's side that begot him? for whom did he cheer and laugh else, while noll's damned troopers shot him? cho.--king charles, and who'll do him right now? king charles, and who's ripe for fight now? give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, king charles! iii. boot and saddle. boot, saddle, to horse, and away! rescue my castle before the hot day brightens to blue from its silvery gray. cho.--"boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; many's the friend there, will listen and pray "god's luck to gallants that strike up the lay-- cho.--"boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, flouts castle brancepeth the roundheads' array: who laughs, "good fellows ere this, by my fay, cho.--"boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" who? my wife gertrude; that, honest and gay, laughs when you talk of surrendering, "nay! i've better counsellors; what counsel they? cho.--"boot, saddle, to horse and away!" [illustration: "i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three."] "how they brought the good news from ghent to aix." i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he; i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, and into the midnight we galloped abreast. not a word to each other; we kept the great pace neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; i turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily roland a whit. 'twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear: at boom, a great yellow star came out to see; at düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; and from mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime, so joris broke silence with, "yet there is time!" at aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, and against him the cattle stood black every one, to stare through the mist at us galloping past, and i saw my stout galloper roland at last, with resolute shoulders, each butting away the haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: and his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back for my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; and one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance o'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! and the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon his fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. by hasselt, dirck groaned; and cried joris, "stay spur! your roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, we'll remember at aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, and sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, as down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. so, we were left galloping, joris and i, past looz and past tongres, no cloud in the sky; the broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; till over by dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, and "gallop," gasped joris, "for aix is in sight!" "how they'll greet us!" and all in a moment his roan rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; and there was my roland to hear the whole weight of the news which alone could save aix from her fate, with his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, and with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. then i cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, called my roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, till at length into aix roland galloped and stood. and all i remember is--friends flocking round as i sat with his head, 'twixt my knees on the ground; and no voice but was praising this roland of mine, as i poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which (the burgesses voted by common consent) was no more than his due who brought good news from ghent. through the metidja to abd-el-kadr. as i ride, as i ride, with a full heart for my guide, so its tide rocks my side, as i ride, as i ride, that, as i were double-eyed, he, in whom our tribes confide, is descried, ways untried, as i ride, as i ride. as i ride, as i ride to our chief and his allied, who dares chide my heart's pride as i ride, as i ride? or are witnesses denied-- through the desert waste and wide do i glide unespied as i ride, as i ride? as i ride, as i ride, when an inner voice has cried, the sands slide, nor abide (as i ride, as i ride) o'er each visioned homicide that came vaunting (has he lied?) to reside--where he died, as i ride, as i ride. as i ride, as i ride, ne'er has spur my swift horse plied, yet his hide, streaked and pied, as i ride, as i ride, shows where sweat has sprung and dried, --zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed-- how has vied stride with stride as i ride, as i ride! as i ride, as i ride, could i loose what fate has tied, ere i pried, she should hide (as i ride, as i ride) all that's meant me--satisfied when the prophet and the bride stop veins i'd have subside as i ride, as i ride! [illustration: "a rider bound on bound full galloping, nor bridle drew until he reached the mound."] incident of the french camp. you know, we french stormed ratisbon: a mile or so away, on a little mound, napoleon stood on our storming-day; with neck out-thrust, you fancy how, legs wide, arms locked behind, as if to balance the prone brow, oppressive with its mind. just as perhaps he mused "my plans that soar, to earth may fall, let once my army-leader, lannes, waver at yonder wall,--" out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew a rider, bound on bound full-galloping; nor bridle drew until he reached the mound. then off there flung in smiling joy, and held himself erect by just his horse's mane, a boy: you hardly could suspect-- (so tight he kept his lips compressed, scarce any blood came through) you looked twice ere you saw his breast was all but shot in two. "well," cried he, "emperor, by god's grace we've got you ratisbon! the marshal's in the market-place, and you'll be there anon to see your flag-bird flap his vans where i, to heart's desire, perched him!" the chief's eye flashed; his plans soared up again like fire. the chief's eye flashed; but presently softened itself, as sheathes a film the mother-eagle's eye when her bruised eaglet breathes; "you're wounded!" "nay," the soldier's pride touched to the quick, he said: "i'm killed, sire!" and his chief beside, smiling the boy fell dead. clive. i and clive were friends--and why not? friends! i think you laugh, my lad. clive it was gave england india, while your father gives--egad, england nothing but the graceless boy who lures him on to speak-- "well, sir, you and clive were comrades--" with a tongue thrust in your cheek! very true: in my eyes, your eyes, all the world's eyes, clive was man, i was, am, and ever shall be--mouse, nay, mouse of all its clan sorriest sample, if you take the kitchen's estimate for fame; while the man clive--he fought plassy, spoiled the clever foreign game, conquered and annexed and englished! never mind! as o'er my punch (you away) i sit of evenings,--silence, save for biscuit crunch, black, unbroken,--thought grows busy, thrids each pathway of old years, notes this forthright, that meander, till the long past life appears like an outspread map of country plodded through, each mile and rood, once, and well remembered still,--i'm startled in my solitude ever and anon by--what's the sudden mocking light that breaks on me as i slap the table till no rummer-glass but shakes while i ask--aloud, i do believe, god help me!--"was it thus? can it be that so i faltered, stopped when just one step for us--" (us,--you were not born, i grant, but surely some day born would be) "--one bold step had gained a province" (figurative talk, you see) "got no end of wealth and honour,--yet i stood stock-still no less?" --"for i was not clive," you comment: but it needs no clive to guess wealth were handy, honour ticklish, did no writing on the wall warn me "trespasser, 'ware man-traps!" him who braves that notice--call hero! none of such heroics suit myself who read plain words, doff my hat, and leap no barrier. scripture says, the land's the lord's: louts then--what avail the thousand, noisy in a smock-frocked ring, all-agog to have me trespass, clear the fence, be clive their king? higher warrant must you show me ere i set one foot before t'other in that dark direction, though i stand for evermore poor as job and meek as moses. evermore? no! by and by job grows rich and moses valiant, clive turns out less wise than i. don't object "why call him friend, then?" power is power, my boy, and still marks a man,--god's gift magnific, exercised for good or ill. you've your boot now on my hearth-rug, tread what was a tiger's skin; rarely such a royal monster as i lodged the bullet in! true, he murdered half a village, so his own death came to pass; still, for size and beauty, cunning, courage--ah, the brute he was! why, that clive,--that youth, that greenhorn, that quill-driving clerk, in fine,-- he sustained a siege in arcot ... but the world knows! pass the wine. where did i break off at? how bring clive in? oh, you mentioned "fear!" just so: and, said i, that minds me of a story you shall hear. we were friends then, clive and i: so, when the clouds, about the orb late supreme, encroaching slowly, surely threaten to absorb ray by ray its noontide brilliance,--friendship might, with steadier eye drawing near, hear what had burned else, now no blaze--all majesty. too much bee's-wing floats my figure? well, suppose a castle's new: none presume to climb its ramparts, none find foothold sure for shoe 'twixt those squares and squares of granite plating the impervious pile as his scale-mail's warty iron cuirasses a crocodile. reels that castle thunder-smitten, storm-dismantled? from without scrambling up by crack and crevice, every cockney prates about towers--the heap he kicks now! turrets--just the measure of his cane! will that do? observe moreover--(same similitude again)-- such a castle seldom crumbles by sheer stress of cannonade: 'tis when foes are foiled, and fighting's finished that vile rains invade, grass o'ergrows, o'ergrows till night-birds congregating find no holes fit to build like the topmost sockets made for banner-poles. so clive crumbled slow in london, crashed at last. a week before, dining with him,--after trying churchyard chat of days of yore,-- both of us stopped, tired as tombstones, head-piece, foot-piece, when they lean each to other, drowsed in fog-smoke, o'er a coffined past between. as i saw his head sink heavy, guessed the soul's extinguishment by the glazing eyeball, noticed how the furtive fingers went where a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor,--"one more throw try for clive!" thought i: "let's venture some good rattling question!" so-- "come clive, tell us"--out i blurted--"what to tell in turn, years hence, when my boy--suppose i have one--asks me on what evidence i maintain my friend of plassy proved a warrior every whit worth your alexanders, cæsars, marlboroughs, and--what said pitt?-- frederick the fierce himself! clive told me once"--i want to say-- "which feat out of all those famous doings bore the bell away --in his own calm estimation, mark you, not the mob's rough guess-- which stood foremost as evincing what clive called courageousness! come! what moment of the minute, what speck-centre in the wide circle of the action saw your mortal fairly deified? (let alone that filthy sleep-stuff, swallow bold this wholesome port!) if a friend has leave to question,--when were you most brave, in short?" up he arched his brows o' the instant--formidably clive again. "when was i most brave? i'd answer, were the instance half as plain as another instance that's a brain-lodged crystal--curse it!--here freezing when my memory touches--ugh!--the time i felt most fear. ugh! i cannot say for certain if i showed fear--anyhow, fear i felt, and, very likely, shuddered, since i shiver now." "fear!" smiled i. "well, that's the rarer: that's a specimen to seek, ticket up in one's museum, _mind-freaks_, _lord clive's fear_, _unique_!" down his brows dropped. on the table painfully he pored as though tracing, in the stains and streaks there, thoughts encrusted long ago. when he spoke 'twas like a lawyer reading word by word some will, some blind jungle of a statement,--beating on and on until out there leaps fierce life to fight with. "this fell in my factor-days. desk-drudge, slaving at saint david's, one must game, or drink, or craze. i chose gaming: and,--because your high-flown gamesters hardly take umbrage at a factor's elbow, if the factor pays his stake,-- i was winked at in a circle where the company was choice, captain this and major that, men high of colour, loud of voice, yet indulgent, condescending to the modest juvenile who not merely risked, but lost his hard-earned guineas with a smile. "down i sat to cards, one evening,--had for my antagonist homebody whose name's a secret--you'll know why--so, if you list, call him cock o' the walk, my scarlet son of mars from head to heel! play commenced: and, whether cocky fancied that a clerk must feel quite sufficient honour came of bending over one green baize, i the scribe with him the warrior, guessed no penman dared to raise shadow of objection should the honour stay but playing end more or less abruptly,--whether disinclined he grew to spend practice strictly scientific on a booby born to stare at--not ask of--lace-and-ruffles if the hand they hide plays fair,-- anyhow, i marked a movement when he bade me 'cut!' "i rose. 'such the new manoeuvre, captain? i'm a novice: knowledge grows. what, you force a card, you cheat, sir?' "never did a thunder-clap cause emotion, startle thyrsis locked with chloe in his lap, as my word and gesture (down i flung my cards to join the pack) fired the man of arms, whose visage, simply red before, turned black. "when he found his voice, he stammered 'that expression once again!' "'well, you forced a card and cheated!' "'possibly a factor's brain, busied with his all important balance of accounts, may deem weighing words superfluous trouble: cheat to clerkly ears may seem just the joke for friends to venture: but we are not friends, you see! when a gentleman is joked with,--if he's good at repartee, he rejoins, as do i--sirrah, on your knees, withdraw in full! beg my pardon, or be sure a kindly bullet through your skull lets in light and teaches manner to what brain it finds! choose quick-- have your life snuffed out or, kneeling, pray me trim yon candle-wick!' "'well, you cheated!' "then outbroke a howl from all the friends around. to his feet sprang each in fury, fists were clenched and teeth were ground. 'end it! no time like the present! captain, yours were our disgrace! no delay, begin and finish! stand back, leave the pair a space! let civilians be instructed: henceforth simply ply the pen, fly the sword! this clerk's no swordsman? suit him with a pistol, then! even odds! a dozen paces 'twixt the most and least expert make a dwarf a giant's equal: nay, the dwarf, if he's alert, likelier hits the broader target!' "up we stood accordingly. as they handed me the weapon, such was my soul's thirst to try then and there conclusions with this bully, tread on and stamp out every spark of his existence, that,--crept close to, curled about by that toying, tempting, teasing, fool-forefinger's middle joint,-- don't you guess?--the trigger yielded. gone my chance! and at the point of such prime success moreover: scarce an inch above his head went my ball to hit the wainscot. he was living, i was dead. "up he marched in flaming triumph--'twas his right, mind!--up, within just an arm's length. 'now, my clerkling,' chuckled cocky, with a grin as the levelled piece quite touched me, 'now, sir counting-house, repeat that expression which i told you proved bad manners! did i cheat?' "'cheat you did, you knew you cheated, and, this moment, know as well. as for me, my homely breeding bids you--fire and go to hell!' "twice the muzzle touched my forehead. heavy barrel, flurried wrist. either spoils a steady lifting. thrice: then, 'laugh at hell who list, i can't! god's no fable either. did this boy's eye wink once? no! there's no standing him and hell and god all three against me,--so, i did cheat!' "and down he threw the pistol, out rushed--by the door possibly, but, as for knowledge if by chimney, roof or floor, he effected disappearance--i'll engage no glance was sent that way by a single starer, such a blank astonishment swallowed up their senses: as for speaking--mute they stood as mice. "mute not long, though! such reaction, such a hubbub in a trice! 'rogue and rascal! who'd have thought it? what's to be expected next, when his majesty's commission serves a sharper as pretext for ... but where's the need of wasting time now? naught requires delay: punishment the service cries for: let disgrace be wiped away publicly, in good broad daylight! resignation? no, indeed! drum and fife must play the rogue's-march, rank and file be free to speed tardy marching on the rogue's part by appliance in the rear --kicks administered shall right this wronged civilian,--never fear, mister clive, for--though a clerk--you bore yourself--suppose we say-- just as would beseem a soldier? "'gentlemen, attention--pray! first, one word!' "i passed each speaker severally in review. when i had precise their number, names, and styles, and fully knew over whom my supervision thenceforth must extend,--why, then-- "some five minutes since, my life lay--as you all saw, gentlemen-- at the mercy of your friend there. not a single voice was raised in arrest of judgment, not one tongue--before my powder blazed-- ventured "can it be the youngster plundered, really seemed to mark some irregular proceeding? we conjecture in the dark, guess at random,--still, for sake of fair play--what if for a freak, in a fit of absence,--such things have been!--if our friend proved weak --what's the phrase?--corrected fortune! look into the case, at least!" who dared interpose between the altar's victim and the priest? yet he spared me! you eleven! whosoever, all or each, to the disadvantage of the man who spared me, utters speech --to his face, behind his back,--that speaker has to do with me: me who promise, if positions change, and mine the chance should be, not to imitate your friend and waive advantage!' "twenty-five years ago this matter happened: and 'tis certain," added clive, "never, to my knowledge, did sir cocky have a single breath breathed against him: lips were closed throughout his life, or since his death, for if he be dead or living i can tell no more than you. all i know is--cocky had one chance more; how he used it,--grew out of such unlucky habits, or relapsed, and back again brought the late-ejected devil with a score more in his train,-- that's for you to judge. reprieval i procured, at any rate. ugh--the memory of that minute's fear makes gooseflesh rise! why prate longer? you've my story, there's your instance: fear i did, you see!" "well"--i hardly kept from laughing--"if i see it, thanks must be wholly to your lordship's candour. not that--in a common case-- when a bully caught at cheating thrusts a pistol in one's face, i should under-rate, believe me, such a trial to the nerve! 'tis no joke, at one-and-twenty, for a youth to stand nor swerve. fear i naturally look for--unless, of all men alive, i am forced to make exception when i come to robert clive. since at arcot, plassy, elsewhere, he and death--the whole world knows-- came to somewhat closer quarters." quarters? had we come to blows, clive and i, you had not wondered--up he sprang so, out he rapped such a round of oaths--no matter! i'll endeavour to adapt to our modern usage words he--well, 'twas friendly license--flung at me like so many fire-balls, fast as he could wag his tongue. "you--a soldier? you--at plassy? yours the faculty to nick instantaneously occasion when your foe, if lightning-quick, --at his mercy, at his malice,--has you, through some stupid inch undefended in your bulwark? thus laid open,--not to flinch --that needs courage, you'll concede me. then, look here! suppose the man, checking his advance, his weapon still extended, not a span distant from my temple,--curse him!--quietly had bade me, 'there! keep your life, calumniator!--worthless life i freely spare: mine you freely would have taken--murdered me and my good fame both at once--and all the better! go, and thank your own bad aim which permits me to forgive you!' what if, with such words as these, he had cast away his weapon? how should i have borne me, please? nay, i'll spare you pains and tell you. this, and only this, remained-- pick his weapon up and use it on myself. if so had gained sleep the earlier, leaving england probably to pay on still rent and taxes for half india, tenant at the frenchman's will." "such the turn," said i, "the matter takes with you? then i abate --no, by not one jot nor tittle,--of your act my estimate. fear--i wish i could detect there: courage fronts me, plain enough-- call it desperation, madness--never mind! for here's in rough why, had mine been such a trial, fear had overcome disgrace. true, disgrace were hard to bear: but such a rush against god's face --none of that for me, lord plassy, since i go to church at times, say the creed my mother taught me! many years in foreign climes rub some marks away--not all, though! we poor sinners reach life's brink, overlook what rolls beneath it, recklessly enough, but think there's advantage in what's left us--ground to stand on, time to call 'lord, have mercy!' ere we topple over--do not leap, that's all!" oh, he made no answer, re-absorbed into his cloud. i caught something like "yes--courage; only fools will call it fear." if aught comfort you, my great unhappy hero clive, in that i heard, next week, how your own hand dealt you doom, and uttered just the word "fearfully courageous!"--this, be sure, and nothing else i groaned. i'm no clive, nor parson either: clive's worst deed--we'll hope condoned. mulÉykeh. if a stranger passed the tent of hóseyn, he cried "a churl's!" or haply "god help the man who has neither salt nor bread!" --"nay," would a friend exclaim, "he needs nor pity nor scorn more than who spends small thought on the shore-sand, picking pearls, --holds but in light esteem the seed-sort, bears instead on his breast a moon-like prize, some orb which of night makes morn. "what if no flocks and herds enrich the son of sinán? they went when his tribe was mulct, ten thousand camels the due, blood-value paid perforce for a murder done of old. 'god gave them, let them go! but never since time began, muléykeh, peerless mare, owned master the match of you, and you are my prize, my pearl: i laugh at men's land and gold!' "so in the pride of his soul laughs hóseyn--and right, i say. do the ten steeds run a race of glory? outstripping all, ever muléykeh stands first steed at the victor's staff. who started, the owner's hope, gets shamed and named, that day. 'silence,' or, last but one, is 'the cuffed,' as we used to call whom the paddock's lord thrusts forth. right, hóseyn, i say, to laugh!" "boasts he muléykeh the pearl?" the stranger replies: "be sure on him i waste nor scorn nor pity, but lavish both on duhl the son of sheybán, who withers away in heart for envy of hóseyn's luck. such sickness admits no cure. a certain poet has sung, and sealed the same with an oath, 'for the vulgar--flocks and herds! the pearl is a prize apart.'" lo, duhl the son of sheybán comes riding to hóseyn's tent, and he casts his saddle down, and enters and "peace!" bids he. "you are poor, i know the cause: my plenty shall mend the wrong. 'tis said of your pearl--the price of a hundred camels spent in her purchase were scarce ill paid: such prudence is far from me who proffer a thousand. speak! long parley may last too long." said hóseyn, "you feed young beasts a many, of famous breed, slit-eared, unblemished, fat, true offspring of múzennem: there stumbles no weak-eyed she in the line as it climbs the hill. but i love muléykeh's face: her forefront whitens indeed like a yellowish wave's cream-crest. your camels--go gaze on them! her fetlock is foam-splashed too. myself am the richer still." a year goes by: lo, back to the tent again rides duhl. "you are open-hearted, ay--moist-handed, a very prince. why should i speak of sale? be the mare your simple gift! my son is pined to death for her beauty: my wife prompts 'fool, beg for his sake the pearl! be god the rewarder, since god pays debts seven for one: who squanders on him shows thrift.'" said hóseyn, "god gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives that lamp due measure of oil: lamp lighted--hold high, wave wide its comfort for others to share! once quench it, what help is left? the oil of your lamp is your son: i shine while muléykeh lives. would i beg your son to cheer my dark if muléykeh died? it is life against life: what good avails to the life-bereft?" another year, and--hist! what craft is it duhl designs? he alights not at the door of the tent as he did last time, but, creeping behind, he gropes his stealthy way by the trench half-round till he finds the flap in the folding, for night combines with the robber--and such is he: duhl, covetous up to crime, must wring from hóseyn's grasp the pearl, by whatever the wrench. "he was hunger-bitten, i heard: i tempted with half my store, and a gibe was all my thanks. is he generous like spring dew? account the fault to me who chaffered with such an one! he has killed, to feast chance comers, the creature he rode: nay, more-- for a couple of singing-girls his robe has he torn in two: i will beg! yet i nowise gained by the tale of my wife and son. "i swear by the holy house, my head will i never wash till i filch his pearl away. fair dealing i tried, then guile, and now i resort to force. he said we must live or die: let him die, then,--let me live! be bold--but not too rash! i have found me a peeping-place: breast, bury your breathing while i explore for myself! now, breathe! he deceived me not, the spy! "as he said--there lies in peace hóseyn--how happy! beside stands tethered the pearl: thrice winds her headstall about his wrist: 'tis therefore he sleeps so sound--the moon through the roof reveals. and, loose on his left, stands too that other, known far and wide, buhéyseh, her sister born: fleet is she yet ever missed the winning tail's fire-flash a-stream past the thunderous heels. "no less she stands saddled and bridled, this second, in case some thief should enter and seize and fly with the first, as i mean to do. what then? the pearl is the pearl: once mount her we both escape." through the skirt-fold in glides duhl,--so a serpent disturbs no leaf in a bush as he parts the twigs entwining a nest: clean through, he is noiselessly at his work: as he planned, he performs the rape. he has set the tent-door wide, has buckled the girth, has clipped the headstall away from the wrist he leaves thrice bound as before, he springs on the pearl, is launched on the desert like bolt from bow. up starts our plundered man: from his breast though the heart be ripped, yet his mind has the mastery: behold, in a minute more, he is out and off and away on buhéyseh, whose worth we know! and hóseyn--his blood turns flame, he has learned long since to ride, and buhéyseh does her part,--they gain--they are gaining fast on the fugitive pair, and duhl has ed-dárraj to cross and quit, and to reach the ridge el-sabán,--no safety till that he spied! and buhéyseh is, bound by bound, but a horse-length off at last, for the pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of the bit. she shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and queer: buhéyseh is mad with hope--beat sister she shall and must, though duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank. she is near now, nose by tail--they are neck by croup--joy! fear! what folly makes hóseyn shout "dog duhl, damned son of the dust, touch the right ear and press with your foot my pearl's left flank!" and duhl was wise at the word, and muléykeh as prompt perceived who was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey, and a leap indeed gave she, and evanished for evermore. and hóseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved, looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may: then he turned buhéyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping sore. and, lo, in the sunrise, still sat hóseyn upon the ground weeping: and neighbours came, the tribesmen of bénu-asád in the vale of green er-rass, and they questioned him of his grief; and he told from first to last how, serpent-like, duhl had wound his way to the nest, and how duhl rode like an ape, so bad! and how buhéyseh did wonders, yet pearl remained with the thief. and they jeered him, one and all: "poor hóseyn is crazed past hope! how else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune's spite? to have simply held the tongue were a task for boy or girl, and here were muléykeh again, the eyed like an antelope, the child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night!"-- "and the beaten in speed!" wept hóseyn. "you never have loved my pearl." tray. sing me a hero! quench my thirst of soul, ye bards! quoth bard the first: "sir olaf, the good knight, did don his helm and eke his habergeon"... sir olaf and his bard--! "that sin-scathed brow" (quoth bard the second), "that eye wide ope as though fate beckoned my hero to some steep, beneath which precipice smiled tempting death"... you too without your host have reckoned! "a beggar-child" (let's hear this third!) "sat on a quay's edge: like a bird sang to herself at careless play, and fell into the stream. 'dismay! help, you the standers-by!' none stirred. "bystanders reason, think of wives and children ere they risk their lives. over the balustrade has bounced a mere instinctive dog, and pounced plumb on the prize. 'how well he dives! "'up he comes with the child, see, tight in mouth, alive too, clutched from quite a depth of ten feet--twelve, i bet! good dog! what, off again? there's yet another child to save? all right! "'how strange we saw no other fall! it's instinct in the animal. good dog! but he's a long while under: if he got drowned i should not wonder-- strong current, that against the wall! "'here he comes, holds in mouth this time --what may the thing be? well, that's prime! now, did you ever? reason reigns in man alone, since all tray's pains have fished--the child's doll from the slime!' "and so, amid the laughter gay, trotted my hero off,--old tray,-- till somebody, prerogatived with reason, reasoned: 'why he dived, his brain would show us, i should say. "'john, go and catch--or, if needs be, purchase--that animal for me! by vivisection, at expense of half-an-hour and eighteenpence, how brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see!'" a tale. what a pretty tale you told me once upon a time --said you found it somewhere (scold me!) was it prose or was it rhyme, greek or latin? greek, you said, while your shoulder propped my head. anyhow there's no forgetting this much if no more, that a poet (pray, no petting!) yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, went where suchlike used to go, singing for a prize, you know. well, he had to sing, nor merely sing but play the lyre; playing was important clearly quite as singing: i desire, sir, you keep the fact in mind for a purpose that's behind. there stood he, while deep attention held the judges round, --judges able, i should mention, to detect the slightest sound sung or played amiss: such ears had old judges, it appears! none the less he sang out boldly, played in time and tune, till the judges, weighing coldly each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, sure to smile "in vain one tries picking faults out: take the prize!" when, a mischief! were they seven strings the lyre possessed? oh, and afterwards eleven, thank you! well, sir,--who had guessed such ill luck in store?--it happed one of those same seven strings snapped. all was lost, then! no! a cricket (what "cicada?" pooh!) --some mad thing that left its thicket for mere love of music--flew with its little heart on fire, lighted on the crippled lyre. so that when (ah, joy!) our singer for his truant string feels with disconcerted finger, what does cricket else but fling fiery heart forth, sound the note wanted by the throbbing throat? ay, and ever to the ending, cricket chirps at need, executes the hand's intending, promptly, perfectly,--indeed saves the singer from defeat with her chirrup low and sweet. till, at ending, all the judges cry with one assent "take the prize--a prize who grudges such a voice and instrument? why, we took your lyre for harp, so it shrilled us forth f sharp!" did the conqueror spurn the creature, once its service done? that's no such uncommon feature in the case when music's son finds his lotte's power too spent for aiding soul-development. no! this other, on returning homeward, prize in hand, satisfied his bosom's yearning: (sir, i hope you understand!) --said "some record there must be of this cricket's help to me!" so, he made himself a statue: marble stood, life-size; on the lyre, he pointed at you, perched his partner in the prize; never more apart you found her, he throned, from him, she crowned. that's the tale: its application? somebody i know hopes one day for reputation through his poetry that's--oh, all so learned and so wise and deserving of a prize! if he gains one, will some ticket, when his statue's built, tell the gazer "'twas a cricket helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt sweet and low, when strength usurped softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? "for as victory was nighest, while i sang and played,-- with my lyre at lowest, highest, right alike,--one string that made 'love' sound soft was snapt in twain, never to be heard again,-- "had not a kind cricket fluttered, perched upon the place vacant left, and duly uttered 'love, love, love,' whene'er the bass asked the treble to atone for its somewhat sombre drone." but you don't know music! wherefore keep on casting pearls to a--poet? all i care for is--to tell him that a girl's "love" comes aptly in when gruff grows his singing. (there, enough!) [illustration: "hair, such a wonder of flix and floss."] gold hair. oh, the beautiful girl, too white, who lived at pornic, down by the sea, just where the sea and the loire unite! and a boasted name in brittany she bore, which i will not write. too white, for the flower of life is red: her flesh was the soft seraphic screen of a soul that is meant (her parents said) to just see earth, and hardly be seen, and blossom in heaven instead. yet earth saw one thing, one how fair! one grace that grew to its full on earth: smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare, and her waist want half a girdle's girth, but she had her great gold hair. hair, such a wonder of flix and floss, freshness and fragrance--floods of it, too! gold, did i say? nay, gold's mere dross: here, life smiled, "think what i meant to do!" and love sighed, "fancy my loss!" so, when she died, it was scarce more strange than that, when delicate evening dies, and you follow its spent sun's pallid range, there's a shoot of colour startles the skies with sudden, violent change,-- that, while the breath was nearly to seek, as they put the little cross to her lips, she changed; a spot came out on her cheek, a spark from her eye in mid-eclipse, and she broke forth, "i must speak!" "not my hair!" made the girl her moan-- "all the rest is gone or to go; but the last, last grace, my all, my own, let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know! leave my poor gold hair alone!" the passion thus vented, dead lay she; her parents sobbed their worst on that; all friends joined in, nor observed degree: for indeed the hair was to wonder at, as it spread--not flowing free, but curled around her brow, like a crown, and coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap, and calmed about her neck--ay, down to her breast, pressed flat, without a gap i' the gold, it reached her gown. all kissed that face, like a silver wedge 'mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair: e'en the priest allowed death's privilege, as he planted the crucifix with care on her breast, 'twixt edge and edge. and thus was she buried, inviolate of body and soul, in the very space by the altar; keeping saintly state in pornic church, for her pride of race, pure life and piteous fate. and in after-time would your fresh tear fall, though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile, as they told you of gold, both robe and pall, how she prayed them leave it alone awhile, so it never was touched at all. years flew; this legend grew at last the life of the lady; all she had done, all been, in the memories fading fast of lover and friend, was summed in one sentence survivors passed: to wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth; had turned an angel before the time: yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth of frailty, all you could count a crime was--she knew her gold hair's worth. * * * * * at little pleasant pornic church, it chanced, the pavement wanted repair, was taken to pieces: left in the lurch, a certain sacred space lay bare, and the boys began research. 'twas the space where our sires would lay a saint, a benefactor,--a bishop, suppose, a baron with armour-adornments quaint, dame with chased ring and jewelled rose, things sanctity saves from taint; so we come to find them in after-days when the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds of use to the living, in many ways: for the boys get pelf, and the town applauds, and the church deserves the praise. they grubbed with a will: and at length--_o cor humanum, pectora cæca_, and the rest!-- they found--no gaud they were prying for, no ring, no rose, but--who would have guessed?-- a double louis-d'or! here was a case for the priest: he heard, marked, inwardly digested, laid finger on nose, smiled, "there's a bird chirps in my ear:" then, "bring a spade, dig deeper!"--he gave the word. and lo, when they came to the coffin-lid, or rotten planks which composed it once, why, there lay the girl's skull wedged amid a mint of money, it served for the nonce to hold in its hair-heaps hid! hid there? why? could the girl be wont (she the stainless soul) to treasure up money, earth's trash and heaven's affront? had a spider found out the communion-cup, was a toad in the christening-font? truth is truth: too true it was. gold! she hoarded and hugged it first, longed for it, leaned o'er it, loved it--alas-- till the humour grew to a head and burst, and she cried, at the final pass,-- "talk not of god, my heart is stone! nor lover nor friend--be gold for both! gold i lack; and, my all, my own, it shall hide in my hair. i scarce die loth if they let my hair alone!" louis-d'or, some six times five, and duly double, every piece. now, do you see? with the priest to shrive, with parents preventing her soul's release by kisses that kept alive,-- with heaven's gold gates about to ope, with friends' praise, gold-like, lingering still, an instinct had bidden the girl's hand grope for gold, the true sort--"gold in heaven, if you will; but i keep earth's too, i hope." enough! the priest took the grave's grim yield: the parents, they eyed that price of sin as if _thirty pieces_ lay revealed on the place _to bury strangers in_, the hideous potter's field. but the priest bethought him: "'milk that's spilt' --you know the adage! watch and pray! saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt! it would build a new altar; that, we may!" and the altar therewith was built. why i deliver this horrible verse? as the text of a sermon, which now i preach: evil or good may be better or worse in the human heart, but the mixture of each is a marvel and a curse. the candid incline to surmise of late that the christian faith proves false, i find; for our essays-and-reviews' debate begins to tell on the public mind, and colenso's words have weight: i still, to suppose it true, for my part, see reasons and reasons; this, to begin: 'tis the faith that launched point-blank her dart at the head of a lie--taught original sin, the corruption of man's heart. donald. do you happen to know in ross-shire mount ben ... but the name scarce matters: of the naked fact i am sure enough, though i clothe it in rags and tatters. you may recognise ben by description; behind him--a moor's immenseness: up goes the middle mount of a range, fringed with its firs in denseness. rimming the edge, its fir-fringe, mind! for an edge there is, though narrow; from end to end of the range, a strip of path runs straight as an arrow. and the mountaineer who takes that path saves himself miles of journey he has to plod if he crosses the moor through heather, peat, and burnie. but a mountaineer he needs must be, for, look you, right in the middle projects bluff ben--with an end in _ich_-- why planted there, is a riddle: since all ben's brothers little and big keep rank, set shoulder to shoulder, and only this burliest out must bulge till it seems--to the beholder from down in the gully,--as if ben's breast, to a sudden spike diminished, would signify to the boldest foot "all further passage finished!" yet the mountaineer who sidles on and on to the very bending, discovers, if heart and brain be proof, no necessary ending. foot up, foot down, to the turn abrupt having trod, he, there arriving, finds--what he took for a point was breadth a mercy of nature's contriving. so, he rounds what, when 'tis reached, proves straight, from one side gains the other: the wee path widens--resume the march, and he foils you, ben my brother! but donald--(that name, i hope, will do)-- i wrong him if i call "foiling" the tramp of the callant, whistling the while as blithe as our kettle's boiling. he had dared the danger from boyhood up, and now,--when perchance was waiting a lass at the brig below,--'twixt mount and moor would he standing debating? moreover this donald was twenty-five, a glory of bone and muscle: did a fiend dispute the right of way, donald would try a tussle. lightsomely marched he out of the broad on to the narrow and narrow; a step more, rounding the angular rock, reached the front straight as an arrow. he stepped it, safe on the ledge he stood, when--whom found he full-facing? what fellow in courage and wariness too, had scouted ignoble pacing, and left low safety to timid mates, and made for the dread dear danger, and gained the height where--who could guess he would meet with a rival ranger? 'twas a gold-red stag that stood and stared, gigantic and magnific, by the wonder--ay, and the peril--struck intelligent and pacific: for a red deer is no fallow deer grown cowardly through park-feeding; he batters you like a thunderbolt if you brave his haunts unheeding. i doubt he could hardly perform _volte-face_ had valour advised discretion: you may walk on a rope, but to turn on a rope no blondin makes profession. yet donald must turn, would pride permit, though pride ill brooks retiring: each eyed each--mute man, motionless beast-- less fearing than admiring. these are the moments when quite new sense, to meet some need as novel, springs up in the brain: it inspired resource: --"nor advance nor retreat but--grovel!" and slowly, surely, never a whit relaxing the steady tension of eye-stare which binds man to beast,-- by an inch and inch declension, sank donald sidewise down and down: till flat, breast upwards, lying at his six-foot length, no corpse more still, --"if he cross me! the trick's worth trying." minutes were an eternity; but a new sense was created in the stag's brain too; he resolves! slow, sure, with eye-stare unabated, feelingly he extends a foot which tastes the way ere it touches earth's solid and just escapes man's soft, nor hold of the same unclutches till its fellow foot, light as a feather whisk, lands itself no less finely: so a mother removes a fly from the face of her babe asleep supinely. and now 'tis the haunch and hind-foot's turn --that's hard: can the beast quite raise it? yes, traversing half the prostrate length, his hoof-tip does not graze it. just one more lift! but donald, you see, was sportsman first, man after: a fancy lightened his caution through, --he wellnigh broke into laughter: "it were nothing short of a miracle! unrivalled, unexampled-- all sporting feats with this feat matched were down and dead and trampled!" the last of the legs as tenderly follows the rest: or never or now is the time! his knife in reach, and his right hand loose--how clever! for this can stab up the stomach's soft, while the left hand grasps the pastern. a rise on the elbow, and--now's the time or never: this turn's the last turn! i shall dare to place myself by god who scanned--for he does--each feature of the face thrown up in appeal to him by the agonising creature. nay, i hear plain words: "thy gift brings this!" up he sprang, back he staggered, over he fell, and with him our friend --at following game no laggard. yet he was not dead when they picked next day from the gully's depth the wreck of him; his fall had been stayed by the stag beneath who cushioned and saved the neck of him. but the rest of his body--why, doctors said, whatever could break was broken; legs, arms, ribs, all of him looked like a toast in a tumbler of port wine soaken. "that your life is left you, thank the stag!" said they when--the slow cure ended-- they opened the hospital door, and thence --strapped, spliced, main fractures mended, and minor damage left wisely alone,-- like an old shoe clouted and cobbled, out--what went in a goliath wellnigh,-- some half of a david hobbled. "you must ask an alms from house to house: sell the stag's head for a bracket, with its grand twelve tines--i'd buy it myself-- and use the skin for a jacket!" he was wiser, made both head and hide his win-penny: hands and knees on, would manage to crawl--poor crab--by the roads in the misty stalking season. and if he discovered a bothy like this, why, harvest was sure: folk listened. he told his tale to the lovers of sport: lips twitched, cheeks glowed, eyes glistened. and when he had come to the close, and spread his spoils for the gazers' wonder, with "gentlemen, here's the skull of the stag i was over, thank god, not under!"-- the company broke out in applause; "by jingo, a lucky cripple! have a munch of grouse and a hunk of bread, and a tug, besides, at our tipple!" and "there's my pay for your pluck!" cried this, "and mine for your jolly story!" cried that, while t'other--but he was drunk-- hiccupped "a trump, a tory!" i hope i gave twice as much as the rest; for, as homer would say, "within grate though teeth kept tongue," my whole soul growled, "rightly rewarded,--ingrate!" [illustration: "and full in the face of its owner flung the glove."] the glove. (peter ronsard _loipuitur_.) "heigho," yawned one day king francis, "distance all value enhances! when a man's busy, why, leisure strikes him as wonderful pleasure: 'faith, and at leisure once is he? straightway he wants to be busy. here we've got peace; and aghast i'm caught thinking war the true pastime. is there a reason in metre? give us your speech, master peter!" i who, if mortal dare say so, ne'er am at a loss with my naso, "sire," i replied, "joys prove cloudlets: men are the merest ixions"-- here the king whistled aloud, "let's --heigho--go look at our lions!" such are the sorrowful chances if you talk fine to king francis. and so, to the courtyard proceeding our company, francis was leading, increased by new followers tenfold before he arrived at the penfold; lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen at sunset the western horizon. and sir de lorge pressed 'mid the foremost with the dame he professed to adore most. oh, what a face! one by fits eyed her, and the horrible pitside; for the penfold surrounded a hollow which led where the eye scarce dared follow, and shelved to the chamber secluded where bluebeard, the great lion, brooded. the king hailed his keeper, an arab as glossy and black as a scarab, and bade him make sport and at once stir up and out of his den the old monster. they opened a hole in the wire-work across it, and dropped there a firework, and fled: one's heart's beating redoubled; a pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, the blackness and silence so utter, by the firework's slow sparkling and sputter; then earth in a sudden contortion gave out to our gaze her abortion. such a brute! were i friend clement marot (whose experience of nature's but narrow, and whose faculties move in no small mist when he versifies david the psalmist) i should study that brute to describe you _illum juda leonem de tribu_. one's whole blood grew curdling and creepy to see the black mane, vast and heapy, the tail in the air stiff and straining, the wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning, as over the barrier which bounded his platform, and us who surrounded the barrier, they reached and they rested on space that might stand him in best stead: for who knew, he thought, what the amazement, the eruption of clatter and blaze meant, and if, in this minute of wonder, no outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder, lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered, the lion at last was delivered? ay, that was the open sky o'erhead! and you saw by the flash on his forehead, by the hope in those eyes wide and steady. he was leagues in the desert already, driving the flocks up the mountain, or catlike couched hard by the fountain to waylay the date-gathering negress: so guarded he entrance or egress. "how he stands!" quoth the king: "we may well swear, (no novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere and so can afford the confession,) we exercise wholesome discretion in keeping aloof from his threshold, once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold, their first would too pleasantly purloin the visitor's brisket or sirloin: but who's he would prove so foolhardy? not the best man of marignan, pardie!" the sentence no sooner was uttered, than over the rails a glove fluttered, fell close to the lion, and rested: the dame 'twas, who flung it and jested with life so, de lorge had been wooing for months past; he sat there pursuing his suit, weighing out with nonchalance fine speeches like gold from a balance. sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier! de lorge made one leap at the barrier, walked straight to the glove,--while the lion ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on the palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire, and the musky oiled skin of the kaffir,-- picked it up, and as calmly retreated, leaped back where the lady was seated, and full in the face of its owner flung the glove. "your heart's queen, you dethrone her? so should i!"--cried the king--"'twas mere vanity, not love, set that task to humanity!" lords and ladies alike turned with loathing from such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing. not so, i; for i caught an expression in her brow's undisturbed self-possession amid the court's scoffing and merriment,-- as if from no pleasing experiment she rose, yet of pain not much heedful so long as the process was needful,-- as if she had tried in a crucible, to what "speeches like gold" were reducible, and, finding the finest prove copper, felt the smoke in her face was but proper; to know what she had _not_ to trust to, was worth all the ashes and dust too. she went out 'mid hooting and laughter; clement marot stayed; i followed after, and asked, as a grace, what it all meant? if she wished not the rash deed's recallment? "for i"--so i spoke--"am a poet: human nature,--behooves that i know it!" she told me, "too long had i heard of the deed proved alone by the word: for my love--what de lorge would not dare! with my scorn--what de lorge could compare! and the endless descriptions of death he would brave when my lip formed a breath, i must reckon as braved, or, of course, doubt his word--and moreover, perforce, for such gifts as no lady could spurn, must offer my love in return. when i looked on your lion, it brought all the dangers at once to my thought, encountered by all sorts of men, before he was lodged in his den,-- from the poor slave whose club or bare hands dug the trap, set the snare on the sands, with no king and no court to applaud, by no shame, should he shrink, overawed, yet to capture the creature made shift, that his rude boys might laugh at the gift, --to the page who last leaped o'er the fence of the pit, on no greater pretence than to get back the bonnet he dropped, lest his pay for a week should be stopped. so, wiser i judged it to make one trial what 'death for my sake' really meant, while the power was yet mine, than to wait until time should define such a phrase not so simply as i, who took it to mean just 'to die.' the blow a glove gives is but weak: does the mark yet discolour my cheek? but when the heart suffers a blow, will the pain pass so soon, do you know?" i looked, as away she was sweeping, and saw a youth eagerly keeping as close as he dared to the doorway. no doubt that a noble should more weigh his life than befits a plebeian; and yet, had our brute been nemean-- (i judge by a certain calm fervour the youth stepped with, forward to serve her) --he'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn if you whispered, "friend, what you'd get, first earn!" and when, shortly after, she carried her shame from the court, and they married, to that marriage some happiness, maugre the voice of the court, i dared augur. the end. transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. there is no number in the list of books in "every boy's library". illustrations have been moved. italic text has been marked with _underscores_. bold text has been marked with =equals signs=. oe ligatures have been expanded. haines. christmas eve robert browning i out of the little chapel i burst into the fresh night-air again. five minutes full, i waited first in the doorway, to escape the rain that drove in gusts down the common's centre at the edge of which the chapel stands, before i plucked up heart to enter. heaven knows how many sorts of hands reached past me, groping for the latch of the inner door that hung on catch more obstinate the more they fumbled, till, giving way at last with a scold of the crazy hinge, in squeezed or tumbled one sheep more to the rest in fold, and left me irresolute, standing sentry in the sheepfold's lath-and-plaster entry, six feet long by three feet wide, partitioned off from the vast inside-- i blocked up half of it at least. no remedy; the rain kept driving. they eyed me much as some wild beast, that congregation, still arriving, some of them by the main road, white a long way past me into the night, skirting the common, then diverging; not a few suddenly emerging from the common's self thro' the paling-gaps --they house in the gravel-pits perhaps, where the road stops short with its safeguard border of lamps, as tired of such disorder;-- but the most turned in yet more abruptly from a certain squalid knot of alleys, where the town's bad blood once slept corruptly, which now the little chapel rallies and leads into day again,--its priestliness lending itself to hide their beastliness so cleverly (thanks in part to the mason), and putting so cheery a whitewashed face on those neophytes too much in lack of it, that, where you cross the common as i did, and meet the party thus presided, "mount zion" with love-lane at the back of it, they front you as little disconcerted as, bound for the hills, her fate averted, and her wicked people made to mind him, lot might have marched with gomorrah behind him. ii well, from the road, the lanes or the common, in came the flock: the fat weary woman, panting and bewildered, down-clapping her umbrella with a mighty report, grounded it by me, wry and flapping, a wreck of whalebones; then, with snort, like a startled horse, at the interloper (who humbly knew himself improper, but could not shrink up small enough) --round to the door, and in,--the gruff hinge's invariable scold making my very blood run cold. prompt in the wake of her, up-pattered on broken clogs, the many-tattered little old-faced peaking sister-turned-mother of the sickly babe she tried to smother somehow up, with its spotted face, from the cold, on her breast, the one warm place; she too must stop, wring the poor ends dry of a draggled shawl, and add thereby her tribute to the door-mat, sopping already from my own clothes' dropping, which yet she seemed to grudge i should stand on: then, stooping down to take off her pattens, she bore them defiantly, in each hand one, planted together before her breast and its babe, as good as a lance in rest. close on her heels, the dingy satins of a female something, past me flitted, with lips as much too white, as a streak lay far too red on each hollow cheek; and it seemed the very door-hinge pitied all that was left of a woman once, holding at least its tongue for the nonce. then a tall yellow man, like the penitent thief, with his jaw bound up in a handkerchief, and eyelids screwed together tight, led himself in by some inner light. and, except from him, from each that entered, i got the same interrogation-- "what, you the alien, you have ventured "to take with us, the elect, your station? "a carer for none of it, a gallio!"-- thus, plain as print, i read the glance at a common prey, in each countenance as of huntsman giving his hounds the tallyho. and, when the door's cry drowned their wonder, the draught, it always sent in shutting, made the flame of the single tallow candle in the cracked square lantern i stood under, shoot its blue lip at me, rebutting as it were, the luckless cause of scandal: i verily fancied the zealous light (in the chapel's secret, too!) for spite would shudder itself clean off the wick, with the airs of a saint john's candlestick. [footnote: see rev. i. .] there was no standing it much longer. "good folks," thought i, as resolve grew stronger, "this way you perform the grand-inquisitor "when the weather sends you a chance visitor? "you are the men, and wisdom shall die with you, "and none of the old seven churches vie with you! "but still, despite the pretty perfection "to which you carry your trick of exclusiveness, "and, taking god's word under wise protection, "correct its tendency to diffusiveness, "and bid one reach it over hot ploughshares,-- "still, as i say, though you've found salvation, "if i should choose to cry, as now, 'shares!'-- "see if the best of you bars me my ration! "i prefer, if you please, for my expounder "of the laws of the feast, the feast's own founder; "mine's the same right with your poorest and sickliest "supposing i don the marriage vestiment: "so shut your mouth and open your testament, "and carve me my portion at your quickliest!" accordingly, as a shoemaker's lad with wizened face in want of soap, and wet apron wound round his waist like a rope, (after stopping outside, for his cough was bad, to get the fit over, poor gentle creature, and so avoid disturbing the preacher) --passed in, i sent my elbow spikewise at the shutting door, and entered likewise, received the hinge's accustomed greeting, and crossed the threshold's magic pentacle, and found myself in full conventicle, --to wit, in zion chapel meeting, on the christmas-eve of 'forty-nine, which, calling its flock to their special clover, found all assembled and one sheep over, whose lot, as the weather pleased, was mine. iii i very soon had enough of it. the hot smell and the human noises, and my neighbour's coat, the greasy cuff of it, were a pebble-stone that a child's hand poises, compared with the pig-of-lead-like pressure of the preaching man's immense stupidity, as he poured his doctrine forth, full measure, to meet his audience's avidity. you needed not the wit of the sibyl to guess the cause of it all, in a twinkling: no sooner our friend had got an inkling of treasure hid in the holy bible, (whene'er 'twas the thought first struck him, how death, at unawares, might duck him deeper than the grave, and quench the gin-shop's light in hell's grim drench) than he handled it so, in fine irreverence, as to hug the book of books to pieces: and, a patchwork of chapters and texts in severance, not improved by the private dog's-ears and creases, having clothed his own soul with, he'd fain see equipt yours,-- so tossed you again your holy scriptures. and you picked them up, in a sense, no doubt: nay, had but a single face of my neighbours appeared to suspect that the preacher's labours were help which the world could be saved without, 'tis odds but i might have borne in quiet a qualm or two at my spiritual diet, or (who can tell?) perchance even mustered somewhat to urge in behalf of the sermon: but the flock sat on, divinely flustered, sniffing, methought, its dew of hermon with such content in every snuffle, as the devil inside us loves to ruffle. my old fat woman purred with pleasure, and thumb round thumb went twirling faster, while she, to his periods keeping measure, maternally devoured the pastor. the man with the handkerchief untied it, showed us a horrible wen inside it, gave his eyelids yet another screwing, and rocked himself as the woman was doing. the shoemaker's lad, discreetly choking, kept down his cough. 'twas too provoking! my gorge rose at the nonsense and stuff of it; so, saying like eve when she plucked the apple, "i wanted a taste, and now there's enough of it," i flung out of the little chapel. iv there was a lull in the rain, a lull in the wind too; the moon was risen, and would have shone out pure and full, but for the ramparted cloud-prison, block on block built up in the west, for what purpose the wind knows best, who changes his mind continually. and the empty other half of the sky seemed in its silence as if it knew what, any moment, might look through a chance gap in that fortress massy:-- through its fissures you got hints of the flying moon, by the shifting tints, now, a dull lion-colour, now, brassy burning to yellow, and whitest yellow, like furnace-smoke just ere flames bellow, all a-simmer with intense strain to let her through,--then blank again, at the hope of her appearance failing. just by the chapel, a break in the railing shows a narrow path directly across; 'tis ever dry walking there, on the moss-- besides, you go gently all the way uphill. i stooped under and soon felt better; my head grew lighter, my limbs more supple, as i walked on, glad to have slipt the fetter. my mind was full of the scene i had left, that placid flock, that pastor vociferant, --how this outside was pure and different! the sermon, now--what a mingled weft of good and ill! were either less, its fellow had coloured the whole distinctly; but alas for the excellent earnestness, and the truths, quite true if stated succinctly, but as surely false, in their quaint presentment, however to pastor and flock's contentment! say rather, such truths looked false to your eyes, with his provings and parallels twisted and twined, till how could you know them, grown double their size in the natural fog of the good man's mind, like yonder spots of our roadside lamps, haloed about with the common's damps? truth remains true, the fault's in the prover; the zeal was good, and the aspiration; and yet, and yet, yet, fifty times over, pharaoh received no demonstration, by his baker's dream of basket three, of the doctrine of the trinity,-- although, as our preacher thus embellished it, apparently his hearers relished it with so unfeigned a gust--who knows if they did not prefer our friend to joseph? but so it is everywhere, one way with all of them! these people have really felt, no doubt, a something, the motion they style the call of them; and this is their method of bringing about, by a mechanism of words and tones, (so many texts in so many groans) a sort of reviving and reproducing, more or less perfectly, (who can tell?) the mood itself, which strengthens by using; and how that happens, i understand well. a tune was born in my head last week, out of the thump-thump and shriek-shriek of the train, as i came by it, up from manchester; and when, next week, i take it back again, my head will sing to the engine's clack again, while it only makes my neighbour's haunches stir, --finding no dormant musical sprout in him, as in me, to be jolted out. 'tis the taught already that profits by teaching; he gets no more from the railway's preaching than, from this preacher who does the rail's office, i: whom therefore the flock cast a jealous eye on. still, why paint over their door "mount zion," to which all flesh shall come, saith the prophecy? v but wherefore be harsh on a single case? after how many modes, this christmas eve, does the self-same weary thing take place? the same endeavour to make you believe, and with much the same effect, no more: each method abundantly convincing, as i say, to those convinced before, but scarce to be swallowed without wincing by the not-as-yet-convinced. for me, i have my own church equally: and in this church my faith sprang first! (i said, as i reached the rising ground, and the wind began again, with a burst of rain in my face, and a glad rebound from the heart beneath, as if, god speeding me, i entered his church-door, nature leading me) --in youth i look to these very skies, and probing their immensities, i found god there, his visible power; yet felt in my heart, amid all its sense of the power, an equal evidence that his love, there too, was the nobler dower. for the loving worm within its clod, were diviner than a loveless god amid his worlds, i will dare to say. you know what i mean: god's all, man's nought: but also, god, whose pleasure brought man into being, stands away as it were a handbreadth off, to give room for the newly-made to live, and look at him from a place apart, and use his gifts of brain and heart, given, indeed, but to keep for ever. who speaks of man, then, must not sever man's very elements from man, saying, "but all is god's"--whose plan was to create man and then leave him able, his own word saith, to grieve him but able to glorify him too, as a mere machine could never do, that prayed or praised, all unaware of its fitness for aught but praise and prayer, made perfect as a thing of course. man, therefore, stands on his own stock of love and power as a pin-point rock: and, looking to god who ordained divorce of the rock from his boundless continent, sees, in his power made evident, only excess by a million-fold o'er the power god gave man in the mould. for, note: man's hand, first formed to carry a few pounds' weight, when taught to marry its strength with an engine's, lifts a mountain, --advancing in power by one degree; and why count steps through eternity? but love is the ever-springing fountain: man may enlarge or narrow his bed for the water's play, but the water-head-- how can he multiply or reduce it? as easy create it, as cause it to cease; he may profit by it, or abuse it, but 'tis not a thing to bear increase as power does: be love less or more in the heart of man, he keeps it shut or opes it wide, as he pleases, but love's sum remains what it was before. so, gazing up, in my youth, at love as seen through power, ever above all modes which make it manifest, my soul brought all to a single test-- that he, the eternal first and last, who, in his power, had so surpassed all man conceives of what is might,-- whose wisdom, too, showed infinite, --would prove as infinitely good; would never, (my soul understood,) with power to work all love desires, bestow e'en less than man requires; that he who endlessly was teaching, above my spirit's utmost reaching, what love can do in the leaf or stone, (so that to master this alone, this done in the stone or leaf for me, i must go on learning endlessly) would never need that i, in turn, should point him out defect unheeded, and show that god had yet to learn what the meanest human creature needed, --not life, to wit, for a few short years, tracking his way through doubts and fears, while the stupid earth on which i stay suffers no change, but passive adds its myriad years to myriads, though i, he gave it to, decay, seeing death come and choose about me, and my dearest ones depart without me. no: love which, on earth, amid all the shows of it, has ever been seen the sole good of life in it, the love, ever growing there, spite of the strife in it. shall arise, made perfect, from death's repose of it, and i shall behold thee, face to face, o god, and in thy light retrace how in all i loved here, still wast thou! whom pressing to, then, as i fain would now, i shall find as able to satiate the love, thy gift, as my spirit's wonder thou art able to quicken and sublimate, with this sky of thine, that i now walk under, and glory in thee for, as i gaze thus, thus! oh, let men keep their ways of seeking thee in a narrow shrine-- be this my way! and this is mine! vi for lo, what think you? suddenly the rain and the wind ceased, and the sky received at once the full fruition of the moon's consummate apparition. the black cloud-barricade was riven, ruined beneath her feet, and driven deep in the west; while, bare and breathless, north and south and east lay ready for a glorious thing that, dauntless, deathless, sprang across them and stood steady. 'twas a moon-rainbow, vast and perfect, from heaven to heaven extending, perfect as the mother-moon's self, full in face. it rose, distinctly at the base with its seven proper colours chorded, which still, in the rising, were compressed, until at last they coalesced, and supreme the spectral creature lorded in a triumph of whitest white,-- above which intervened the night. but above night too, like only the next, the second of a wondrous sequence, reaching in rare and rarer frequence, till the heaven of heavens were circumflexed, another rainbow rose, a mightier, fainter, flushier and flightier,-- rapture dying along its verge. oh, whose foot shall i see emerge, whose, from the straining topmost dark, on to the keystone of that arc? vii this sight was shown me, there and then,-- me, out of a world of men, singled forth, as the chance might hap to another if, in a thunderclap where i heard noise and you saw flame, some one man knew god called his name. for me, i think i said, "appear! "good were it to be ever here. "if thou wilt, let me build to thee "service-tabernacles three, "where, forever in thy presence, "in ecstatic acquiescence, "far alike from thriftless learning "and ignorance's undiscerning, "i may worship and remain!" thus at the show above me, gazing with upturned eyes, i felt my brain glutted with the glory, blazing throughout its whole mass, over and under until at length it burst asunder and out of it bodily there streamed, the too-much glory, as it seemed, passing from out me to the ground, then palely serpentining round into the dark with mazy error. viii all at once i looked up with terror. he was there. he himself with his human air. on the narrow pathway, just before. i saw the back of him, no more-- he had left the chapel, then, as i. i forgot all about the sky. no face: only the sight of a sweepy garment, vast and white, with a hem that i could recognize. i felt terror, no surprise; my mind filled with the cataract, at one bound of the mighty fact. "i remember, he did say "doubtless that, to this world's end, "where two or three should meet and pray, "he would be in their midst, their friend; "certainly he was there with them!" and my pulses leaped for joy of the golden thought without alloy, then i saw his very vesture's hem. then rushed the blood back, cold and clear, with a fresh enhancing shiver of fear; and i hastened, cried out while i pressed to the salvation of the vest, "but not so, lord! it cannot be "that thou, indeed, art leaving me-- "me, that have despised thy friends! "did my heart make no amends? "thou art the love of god--above "his power, didst hear me place his love, "and that was leaving the world for thee. "therefore thou must not turn from me "as i had chosen the other part! "folly and pride o'ercame my heart. "our best is bad, nor bears thy test; "still, it should be our very best. "i thought it best that thou, the spirit, "be worshipped in spirit and in truth, "and in beauty, as even we require it-- "not in the forms burlesque, uncouth, "i left but now, as scarcely fitted "for thee: i knew not what i pitied. "but, all i felt there, right or wrong, "what is it to thee, who curest sinning? "am i not weak as thou art strong? "i have looked to thee from the beginning, "straight up to thee through all the world "which, like an idle scroll, lay furled "to nothingness on either side: "and since the time thou wast descried, "spite of the weak heart, so have i "lived ever, and so fain would die, "living and dying, thee before! "but if thou leavest me----" ix less or more, i suppose that i spoke thus. when,--have mercy, lord, on us! the whole face turned upon me full. and i spread myself beneath it, as when the bleacher spreads, to seethe it in the cleansing sun, his wool,-- steeps in the flood of noontide whiteness some denied, discoloured web-- so lay i, saturate with brightness. and when the flood appeared to ebb, lo, i was walking, light and swift, with my senses settling fast and steadying, but my body caught up in the whirl and drift of the vesture's amplitude, still eddying on, just before me, still to be followed, as it carried me after with its motion: what shall i say?--as a path were hollowed and a man went weltering through the ocean, sucked along in the flying wake of the luminous water-snake. darkness and cold were cloven, as through i passed, upborne yet walking too. and i turned to myself at intervals,-- "so he said, so it befalls. "god who registers the cup "of mere cold water, for his sake "to a disciple rendered up, "disdains not his own thirst to slake "at the poorest love was ever offered: "and because my heart i proffered, "with true love trembling at the brim, "he suffers me to follow him "for ever, my own way,--dispensed "from seeking to be influenced "by all the less immediate ways "that earth, in worships manifold, "adopts to reach, by prayer and praise, "the garment's hem, which, lo, i hold!" x and so we crossed the world and stopped. for where am i, in city or plain, since i am 'ware of the world again? and what is this that rises propped with pillars of prodigious girth? is it really on the earth, this miraculous dome of god? has the angel's measuring-rod which numbered cubits, gem from gem, 'twixt the gates of the new jerusalem, meted it out,--and what he meted, have the sons of men completed? --binding, ever as he bade, columns in the colonnade with arms wide open to embrace the entry of the human race to the breast of... what is it, yon building, ablaze in front, all paint and gilding, with marble for brick, and stones of price for garniture of the edifice? now i see; it is no dream; it stands there and it does not seem; for ever, in pictures, thus it looks, and thus i have read of it in books often in england, leagues away, and wondered how these fountains play, growing up eternally each to a musical water-tree, whose blossoms drop, a glittering boon, before my eyes, in the light of the moon, to the granite layers underneath. liar and dreamer in your teeth! i, the sinner that speak to you, was in rome this night, and stood, and knew both this and more. for see, for see, the dark is rent, mine eye is free to pierce the crust of the outer wall, and i view inside, and all there, all, as the swarming hollow of a hive, the whole basilica alive! men in the chancel, body and nave, men on the pillars' architrave, men on the statues, men on the tombs with popes and kings in their porphyry wombs, all famishing in expectation of the main-altar's consummation. for see, for see, the rapturous moment approaches, and earth's best endowment blends with heaven's; the taper-fires pant up, the winding brazen spires heave loftier yet the baldachin; [footnote: canopy over the high altar.] the incense-gaspings, long kept in, suspire in clouds; the organ blatant holds his breath and grovels latent, as if god's hushing finger grazed him, (like behemoth when he praised him) at the silver bell's shrill tinkling, quick cold drops of terror sprinkling on the sudden pavement strewed with faces of the multitude. earth breaks up, time drops away, in flows heaven, with its new day of endless life, when he who trod, very man and very god, this earth in weakness, shame and pain, dying the death whose signs remain up yonder on the accursed tree,-- shall come again, no more to be of captivity the thrall, but the one god, all in all, king of kings, lord of lords, as his servant john received the words, "i died, and live for evermore!" xi yet i was left outside the door. "why sit i here on the threshold-stone "left till he return, alone "save for the garment's extreme fold "abandoned still to bless my hold?" my reason, to my doubt, replied, as if a book were opened wide, and at a certain page i traced every record undefaced, added by successive years,-- the harvestings of truth's stray ears singly gleaned, and in one sheaf bound together for belief. yes, i said--that he will go and sit with these in turn, i know. their faith's heart beats, though her head swims too giddily to guide her limbs, disabled by their palsy-stroke from propping mine. though rome's gross yoke drops off, no more to be endured, her teaching is not so obscured by errors and perversities, that no truth shines athwart the lies: and he, whose eye detects a spark even where, to man's, the whole seems dark, may well see flame where each beholder acknowledges the embers smoulder. but i, a mere man, fear to quit the clue god gave me as most fit to guide my footsteps through life's maze, because himself discerns all ways open to reach him: i, a man able to mark where faith began to swerve aside, till from its summit judgment drops her damning plummet, pronouncing such a fatal space departed from the founder's base: he will not bid me enter too, but rather sit, as now i do, awaiting his return outside. --'twas thus my reason straight replied and joyously i turned, and pressed the garment's skirt upon my breast, until, afresh its light suffusing me, my heart cried--what has been abusing me that i should wait here lonely and coldly, instead of rising, entering boldly, baring truth's face, and letting drift her veils of lies as they choose to shift? do these men praise him? i will raise my voice up to their point of praise! i see the error; but above the scope of error, see the love.-- oh, love of those first christian days! --fanned so soon into a blaze, from the spark preserved by the trampled sect, that the antique sovereign intellect which then sat ruling in the world, like a change in dreams, was hurled from the throne he reigned upon: you looked up and he was gone. gone, his glory of the pen! --love, with greece and rome in ken, bade her scribes abhor the trick of poetry and rhetoric, and exult with hearts set free, in blessed imbecility scrawled, perchance, on some torn sheet leaving sallust incomplete gone, his pride of sculptor, painter! --love, while able to acquaint her while the thousand statues yet fresh from chisel, pictures wet from brush, she saw on every side, chose rather with an infant's pride to frame those portents which impart such unction to true christian art. gone, music too! the air was stirred by happy wings: terpander's* bird *[footnote: terpander, a famous lesbian musician and lyric poet, b.c.] (that, when the cold came, fled away) would tarry not the wintry day,-- as more-enduring sculpture must, till filthy saints rebuked the gust with which they chanced to get a sight of some dear naked aphrodite they glanced a thought above the toes of, by breaking zealously her nose off. love, surely, from that music's lingering, might have filched her organ-fingering, nor chosen rather to set prayings to hog-grunts, praises to horse-neighings. love was the startling thing, the new: love was the all-sufficient too; and seeing that, you see the rest: as a babe can find its mother's breast as well in darkness as in light, love shut our eyes, and all seemed right. true, the world's eyes are open now: --less need for me to disallow some few that keep love's zone unbuckled, peevish as ever to be suckled, lulled by the same old baby-prattle with intermixture of the rattle, when she would have them creep, stand steady upon their feet, or walk already, not to speak of trying to climb. i will be wise another time, and not desire a wall between us, when next i see a church-roof cover so many species of one genus, all with foreheads bearing _lover_ written above the earnest eyes of them; all with breasts that beat for beauty, whether sublimed, to the surprise of them, in noble daring, steadfast duty, the heroic in passion, or in action,-- or, lowered for sense's satisfaction, to the mere outside of human creatures, mere perfect form and faultless features. what? with all rome here, whence to levy such contributions to their appetite, with women and men in a gorgeous bevy, they take, as it were, a padlock, clap it tight on their southern eyes, restrained from feeding on the glories of their ancient reading, on the beauties of their modern singing, on the wonders of the builder's bringing, on the majesties of art around them,-- and, all these loves, late struggling incessant, when faith has at last united and bound them, they offer up to god for a present? why, i will, on the whole, be rather proud of it,-- and, only taking the act in reference to the other recipients who might have allowed it, i will rejoice that god had the preference. xii so i summed up my new resolves: too much love there can never be. and where the intellect devolves its function on love exclusively, i, a man who possesses both, will accept the provision, nothing loth, --will feast my love, then depart elsewhere, that my intellect may find its share. and ponder, o soul, the while thou departest, and see them applaud the great heart of the artist, who, examining the capabilities of the block of marble he has to fashion into a type of thought or passion,-- not always, using obvious facilities, shapes it, as any artist can, into a perfect symmetrical man, complete from head to foot of the life-size, such as old adam stood in his wife's eyes,-- but, now and then, bravely aspires to consummate a colossus by no means so easy to come at, and uses the whole of his block for the bust, leaving the mind of the public to finish it, since cut it ruefully short he must: on the face alone he expends his devotion, he rather would mar than resolve to diminish it, --saying, "applaud me for this grand notion "of what a face may be! as for completing it "in breast and body and limbs, do that, you!" all hail! i fancy how, happily meeting it, a trunk and legs would perfect the statue, could man carve so as to answer volition. and how much nobler than petty cavils, were a hope to find, in my spirit-travels, some artist of another ambition, who, having a block to carve, no bigger, has spent his power on the opposite quest, and believed to begin at the feet was best-- for so may i see, ere i die, the whole figure! xiii no sooner said than out in the night! my heart lighter and more light: and still, as before, i was walking swift, with my senses settling fast and steadying, but my body caught up in the whirl and drift of the vesture's amplitude, still eddying on just before me, still to be followed, as it carried me after with its motion, --what shall i say?--as a path, were hollowed, and a man went weltering through the ocean, sucked along in the flying wake of the luminous water-snake. xiv alone! i am left alone once more-- (save for the garment's extreme fold abandoned still to bless my hold) alone, beside the entrance-door of a sort of temple,-perhaps a college, --like nothing i ever saw before at home in england, to my knowledge. the tall old quaint irregular town! it may be... though which, i can't affirm... any of the famous middle-age towns of germany: and this flight of stairs where i sit down, is it halle, weimar, cassel, frankfort or gottingen, i have to thank for't? it may be gottingen,--most likely. through the open door i catch obliquely glimpses of a lecture-hall; and not a bad assembly neither, ranged decent and symmetrical on benches, waiting what's to see there: which, holding still by the vesture's hem, i also resolve to see with them, cautious this time how i suffer to slip the chance of joining in fellowship with any that call themselves his friends; as these folk do, i have a notion. but hist--a buzzing and emotion! all settle themselves, the while ascends by the creaking rail to the lecture-desk, step by step, deliberate because of his cranium's over-freight, three parts sublime to one grotesque, if i have proved an accurate guesser, the hawk-nosed high-cheek-boned professor. i felt at once as if there ran a shoot of love from my heart to the man-- that sallow virgin-minded studious martyr to mild enthusiasm, as he uttered a kind of cough-preludious that woke my sympathetic spasm, (beside some spitting that made me sorry) and stood, surveying his auditory with a wan pure look, well-nigh celestial,-- those blue eyes had survived so much! while, under the foot they could not smutch, lay all the fleshly and the bestial. over he bowed, and arranged his notes, till the auditory's clearing of throats was done with, died into a silence; and, when each glance was upward sent, each bearded mouth composed intent, and a pin might be heard drop half a mile hence,-- he pushed back higher his spectacles, let the eyes stream out like lamps from cells, and giving his head of hair--a hake of undressed tow, for colour and quantity-- one rapid and impatient shake, (as our own young england adjusts a jaunty tie when about to impart, on mature digestion, some thrilling view of the surplice-question) --the professor's grave voice, sweet though hoarse, broke into his christmas-eve discourse. xv and he began it by observing how reason dictated that men should rectify the natural swerving, by a reversion, now and then, to the well-heads of knowledge, few and far away, whence rolling grew the life-stream wide whereat we drink, commingled, as we needs must think, with waters alien to the source; to do which, aimed this eve's discourse; since, where could be a fitter time for tracing backward to its prime this christianity, this lake, this reservoir, whereat we slake, from one or other bank, our thirst? so, he proposed inquiring first into the various sources whence this myth of christ is derivable; demanding from the evidence, (since plainly no such life was livable) how these phenomena should class? whether 'twere best opine christ was, or never was at all, or whether he was and was not, both together-- it matters little for the name, so the idea be left the same. only, for practical purpose' sake, 'twas obviously as well to take the popular story,--understanding how the ineptitude of the time, and the penman's prejudice, expanding fact into fable fit for the clime, had, by slow and sure degrees, translated it into this myth, this individuum,-- which, when reason had strained and abated it of foreign matter, left, for residuum, a man!--a right true man, however, whose work was worthy a man's endeavour: work, that gave warrant almost sufficient to his disciples, for rather believing he was just omnipotent and omniscient, as it gives to us, for as frankly receiving his word, their tradition,--which, though it meant something entirely different from all that those who only heard it, in their simplicity thought and averred it, had yet a meaning quite as respectable: for, among other doctrines delectable, was he not surely the first to insist on the natural sovereignty of our race?-- here the lecturer came to a pausing-place. and while his cough, like a drouthy piston, tried to dislodge the husk that grew to him, i seized the occasion of bidding adieu to him, the vesture still within my hand. xvi i could interpret its command. this time he would not bid me enter the exhausted air-bell of the critic. truth's atmosphere may grow mephitic when papist struggles with dissenter, impregnating its pristine clarity, --one, by his daily fare's vulgarity, its gust of broken meat and garlic; --one, by his soul's too-much presuming to turn the frankincense's fuming and vapours of the candle starlike into the cloud her wings she buoys on. each, that thus sets the pure air seething, may poison it for healthy breathing-- but the critic leaves no air to poison; pumps out with ruthless ingenuity atom by atom, and leaves you--vacuity. thus much of christ does he reject? and what retain? his intellect? what is it i must reverence duly? poor intellect for worship, truly, which tells me simply what was told (if mere morality, bereft of the god in christ, be all that's left) elsewhere by voices manifold; with this advantage, that the stater made nowise the important stumble of adding, he, the sage and humble, was also one with the creator. you urge christ's followers' simplicity: but how does shifting blame, evade it? have wisdom's words no more felicity? the stumbling-block, his speech--who laid it? how comes it that for one found able to sift the truth of it from fable, millions believe it to the letter? christ's goodness, then--does that fare better? strange goodness, which upon the score of being goodness, the mere due of man to fellow-man, much more to god,--should take another view of its possessor's privilege, and bid him rule his race! you pledge your fealty to such rule? what, all-- from heavenly john and attic paul, and that brave weather-battered peter, whose stout faith only stood completer for buffets, sinning to be pardoned, as, more his hands hauled nets, they hardened,-- all, down to you, the man of men, professing here at gottingen, compose christ's flock! they, you and i, are sheep of a good man! and why? the goodness,--how did he acquire it? was it self-gained, did god inspire it? choose which; then tell me, on what ground should its possessor dare propound his claim to rise o'er us an inch? were goodness all some man's invention, who arbitrarily made mention what we should follow, and whence flinch,-- what qualities might take the style of right and wrong,--and had such guessing met with as general acquiescing as graced the alphabet erewhile, when a got leave an ox to be, no camel (quoth the jews) like g*,-- *[footnote: gimel, the hebrew g, means camel.] for thus inventing thing and title worship were that man's fit requital. but if the common conscience must be ultimately judge, adjust its apt name to each quality already known,--i would decree worship for such mere demonstration and simple work of nomenclature, only the day i praised, not nature, but harvey, for the circulation. i would praise such a christ, with pride and joy, that he, as none beside, had taught us how to keep the mind god gave him, as god gave his kind, freer than they from fleshly taint: i would call such a christ our saint, as i declare our poet, him whose insight makes all others dim: a thousand poets pried at life, and only one amid the strife rose to be shakespeare: each shall take his crown, i'd say, for the world's sake-- though some objected--"had we seen "the heart and head of each, what screen "was broken there to give them light, "while in ourselves it shuts the sight, "we should no more admire, perchance, "that these found truth out at a glance, "than marvel how the bat discerns "some pitch-dark cavern's fifty turns, "led by a finer tact, a gift "he boasts, which other birds must shift "without, and grope as best they can." no, freely i would praise the man,-- nor one whit more, if he contended that gift of his, from god descended. ah friend, what gift of man's does not? no nearer something, by a jot, rise an infinity of nothings than one: take euclid for your teacher: distinguish kinds: do crownings, clothings, make that creator which was creature? multiply gifts upon man's head, and what, when all's done, shall be said but--the more gifted he, i ween! that one's made christ, this other, pilate, and this might be all that has been,-- so what is there to frown or smile at? what is left for us, save, in growth of soul, to rise up, far past both, from the gift looking to the giver, and from the cistern to the river, and from the finite to infinity, and from man's dust to god's divinity? xvii take all in a word: the truth in god's breast lies trace for trace upon curs impressed: though he is so bright and we so dim, we are made in his image to witness him: and were no eye in us to tell, instructed by no inner sense, the light of heaven from the dark of hell, that light would want its evidence,-- though justice, good and truth were still divine, if, by some demon's will, hatred and wrong had been proclaimed law through the worlds, and right misnamed. no mere exposition of morality made or in part or in totality, should win you to give it worship, therefore: and, if no better proof you will care for, --whom do you count the worst man upon earth? be sure, he knows, in his conscience, more of what right is, than arrives at birth in the best man's acts that we bow before: this last knows better--true, but my fact is, 'tis one thing to know, and another to practise. and thence i conclude that the real god-function is to furnish a motive and injunction for practising what we know already. and such an injunction and such a motive as the god in christ, do you waive, and "heady, "high-minded," hang your tablet-votive outside the fane on a finger-post? morality to the uttermost, supreme in christ as we all confess, why need we prove would avail no jot to make him god, if god he were not? what is the point where himself lays stress? does the precept run "believe in good, "in justice, truth, now understood "for the first time?"--or, "believe in me, "who lived and died, yet essentially "am lord of life?" whoever can take the same to his heart and for mere love's sake conceive of the love,--that man obtains a new truth; no conviction gains of an old one only, made intense by a fresh appeal to his faded sense. xviii can it be that he stays inside? is the vesture left me to commune with? could my soul find aught to sing in tune with even at this lecture, if she tried? oh, let me at lowest sympathize with the lurking drop of blood that lies in the desiccated brain's white roots without throb for christ's attributes, as the lecturer makes his special boast! if love's dead there, it has left a ghost. admire we, how from heart to brain (though to say so strike the doctors dumb) one instinct rises and falls again, restoring the equilibrium. and how when the critic had done his best, and the pearl of price, at reason's test, lay dust and ashes levigable on the professor's lecture-table,-- when we looked for the inference and monition that our faith, reduced to such condition, be swept forthwith to its natural dust-hole,-- he bids us, when we least expect it, take back our faith,--if it be not just whole, yet a pearl indeed, as his tests affect it, which fact pays damage done rewardingly, so, prize we our dust and ashes accordingly! "go home and venerate the myth "i thus have experimented with-- "this man, continue to adore him "rather than all who went before him, "and all who ever followed after!"-- surely for this i may praise you, my brother! will you take the praise in tears or laughter? that's one point gained: can i compass another? unlearned love was safe from spurning-- can't we respect your loveless learning? let us at least give learning honour! what laurels had we showered upon her, girding her loins up to perturb our theory of the middle verb; or turk-like brandishing a scimitar o'er anapasts in comic-trimeter; or curing the halt and maimed 'iketides,' [footnote: "the suppliants," a fragment of a play by aeschylus.] while we lounged on at our indebted ease: instead of which, a tricksy demon sets her at titus or philemon! when ignorance wags his ears of leather and hates god's word, 'tis altogether; nor leaves he his congenial thistles to go and browse on paul's epistles. --and you, the audience, who might ravage the world wide, enviably savage, nor heed the cry of the retriever, more than herr heine (before his fever),-- i do not tell a lie so arrant as say my passion's wings are furled up, and, without plainest heavenly warrant, i were ready and glad to give the world up-- but still, when you rub brow meticulous, and ponder the profit of turning holy if not for god's, for your own sake solely, --god forbid i should find you ridiculous! deduce from this lecture all that eases you, nay, call yourselves, if the calling pleases you, "christians,"--abhor the deist's pravity,-- go on, you shall no more move my gravity than, when i see boys ride a-cockhorse, i find it in my heart to embarrass them by hinting that their stick's a mock horse, and they really carry what they say carries them. xix so sat i talking with my mind. i did not long to leave the door and find a new church, as before, but rather was quiet and inclined to prolong and enjoy the gentle resting from further tracking and trying and testing. "this tolerance is a genial mood!" (said i, and a little pause ensued). "one trims the bark 'twixt shoal and shelf, "and sees, each side, the good effects of it, "a value for religion's self, "a carelessness about the sects of it. "let me enjoy my own conviction, "not watch my neighbour's faith with fretfulness, "still spying there some dereliction "of truth, perversity, forgetfulness!" better a mild indifferentism, "teaching that both our faiths (though duller "his shine through a dull spirit's prism) "originally had one colour! "better pursue a pilgrimage "through ancient and through modern times "to many peoples, various climes, "where i may see saint, savage, sage "fuse their respective creeds in one "before the general father's throne!" xx --'twas the horrible storm began afresh! the black night caught me in his mesh, whirled me up, and flung me prone. i was left on the college-step alone. i looked, and far there, ever fleeting far, far away, the receding gesture, and looming of the lessening vesture!-- swept forward from my stupid hand, while i watched my foolish heart expand in the lazy glow of benevolence, o'er the various modes of man's belief. i sprang up with fear's vehemence. needs must there be one way, our chief best way of worship: let me strive to find it, and when found, contrive my fellows also take their share! this constitutes my earthly care: god's is above it and distinct. for i, a man, with men am linked but not a brute with brutes; no gain that i experience, must remain unshared: but should my best endeavour to share it, fail--subsisteth ever god's care above, and i exult that god, by god's own ways occult, may--doth, i will believe--bring back all wanderers to a single track. meantime, i can but testify god's care for me--no more, can i-- it is but for myself i know; the world rolls witnessing around me only to leave me as it found me; men cry there, but my ear is slow: there races flourish or decay --what boots it, while yon lucid way loaded with stars divides the vault? but soon my soul repairs its fault when, sharpening sense's hebetude, she turns on my own life! so viewed, no mere mote's-breadth but teems immense with witnessings of providence: and woe to me if when i look upon that record, the sole book unsealed to me, i take no heed of any warning that i read! have i been sure, this christmas-eve, god's own hand did the rainbow weave, whereby the truth from heaven slid into my soul?--i cannot bid the world admit he stooped to heal my soul, as if in a thunder-peal where one heard noise, and one saw flame, i only knew he named my name: but what is the world to me, for sorrow or joy in its censure, when to-morrow it drops the remark, with just-turned head then, on again, 'that man is dead'? yes, but for me--my name called,--drawn as a conscript's lot from the lap's black yawn, he has dipt into on a battle-dawn: bid out of life by a nod, a glance,-- stumbling, mute-mazed, at nature's chance, with a rapid finger circled round, fixed to the first poor inch of ground to fight from, where his foot was found; whose ear but a minute since lay free to the wide camp's buzz and gossipry-- summoned, a solitary man to end his life where his life began, from the safe glad rear, to the dreadful van! soul of mine, hadst thou caught and held by the hem of the vesture!-- xxi and i caught at the flying robe, and unrepelled was lapped again in its folds full-fraught with warmth and wonder and delight, god's mercy being infinite. for scarce had the words escaped my tongue, when, at a passionate bound, i sprung, out of the wandering world of rain, into the little chapel again. xxii how else was i found there, bolt upright on my bench, as if i had never left it? --never flung out on the common at night, nor met the storm and wedge-like cleft it, seen the raree-show of peter's successor, or the laboratory of the professor! for the vision, that was true, i wist, true as that heaven and earth exist. there sat my friend, the yellow and tall, with his neck and its wen in the selfsame place; yet my nearest neighbour's cheek showed gall. she had slid away a contemptuous space: and the old fat woman, late so placable, eyed me with symptoms hardly mistakable, of her milk of kindness turning rancid. in short, a spectator might have fancied that i had nodded, betrayed by slumber. yet kept my scat, a warning ghastly, through the heads of the sermon, nine in number, and woke up now at the tenth and lastly. but again, could such disgrace have happened? each friend at my elbow had surely nudged it; and, as for the sermon, where did my nap end? unless i heard it, could i have judged it? could i report as i do at the close, first, the preacher speaks through his nose: second, his gesture is too emphatic: thirdly, to waive what's pedagogic, the subject-matter itself lacks logic: fourthly, the english is ungrammatic. great news! the preacher is found no pascal, whom, if i pleased, i might to the task call of making square to a finite eye the circle of infinity, and find so all-but-just-succeeding! great news! the sermon proves no reading where bee-like in the flowers i bury me, like taylor's the immortal jeremy! and now that i know the very worst of him, what was it i thought to obtain at first of him? ha! is god mocked, as he asks, shall i take on me to change his tasks, and dare, despatched to a river-head for a simple draught of the element, neglect the thing for which he sent, and return with another thing instead?-- saying, "because the water found "welling up from the underground, "is mingled with the taints of earth, "while thou, i know, dost laugh at dearth, "and couldst, at wink or word, convulse "the world with the leap of a river-pulse,-- "therefore i turned from the oozings muddy, "and bring thee a chalice i found, instead; "see the brave veins in the breccia ruddy! "one would suppose that the marble bled. "what matters the water? a hope i have nursed: "the waterless cup will quench my thirst." --better have knelt at the poorest stream that trickles in pain from the straitest rift! for the less or the more is all god's gift, who blocks up or breaks wide the granite-seam. and here, is there water or not, to drink? i then, in ignorance and weakness, taking god's help, have attained to think my heart does best to receive in meekness that mode of worship, as most to his mind, where earthly aids being cast behind, his all in all appears serene with the thinnest human veil between, letting the mystic lamps, the seven, the many motions of his spirit, pass, as they list, to earth from heaven. for the preacher's merit or demerit, it were to be wished the flaws were fewer in the earthen vessel, holding treasure which lies as safe in a golden ewer; but the main thing is, does it hold good measure? heaven soon sets right all other matters!-- ask, else, these ruins of humanity, this flesh worn out to rags and tatters, this soul at struggle with insanity, who thence take comfort--can i doubt?-- which an empire gained were a loss without. may it be mine! and let us hope that no worse blessing befall the pope, turned sick at last of to-day's buffoonery, of posturings and petticoatings, beside his bourbon bully's gloatings in the bloody orgies of drunk poltroonery! nor may the professor forego its peace at gottingen presently, when, in the dusk of his life, if his cough, as i fear, should increase, prophesied of by that horrible husk-- when thicker and thicker the darkness fills the world through his misty spectacles, and he gropes for something more substantial than a fable, myth or personification,-- may christ do for him what no mere man shall, and stand confessed as the god of salvation! meantime, in the still recurring fear lest myself, at unawares, be found, while attacking the choice of my neighbours round, with none of my own made--i choose here! the giving out of the hymn reclaims me; i have done: and if any blames me, thinking that merely to touch in brevity the topics i dwell on, were unlawful,-- or worse, that i trench, with undue levity, on the bounds of the holy and the awful,-- i praise the heart, and pity the head of him, and refer myself to thee, instead of him, who head and heart alike discernest looking below light speech we utter, when frothy spume and frequent sputter prove that the soul's depths boil in earnest! may truth shine out, stand ever before us! i put up pencil and join chorus to hepzibah tune, without further apology, the last five verses of the third section of the seventeenth hymn of whitfield's collection, to conclude with the doxology.