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The intermediate time, undoing themselves In the act. Your city poets see such things, Not despicable. Mountains of the south, When, drunk and mad with elemental wines,

They rend the seamless mist and stand up bare,

Make fewer singers, haply. No one sings,
Descending Sinai: on Parnassus mount,
You take a mule to climb, and not a muse,
Except in fable and figure: forests chant
Their anthems to themselves, and leave
you dumb.

But sit in London, at the day's decline,
And view the city perish in the mist
Like Pharaoh's armaments in the deep Red
Sea,-

The chariots, horsemen, footmen, all the host,

Sucked down and choked to silence then, surprised

By a sudden sense of vision and of tune, You feel as conquerors though you did not fight,

And you and Israel's other singing-girls, Ay, Miriam with them, sing the song you

choose."

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They stood: I watched beyond that Tyrian belt

Of intense sea betwixt them and the ship, Down all their sides the misty olive-woods Dissolving in the weak congenial moon, And still disclosing some brown conventtower

That seems as if it grew from some brown rock,

Or many a little lighted village, dropt
Like a fallen star, upon so high a point,
You wonder what can keep it in its place
From sliding headlong with the waterfalls
Which drop and powder all the myrtle-
groves
With spray of silver. Thus my Italy
Was stealing on us.
day;

Genoa broke with

The Doria's long pale palace striking out, From green hills in advance of the white

town.

A marble finger dominant to ships, Seen glimmering through the uncertain grey of dawn."

That is poetry-splendid, magnificent poetry without intermixture of conceits or far-fetched images. Our younger poets, who, as a class, aspire to dazzle rather than to please, might derive a very useful lesson from the study of these extracts. The first is undoubtedly gorgeous, but it is so overlaid with ornament that it leaves no distinct impression on the mind; the second is a perfect picture, which once seen can never be forgotten. To these we are tempted to add a third, descriptive of Florence :

"I found a house, at Florence, on the hill Of Bellosguardo. 'Tis a tower that keeps A post of double-observation o'er

The valley of Arno (holding as a hand
The outspread city) straight toward Fiesole
And Mount Morello and the setting sun,-
The Vallombrosan mountains to the right,
Which sunrise fills as full as crystal cups
Wine-filled, and red to the brim because
it's red.

No sun could die, nor yet be born, unseen

By dwellers at my villa: morn and eve
Were magnified before us in the pure
Illimitable space and pause of sky,
Intense as angels' garments blanched with
God,

Less blue than radiant. From the outer wall

Of the garden, dropped the mystic floating grey

Of olive-trees (with interruptions green From maize and vine) until 'twas caught and torn

On that abrupt black line of cypresses Which signed the way to Florence. Beautiful

The city lay along the ample vale, Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza and street;

The river trailing like a silver cord

Through all, and curling loosely, both be

fore

And after, over the whole stretch of land Sown whitely up and down its opposite slopes,

With farms and villas."

The reader will find in the volume itself descriptions almost as vivid and charming as the above of English scenery; for Mrs Browning, when her palette is not overcharged with carmine, can paint such things as perfectly as Morland, Gainsborough, or Constable. Witness the few following lines, which we cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of extracting:

"I flattered all the beauteous country round,

As poets use .. the skies, the clouds, the fields,

The happy violets hiding from the roads

The primroses run down to, carrying gold The tangled hedgerows, where the cows push out

Impatient horns and tolerant churning

mouths

'Twixt dripping ash-boughs,-hedgerows all alive

With birds and gnats and large white butterflies

Which look as if the May-flower had caught life

And palpitated forth upon the wind,— Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver mist, Farms, granges, doubled up among the hills,

And cattle grazing in the watered vales, And cottage-chimneys smoking from the woods,

And cottage-gardens smelling everywhere, Confused with smell of orchards. See,' I said,

'And see! is God not with us on the earth?

And shall we put Him down by aught we do?

Who says there's nothing for the poor and vile

Save poverty and wickedness? behold!' And ankle-deep in English grass I leaped, And clapped my hands, and called all very fair."

Nor is the great genius of Mrs Browning less conspicuous in other portions of the poem which relate to the natural affections. Once and again, whilst perusing this volume, have we experienced a sensation of regret that one so admirably gifted should have wasted much of her power upon what are, after all, mere artistic experiments, when, by adhering throughout to natural sentiment and natural expression, she might

For our

have produced a work so noble as to leave no room for cavilling or reproach. The tendency to experiment, which is simply a token of a morbid craving for originality, has been the being won, they think it incumbent bane of many poets. Their first victory ground, and alter their strategy, foron them to shift their campaigninggetful that the method which has brought them success, and which was most suited to their powers, is they intuitively adopted because it precisely that most likely to insure them a future triumph. selves, we are free to confess that we have not much faith in new theories of art; we are rather inclined to class them in the same category with schemes for the regeneration of society. Mrs Browning, beyond all modern poets, has no need of resorting to fantasias for the sake of atshe deserts her theories, and touches tracting an audience. For whenever a natural chord, we acknowledge her as a mistress of song. In proof of which we cite the description of Marian Erle, the outcast girl, when waking from her trance in the hospital::

"She stirred ;-the place seemed new and strange as death.

The white strait bed, with others strait and white,

Like graves dug side by side, at measured lengths,

And quiet people walking in and out,
With wonderful low voices and soft steps,
And apparitional equal care for each,
Astonished her with order, silence, law:
And when a gentle hand held out a cup,
She took it, as you do at sacrament,
Half awed, half melted,-not being used,
indeed,

To so much love as makes the form of love
And courtesy of manners. Delicate drinks
And rare white bread, to which some dy-

ing eyes

Were turned in observation. O my God, How sick we must be, ere we make men just!

I think it frets the saints in heaven to see
How many desolate creatures on the earth
Have learnt the simple dues of fellowship
And social comfort, in a hospital,
As Marian did. She lay there, stunned,
half tranced,

And wished, at intervals of growing sense,
She might be sicker yet, if sickness made
The world so marvellous kind, the air so
hushed,

And all her wake-time quiet as a sleep; For now she understood (as such things were)

How sickness ended very oft in heaven, Among the unspoken raptures. Yet more sick,

And surelier happy. Then she dropped her lids,

And, folding up her hands as flowers at night,

Would lose no moment of the blessed time."

One more quotation, and we have done with extracts. We have thought it our duty to point out what seemed to us egregious faults; but not, on that account, are we blind to the many beauties of the poem. We envy the imagination that can conceive a sweeter picture than this:

"Marian's good,

Gentle and loving,-lets me hold the child, Or drags him up the hills to find me flowers,

And fill those vases, ere I'm quite awake, —
The grandiose red tulips, which grow wild,
Or else my purple lilies, Dante blew
To a larger bubble with his prophet-
breath;

Or one of those tall flowering reeds which stand

In Arno like a sheaf of sceptres, left
By some remote dynasty of dead gods,
To suck the stream for ages and get green,

And blossom wheresoe'er a hand divine
Had warmed the place with ichor. Such
I've found

At early morning, laid across my bed,
And woke up pelted with a childish laugh
Which even Marian's low precipitous

'hush'

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off

The rs like thorns, to make it smooth enough

To take between his dainty, milk-fed lips, God love him!"

It has been well remarked that the chief defect of modern British poems consists in the carelessness of their construction. Plot, arrange ment, and even probability, are regarded as things of minor moment; and the whole attention of the artist is lavished upon expression. This, if we are to judge from antecedents, is a symptom of literary decadence. The same tendency is observable in

the later literature of Greece and Rome; nay, it may be remarked within a narrower sphere-as, for example, in the writings of Euripides-the last of the great Hellenic triumvirate. Eschylus excelled in energy and masculine strength; Sophocles in his development of the passions; Euripides in expression-but, with Euripides, Athenian tragedy declined. It is ever an evil sign when mere talk is considered by a nation as something preferable to action, for it shows that sound and pretension are becoming more esteemed than sense and deliberate purpose. We might, upon this text, say something the reverse of complimentary to a large body of politicians; but we refrain from mingling the political with the poetical element. It is, however, impossible to deny the fact that, by many, brilliant writing, or writing which seems brilliant, is esteemed as of the highest kind, without regard to congruity or design. This is a grievous error, which cannot be exposed too broadly; and to it we trace the almost total extinction, in our own day, of the British drama. Our great dramatists, with Shakespeare at their head, succeeded in gaining the attention of the public by the interest of their plots, far more than by the felicity of their diction; and until that truth is again recognised and acted on, we need not expect a resuscitation of the drama. Also be it remembered, that a plot-that is, a theme-well-considered, developed, and divided, must, to make it effective, be adequately and naturally expressed. Adequate expression is no more than the proper language of and emotion must be tracemotion; able to some evident and intelligible cause. All this is disregarded by our "new poets," as they love to style themselves, who come upon their imaginary stage, tearing their hair, proclaiming their inward wretchedness, and spouting sorry metaphysics in still sorrier verse, for no imaginable reason whatever. One of them has the curse of genius upon him, and seems to think that delirium is the normal state of the human mind. Another rails at Providence because he has not been placed in a situation which he supposes commensurate to

his merits. A third, when he sets his characters in motion, pulls the strings so violently as to make them leap like fantoccini. A fourth is a mere crowder, and spins merciless rigmaroles about the "heart of the coming age." Now, with the exception of the crowder, each of these men has some intellect and power; but they do not know how to apply it. They think that the public will be content to receive their crude thoughts as genuine notes of issue from the Bank of Genius, if so be that they are dressed up in a gaudy, glittering, and hyperbolical form; and they ransack, not only earth and sea, but heaven itself for ornaments. All this while they forget that there is no meaning in their talk; that people who are desirous to hear a story, do not call the minstrel in for the purpose of listening to his disappointed aspirations, or the bleatings of his individual woes, but because they require of him, as a professed member of the greatest craft since the prophets disappeared, a tale of energy or emotion that shall stir the heart, or open one of the many fountains of our common sympathy.

We could wish-though wishes avail not for the past that Mrs Browning had selected a more natural and intelligible theme which would have given full scope for the display of her extraordinary powers; and we trust that she will yet reconsider her opinion as to the abstract fitness for poetical use of a subject illustrative of the times in which we live. It may be that there is no difficulty which genius cannot conquer; at the same time, we cannot

commend the wisdom of those who go out of their way on purpose to search for difficulties. It is curious to observe that poets in all ages have shrunk from the task of chronicling contemporaneous deeds. These are first consigned to the tutelage of the muse of history; nor is it until time has done its consecrating office, that poetry ventures to approach them. The bards of old touched their harps, not for the glorification of their compatriots, but in memory of the deeds of their ancestors. No one supposes that the time has yet arrived when the Peninsular War or the sea-victories of Britain can be taken up as proper epical themes,. though Nelson and Wellington have both entered into the famous mansions of the dead. This universal repugnance to the adoption of immediate subjects for poetical treatment, seems to us a very strong argument against its propriety; and certainly Mrs Browning has not succeeded, by practice, in establishing her theory. There is sound truth in the observation that no man ever yet was a hero in the eyes of his valet, and the remark is equally just if we extend it from individuals to the masses. We select our demigods from the dead, not from the living. We cannot allow fancy to be trammelled in its work by perpetual reference to realities.

Still, with all its faults, this is a remarkable poem; strong in energy, rich in thought, abundant in beauty; and it more than sustains that high reputation which, by her previous efforts, Mrs Browning has so honourably won.

THE ATHELINGS; OR, THE THREE GIFTS.

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PART VIII.

CHAPTER XXIX.-CHARLIE.

THE next day was the day of Charlie's arrival. His mother and sisters looked for him with anxiety, pleasure, and a little nervousnessmuch concerned about Papa's opinion, and not at all indifferent to Charlie's own. Rachel, who for two days past had been in a state of perfectly flighty and overpowering happiness, joined the Athelings this evening, at the risk of being wanted" by Mrs Edgerley, and falling under her displeasure, with a perfectly innocent and unconscious disregard of any possible wish on the part of her friends to be alone with their newcome brother. Rachel could form no idea whatever of that half-wishedfor, half-dreaded judgment of Papa, the anticipation of which so greatly subdued Marian, and made Mrs Atheling herself so grave and pale. Louis, with a clearer perception of the family crisis, kept away, though, as his sister wisely judged, at no great distance, chewing the cud of desperate and bitter fancy, almost half repenting, for the moment, of the rash attachment which had put himself and all his disadvantages upon the judicial examination of a father and a brother. The idea of this family committee sitting upon him, investigating and commenting upon his miserable story, galled to the utmost the young man's fiery spirit. He had no real idea whatever of that good and affectionate father, who was to Marian the first of men,and had not the faintest conception of the big boy. So it was only an abstract father and brother - the most disagreeable of the species-at whom Louis chafed in his irritable imagination. He too had come already out of the first hurried flush of delight and triumph, to consider the step he had taken. Strangely into the joy and pride of the young lover's dream came bitter and heavy spectres of self-reproach and forebodinghe, who had ventured to

bind to himself the heart of a sensitive and tender girl-he, who had already thrown a shadow over her young life, filled her with premature anxieties, and communicated to these young eyes, instead of their fearless natural brightness, a wistful forecasting gaze into an adverse world— he, who had not even a name to share with his bride! On this memorable evening, Louis paced about by himself, crushing down the rusted fern as he strode through the wood in painful self-communion. The wind was high among the trees, and grew wild and fitful as the night advanced, bringing down showers of leaves into all the hollows, and raving with the most desolate sound in nature among the high tops of the Scotch firs, which stood grouped by themselves, a reserved and austere brotherhood, on one side of Badgeley Wood. Out of this leafy wilderness, the evening lay quiet enough upon the open fields, the wan gleams of water, and the deserted highway; but the clouds opened in a clear rift of wistful, windy, colourless sky, just over Oxford, catching with its pale half-light the mingled pinnacles and towers. Louis was too much engrossed either to see or to hear the eerie sights and sounds of the night, yet they had their influence upon him unawares.

In the mean time, and at the same moment, in the quiet country gloaming, which was odd, but by no means melancholy to him, Charlie trudged sturdily up the highroad, carrying his own little bag, and thinking his own thoughts. And down the same road, one talking a good deal, one very little, and one not at all, the three girls went to meet him, three light and graceful figures, in dim autumnal dresses for now the evenings became somewhat cold — fit figures for this sweet half-light, which looked pleasant here, though it was

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