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A Ballad

369

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, on a qu
And into the midnight we galloped abreast,

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace 6.1 Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Gron Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, b Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, zer of Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. graf

""T was moonset at starting; but while we drew near 1999 Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;

At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; 966 7ibri2
At Düffield, it was 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!¿z

IV.

"At Aerschot, 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, A

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.

VII.

"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, O Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone';

And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which could alone 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..:

IX.

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.

X.

"And all I remember is, friends flocking round

3-9

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."Vol. 11. pp. 318-320.

Rich as are Mr. Browning's powers of imagination and description, his chief excellence lies in his delineation of individual character; and we know of no other living poet who so thoroughly conceives or so finely portrays the differing shades of it found in actual life. His per sonages have a vitality and idiosyncrasy of their own, while they are always true to nature and never degenerate into caricatures. Take almost any one of his princi pal characters, and we at once perceive this excellence, although we occasionally find them dealing quite too much in metaphysical arguments and discussions about abstract ideas. But, apart from this defect, which is, to a greater or less degree, inherent in nearly all his crea tions, we have little to object to his conceptions of character. Among his female characters, the preference, wę suppose, will generally be given to Pippa, who is one of the sweetest creations of modern poetry. It is impossible to resist the beautiful simplicity and purity of her charae

1850.]

His Characters and Genius.

371

ter, as it is developed in the few brief glimpses which we catch of her during her single holiday. Widely different from her and from each other are the clear-headed but faithful Polyxena, the gentle Mildred, the spotless and affectionate Guendolen, the fond mother of Luigi, the tender-hearted and patriotic Colombe, the devoted Anael, the cunning Domizia, and the thoroughly wicked Ottima; yet all are admirably conceived and sharply drawn. We at once pierce to the very heart's core of each of them, and read her whole disposition at a glance. In his delineations of male character, Mr. Browning shows equal skill. Luigi, Sebald, Monsignor, King Victor, King Charles, D'Ormea, Valence, Thorold, Austin, Henry, Gerard, Luria, Puccia, Braccio, and Tiburzio, are all living realities to the mind. From this enumeration of Mr. Browning's best characters, we have purposely omitted all mention of the characters in Paracelsus, his earliest published poem. They seem to us too much like mere metaphysical abstractions, and too nearly approach the dangerous borders of caricature. They are the offspring of his immature years; and, notwithstanding its many beautiful passages, the poem, considered as a whole, is intolerably wearisome, and conveys but a faint idea of the powers displayed in Pippa Passes, A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, and Luria.

Mr. Browning's mind is eminently dramatic; and all of his works have a dramatic tone. Even his lyrical and narrative poems are very properly denominated "dramatic lyrics." Most of them, however, are dramatic poem's rather than dramas, and might just as well have been cast in a different form. They lack those salient points and that briskness of movement which are needful in an effective stage-play. Mr. Macready's powerful patronage and his own acting failed to interest a London audience in them because they were deficient in these qualities; and they were speedily laid upon the shelf.

We have left ourselves little space in which to speak of particular pieces, and can barely indicate their general character and relative merits. Paracelsus is the longest poem in the collection, and fills nearly half of the first volume; but its merit is by no means commensurate with its length. Mr. Browning's next two publications, Sordello, and Strafford, are now withdrawn from circula

tion, and probably will not again be brought forward to vex the public. Pippa Passes is the second poem in the present edition, and is altogether the sweetest and most graceful of his published works. The originality of the design, the simplicity and beauty of the story, and, above all, the character of Pippa herself, commend it to the reader, and must always make it one of our poet's most popular pieces. King Victor and King Charles is, upon the whole, a favorable specimen of the historical drama; but it lacks interest, and the artistic execution is înfe rior to that of some of the other pieces. Colombe's Birthday is a sprightly and pleasant dramatic sketch, in which the interest centres wholly in the two principal characters, and we care little for the accessories. A Blot in the 'Scutcheon comes next, and is undoubtedly Mr. Browning's masterpiece; but it must be read as a whole in order to be fairly appreciated, for no extracts can do justice to its great power and beauty. It possesses a simple and massive grandeur to which none of his other works can lay claim. The reader's mind is completely overwhelmed and led captive during its perusal; and he rises from it with the full conviction that no one but a poet of the highest order could thus have chained his attention. The Return of the Druses falls far short of this height of excellence, and ranks even lower than King Victor and King Charles. Luria is a powerfully con ceived and skilfully executed tragedy, full of admirable passages, and only inferior to A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. A Soul's Tragedy is properly a dramatic poem, with little incident and only a slight attempt at characteriza tion. The second part, however, is full of quiet humor and pointed satire. Few pieces are more characteristic of Mr. Browning's mind than this second part; and if we had not already exceeded our limits, we should be glad to present some extracts from it.

Of the dramatic lyrics, which occupy not quite half of the second volume, we think the best are, My Last Duchess, Count Gismond, The Pied Piper of Hamelin, "How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix," The Italian in England, The Lost Leader, The Labora tory, The Flight of the Duchess, Earth's Immortalities, and those exquisitely beautiful little cabinet pictures, Meeting at Night, and Parting at Morning.

C. C. S.

"THERE are moments in the life of man," says the plotting astrologer in Schiller's great drama," when he is nearer to the world-spirit than at others, and has the privilege of questioning destiny," That privilege remains, and the practice remains; although the art of interpreting destiny by signs in the sky has fallen into disrepute. There are seasons which forcibly turn the mind toward the future, and which, if they fail to inspire prophetic in sight, fail not to loosen prophetic tongues, giving birth to vaticinations, which make up in volubility what they want in vision.

The current year, as the high noon of the nineteenth century, dividing its first from its latter half, is apt for speculations of this sort. It furnishes a ready observatory for all who incline to study the signs of the times. It prompts inquiries respecting the present state and future destination of society. How wears the century? What is the import and promise, thus far, of this cycle of earthly life? Whereunto has it brought us? Whither is it carrying us? What has it done, what is it likely to do, for man?

Next to his own individual progress, there is no topic which a man can propose to himself more worthy his attention than the progress of his kind. Is society, on the whole, advancing and destined to advance indefinitely from age to age? or only to oscillate between fixed bounds of alternate gain and loss? A question to be be pondered! Philosophy has endeavoured to solve this question theoretically, in favor of human progress. But the historical solution is still remote, and admits only of conjectural approximation. Let us see what light the subject receives from the signs of the times.

The first condition of progress to beings thrown together in the same sphere and having a common destination, is union among themselves. A union not forced or accidental, but voluntary, cordial; a union based in reason and reciprocity, a union of consenting wills and coworking hands, all the members combining in one interest, to one end; an organization which shall unite the greatest liberty of the individual with the greatest

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