the one hand, and on the other, of an old and effete city, like Ferrara, where art, rather than ministering to soul-life and true manliness of character, has become an end to itself is valued for its own sake.

The Duke is showing, with the weak pride of the mere virtuoso, a portrait of his last Duchess, to some one who has been sent to negotiate another marriage. We see that he is having an entertainment or reception of some kind in his palace, and that he has withdrawn from the company with the envoy to the picture-gallery on an upper floor. He has pulled aside the curtain from before the portrait, and in remarking on the expression which the artist, Frà Pandolf, has given to the face, he is made to reveal a fiendish jealousy on his part, occasioned by the sweetness and joyousness of his late Duchess, who, he thought, should show interest in nothing but his own fossilized self. "She had," he says, 66 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."

Her fresh interest in things, and the sweet smile she had for all, due to a generous soul-life, proved fatal to the lovely Duchess: “Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, whene'er I passed her; but who passed without much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; than all smiles stopped together."

He succeeded, and he seems to be proud of it, in shutting off all her life-currents, pure, and fresh, and sparkling, as they were, and we must suppose that she then sank slowly and uncomplainingly away. What a deep pathos there is in "then all smiles stopped together"!1 7

1"I gave command" certainly must not be understood to mean com

The contemptible meanness and selfishness of jealousy were never exhibited with greater power, than they are exhibited in this short monologue a power largely due to the artistic treatment. The jealousy of Leontes, in The Winter's Tale,' of Shakespeare, is nobility itself, in comparison with the Duke's. How distinctly, while indirectly, the sweet Duchess is, with a few masterly touches, placed before us! The poet shows his artistic skill especially in his indirect, reflected portraitures.

This short composition, comprising as it does but fifty-six lines, is, of itself, sufficient to prove the poet a consummate artist. Tennyson's technique is quite perfect, almost "faultily faultless," indeed; but in no one of his compositions has he shown an equal degree of art-power, in the highest sense of the word.

"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

mands for her death, as it is understood by the wr. er of the articles in 'The Saint Paul's Magazine' for December, 1870, and Jai ary, 1871.

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

This grew; gave commands;

There she stands
We'll meet

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?
Then all smiles stopped together.
As if alive. Will't please you rise?
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 1 cast in bronze for me!

The last ten verses illustrate well the poet's skilful management of his difficult art-form. After the envoy has had his look at the

1 Claus of Innsbruck and also Frà Pandolf (v. 3) are imaginary artists.

L

portrait, the Duke, thinking it time to return to his guests, says "Will't it please you rise? We'll meet the company below, then.” His next speech, which indicates what he has been talking about, during the envoy's study of the picture, must be understood as uttered while they are moving toward the stairway. The next, "Nay, we'll go together down, sir," shows that they have reached the head of the stairway, and that the envoy has politely motioned the Duke to lead the way down. This is implied in the "Nay." The last speech indicates that on the stairway is a window which affords an outlook into the courtyard, where he calls the attention of the envoy to a Neptune, taming a sea-horse, cast in bronze for him by Claus of Innsbruck. The pride of the virtuoso is also implied in the word "though."

It should be noticed, also, that the Duke values his wife's picture wholly as a picture, not as the "counterfeit presentment" and reminder of a sweet and lovely woman, who might have blessed his life, if he had been capable of being blessed. It is to him a picture by a great artist, and he values it only as such. He says, parenthetically, "since none puts by the curtain I have drawn for you, but I." It's too precious a work of art to be entrusted to anybody else.

IV.

BROWNING'S VERSE.

¡T seems to be admitted, even by many of the poet's most de

and rugged. To judge it fairly, one must free his mind of many merely conventional canons in regard to verse. Pure music is absolute. The music of verse moves, or should move, under the conditions of the thought which articulates it. It should serve as a chorus to the thought, expressing a mystic sympathy with it. Verse may be very musical, and yet more or less mechanical; that is, it may clothe thought and sentiment, but not be a part of it, not embody it. Unrippled verse, which many readers demand, must be more or less mechanical. Such verse flows according to its own sweet will, independently of the thought-articulation. But the thought-articulation may be so flimsy that it's well enough for the verse so to flow.

The careful student of Browning's language-shaping must discover-the requisite susceptibility to vitality of form being supposed that his verse is remarkably organic: often, indeed, more organic, even when it appears to be clumsy, than the "faultily faultless" verse of Tennyson. The poet who has written ‘In a Gondola,' 'By the Fireside,' 'Meeting at Night,' 'Parting at Morning,' 'Gold Hair,' 'May and Death,' 'Love among the Ruins,' 'Home Thoughts from Abroad,' Home Thoughts from the Sea,' the Incantation in 'The Flight of the Duchess' (some of which are both song and picture), and many, many more that might be named, certainly has the very highest faculty of word and verse music, of music, too, that is entirely new in English Poetry; and it can be shown that he always exercises that faculty whenever