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his superlative excellence by our English critics. To resume: We will first cite a few lines spoken by Valence, who brings a petition from the starving people of Cleves to the Duchess, and is informed that it is her birthday, therefore, no time for business. Valence replies:

"I know that the Great, For Pleasure born, should still be on the watch To exclude Pleasure, when a Duty offers; Even as the Lowly too, for duty born, May ever snatch a Pleasure if in reach :Both will have plenty of their birthright, Sir."

An example of the aptness and beauty of the epithets Mr. Browning employs, may be discovered in these simple lines, addressed by the Duchess to Valence, when he appears as the spokesman of Cleves' miseries; and she unsuspectingly says,

“And you, sir, are from Cleves ?-How fresh in

mind

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Say, this life

I lead now, differs from the common life
Of other men, in mere degree, not kind,
Of joys and griefs,-still there is such degree :—
Mere largeness in a life is something, sure-
Enough to care about and struggle for
In this world. For this world, the size of things:
The sort of things, for that to come, no doubt!”

Finely is Berthold afterward described by Valence, who thus speaks to Colombe :

"In that large eye there seem'd a latent pride,
To self-denial not incompetent;
But very like to hold itself dispensed
From such a grace. However, let us hope!
He is a noble spirit in noble form.

I wish, he less had bent that brow to smile,
As with the fancy how he could subject
Himself upon occasion to himself!—

From rudeness, violence, you rest secure :
But do not think your Duchy rescued yet!"

The scene betwixt Valence and Colombe, at the end of the fourth act, is one of the most exquisite in any language: to be appreciated, it must be read from beginning to end, and then only in connection with the rest of the play. We will only cite besides, Berthold's speech to Colombe, when he demands her hand. She has asked whether he could wed her, if she did not yield her heart. He replies,

"When have I made pretension to your heart?
1 give none. I shall keep your honor safe.
With mine, I trust you, as the sculptor trusts
Yon marble woman with the marble rose,
Loose on her hand, she never will let fall,
In graceful, slight, silent, security.
You will be proud of my world-wide career,
And I content in you the fair and good."

His last words, too, after Colombe has resigned the crown and plighted her faith to Valence, are very admirable; so admirable, that we must add them :

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Lady, well rewarded!-Sir, as well deserved!-
I could not imitate-I hardly envy-

I do admire you! All is for the best.-
Too costly a flower were you, I see it now,
To pluck and set upon my barren helm
To wither; any garish plume will do."

We must leave "Colombe's Birthday,' though we could find in our hearts to devote many more pages to this Play. It is likely to be an especial favorite with lady-readers, though the gravest men also may find much in it to command their admiration and respect. Perhaps its effects are here and there a little forced; but nothing is perfect, and "Colombe's Birthday" as nearly approaches perfection as any modern dramatic work we are acquainted with; even as Grillparzer's master-pieces, which a little. man like Carlyle has presumed to speak of as the productions of a playwright.

We have now arrived at the most pathetic, and in many respects the most beautiful, but also the most painful, perhaps, of all Mr. Browning's dramas; we allude to the domestic tragedy of " A Blot in the 'Scutcheon." It is not free, we fear, from morbid and even evil tendencies. The hero and heroine of the piece, both supposed to be very young and noble in their characters, have "fallen, fallen, fallen, from their high estate:" the lover's desire (his name is Earl Mertoun) is to make the only reparation in his power, and wed the lady. What is most objectionable is, that there is scarcely supposed to have been any criminality, real

"Mildred-here's a line(Don't lean on me !-I'll English it for you) Love conquers all things.'- What love conquers What love should you esteem-best love? them?

MILDRED.

True love.

TRESHAM. I mean, and should have said, whose love is best

innocence of heart and mind being the | afraid to come to the point, unwilling to prevailing characteristic of either and both believe the possibility of her guilt,of the offenders. It is true, that they are most grievously punished; that after suffering all the pangs of remorse, they are doomed to an early death: still the sympathy created for them may be dangerous in its effects, and the halo cast around them may mislead. Yet there is so much of moral, and even religious beauty in this drama, that we know not how to condemn it. The lovers already alluded to, Mildred and Earl Mertoun, are charmingly depicted; but Thorold, Lord Tresham, Mildred's brother, is the real hero of the play, and in him, perhaps, the interest centres. He is the noblest of English noblemen: his only fault is too great pride. Guendolen, his cousin, thus describes him: she is speaking

to Mildred :

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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 see now, only see! there's no alloy
For a sole sister must exceed them all!-
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 hers, 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 play'd together in the meadow hay?
Oh, yes with age respect comes, and
worth

your

Is felt; there's growing sympathy of tastes,
There's ripen'd friendship, there's confirm'd es-

teem

-Much head these make against the New-comer!
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 place for it,-
I think, am sure, a brother's love exceeds
All the world's loves in its unworldliness."

We shall tell no more of this sad tale, and cite no more passages from it, referring our readers to the original drama, where they may discover "through the troubled surface, as Tresham subsequently says,

"A depth of purity immovable." Guendolen is very gracefully depicted. The next Tragedy, "The Return of the Druses," is not one of our special fovorites.

Mr. Browning's main defects, a want of clearness, and a tendency to sacrifice truth to effect, are very conspicuous in it. The hero Djabal, as we have already said, wishes to gain a noble end by base means, for which he is rightly punished. Our only sympathy throughout (with the exception of a slight regard for Khalil, Anael's, the heroine's, brother) is with Loys de Dreux, a KnightNovice of the Hospitallers, duped by Djabal, and bent on saving the Druses, without the slightest suspicion of their intended conspiracy against his order. Nothing can be finer and more effective in its way than the scene in which he finally learns the truth from the traitor Djabal's lips, and thus acts

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This is undoubtedly sufficiently spirited. We would not be misunderstood: there is much that is extremely beautiful in this Tragedy also, and it is only by comparison with Mr. Browning's other creations that we are induced or enabled to disparage it. The stirring interest maintained throughout, the concentration of the action within a few hours, the various individualities so forcibly and dramatically sustained, are worthy of all praise. There is some beautiful poetry placed in the lips of Khalil and Anael. The characters of the Order's Prefect and the Nuncio, both specimens of thorough villany, are admirably conceived and embodied. On the other hand, the motives in various instances are not as clear as might be desired. Djabal is decidedly ambiguous: he does not seem to know himself whether he loves or not; and though this may be said to be a part of his character, it is certainly not comfortable. Anael's motives, too, are throughout only indicated, and not sufficiently or clearly indi

cated; her intention of slaying the Prefect would never be guessed by the vast majority of readers. We do not like alterations in published works; but this play might certainly be rendered far superior to what it is.

We now come to a very great work, one of Mr. Browning's greatest, indeed, the "Tragedy," or rather the dramatic Poem, of "Luria." In this, Genius is shown in conflict with obstinate mediocrity which will not believe in it, which will persist in attributing all manner of unnatural motives to its every action, and which finally accomplishes its ruin. Another view of this piece would present to us the contrast betwixt Luria, the impulsive half-savage Moor, and the comparatively Northern Machiavelian prudent Florentines, betwixt impulse in fact and worldly wisdom. Regard it as we will, "Luria" is a great work, and deserving of far other notice than we can bestow upon it here. There are some strained effects in it, some striking improbabilities, and there is a final suicide (of which the poetic effect is great), which we cannot admire from a moral or religious point of view. We can only hope that "Luria" was not a Christian; for then the deed of ignorance might be forgiven. It is certain that this excuse would not have availed poor Thorold. To resume: One unnatural circumstance we may not pass without direct censure. Luria, it must be observed, is the General of the Florentine army against the Pisans; Braccio, his great common-sense worldly adversary, is the Commissary of the Republic in the camp. Now a certain Florentine lady, called Domizia, is also there: we are not at all informed for what expressed purpose. We learn, indeed, that Braccio has had her placed there to entrap Luria; and that her secret wish is to lead Luria to rebellion against Florence, which she hopes to destroy through him; but all this does not bring us a step nearer any avowed motive for her presence, which is indeed wholly wanting. This deficiency greatly injures the effect of the part she takes in the play, and tends to give an unreality to the whole. Here, too, an argument seems needful. At all events, no one, we should say, would clearly understand the work, on his first perusal of it. But we must not pause for further comments. Our readers will thank us more for a few extracts. Luria's character is admirably conveyed in a speech which he makes to Braccio and Domizia in the first act :—

"I wonder, do you guess, why I delay,

Involuntarily, the final blow,

As long as possible ?-Peace follows it!--
Florence at peace; and the calm studious heads
Come out again, the penetrating eyes:
As if a spell broke, all's resumed; each art,
You boast, more vivid that it slept awhile!
'Gainst the glad heaven, o'er the white palace-front,
The interrupted scaffold climbs anew;

The walls are peopled by the painter's brush;
The statue to its niche ascends to dwell:
The Present's noise and trouble have retired,
And left the eternal Past to rule once more.-
You speak its speech and read its records plain;
Greece lives with you, each Roman breathes your
friend ;-

-But Luria,-where will then be Luria's place?"

Tiburzio expresses his admiration and goes. The following soliloquy of Luria's is so grand, and so characteristic of our author, that we cannot find in our heart to omit or even to shorten it:

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'My heart will have it, he speaks true! My
blood

Beats close to this Tiburzio as a friend.
If he had stept into my watch-tent, night
And the wild desert full of foes around,
I should have broke the bread and given the salt
Secure, and, when my hour of watch was done,
Taken my turn to sleep between his knees,
Safe in the untroubled brow and honest cheek.—
Oh, world, where all things pass, and naught
abides!

Oh, life, the long mutation! Is it so ?
Is it with life, as with the body's change?
Where, e'en tho' better follow, good must pass;
Nor manhood's strength can mate with boyhood's
grace,

Nor age's wisdom in its turn find strength;
But silently the first gift dies away,
And though the new stays, never both at once!
Life's time of savage instinct's o'er with me :
fades and dies away, past trusting more;
As if to punish the ingratitude
With which I turn'd to grow in these new lights,
And learn'd to look with European eyes.—
Yet it is better, this cold certain way;
Where Braccio's brow tells nothing, Puzzio's

The unaffected humility and candor of
genius breathe from every line of this, and a
similar spirit is sustained throughout. Braccio,
however, chooses to believe this "childish-
ness," as he calls it, affected; he cannot
conceive that such a leader should be so
wanting in worldly wisdom; he suspects him
of a secret design to turn Florence's arms
against her; and so, while he is winning her
battles, Braccio sends such reports to the It
Senators as induce them to pass a secret
sentence of death upon him. This Luria
learns from Tiburzio, the Pisan General, who
is ushered to his presence by Husain, a Moor,
and Luria's friend. We must not pass
Husain without his meed of praise. In him
is personified the true African instinct,
whether of rage or love; he all but adores
Luria as a God, and hates all the Florentines,
against whom he warns him. He says:

"There stands a wall
'Twixt our expansive and explosive race
And these absorbing, concentrating men.”

But we must not keep Tiburzio waiting. We may return later to Husain. The Pisan General comes. He remains alone with Luria, he proffers him the proof of Florentine treachery, and conjures him to open the intercepted missive, and act thereon, as he may feel inclined. Luria replies at last:

"And act on what I read? What act were fit?
If the firm-fix'd foundation of my faith
In Florence, which to me stands for mankind,
If that breaks up, and, discmprisoning
From the abyss. . . Ah, friend, it cannot be !
You may be very sage yet--all the world
Having to fail, or your sagacity,

...

You do not wish to find yourself alone.

mouth,

Domizia's eyes reject the searcher;—yes:
For on their calm sagacity I lean,
Their sense of right, deliberate choice of good;
Sure, as they know my deeds, they deal with me.
Yes, that is better,-that is best of all!
Such faith stays when mere wild belief would go.
Yes,--when the desert creature's heart, at fault
Amid the scattering tempest's pillar'd sands,
Betrays its steps into the pathless drift,—
The calm instructed eye of man holds fast
By the sole bearing of the visible star,
Sure, that when slow the whirling wreck subsides,
The boundaries, lost now, shall be found again,
The palm-trees and the pyramid over all.—
Yes; I trust Florence,-Pisa is deceived!"

Alas, poor

Luria, he is deceived. But we cannot directly pursue the narrative. He remains true to Florence; he fights and wins for her; then learns his intended doom. The

adoring army is at his beck and call, and the
faithful Husain urges him to vengeance. He
says:--

"There lie beneath thee thine own multitudes-
Sawest thou?
LURIA.

What would the world be worth? Whose love HUSAIN.

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king!

I saw.

Then, hold thy course, my

The years return.-Let thy heart have its way!”

And, again, further on :—

ROBERT BROWNING'S POEMS.

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"Oh, friend, oh, lord,—for me,
What am I?—I was silent at thy side,
That am a part of thee-It is thy hand,

Thy foot, that glows, when in the heart fresh blood he is in Luitolfo's house, with Eulalia, the
Boils up, thou heart of me!"

And, finally,

"Both armies against Florence! Take revenge! Wide, deep,-to live upon in feeling now, And after, in remembrance, year by year, And, with the dear conviction, die at last!— She lies now at thy pleasure :—pleasure have!" Luria, however, resists this and all other temptations. His only vengeance on Florence is to destroy himself by poison, from love for her, lest she should incur the disgrace of his punishment :-before his death, his true greatness is acknowledged by one after the other of those Florentines who have been leagued against him: finally, even the worldly-wise Braccio bows down before the purity of Genius. But it is all too late--he dies! One more passage we must cite from one of Luria's later speeches:

"My own East!

How nearer God we were! He glows above
With scarce an intervention, presses close
And palpitatingly, His soul o'er ours!
We feel him, nor by painful reason know!
The everlasting minute of creation

Is felt there; now it is, as it was then :-
All changes, at His instantaneous will;
Not by the operation of a law,

Whose maker is elsewhere at other work!
His soul is still engaged upon his world,
Man's praise can forward it, man's prayer suspend:
For is not God Almighty ?”

fo, who is one of these. The Provost, who governs Faenza under the Pope, has not improperly banished this very odious fellow: latter's betrothed, whilst the honest, comparatively conservative friend, has gone to interhimself in the mean time with abusing Luicede for him with the Provost. He amuses tolfo, whom he hates on account of his happy, genial nature, which contrasts with his own currish temperament. He derides what he calls his friend's "wise passiveness," and says most characteristically of himself:"True, I thank God, I ever said 'you sin,' When a man did sin: if I could not say it, I glared it at him; if I could not glare it, pray'd against him. Then, my part seem'd over. God's may begin yet: so it will, I trust.”

I

up a little additional misery on the score of Not contented with this, Chiappino gets his being madly in love with Eulalia, though he has never mentioned it: oh, no! he loved too deeply for that. Talking was all very well for Luitolfo, with his "slight, free, loose, and incapacious soul." The fellow proceeds a long time in this strain. He is interrupted by Luitolfo's arrival, who, maddened by the Provost's refusal to spare his worthless friend, had actually come to blows with him, and left him for dead of course he is very remorseful for this deed. Chiappino bright

ens up

or sing

How natural to sing now!"
"How the people tarry!
I can't be silent. . . I must speak.

...

To this twaddle Eulalia very finely responds :

and resolves to act the martyr. Luitolfo shall fly in his stead. He will remain, and accept the penalty of this heroic deed. Luitolfo, half deadened by horror, goes. The And now we pass on to the last of Mr. vain-glorious heroism, which must be prating, mob are heard approaching. Chiappino's Browning's longer works, socially and politis admirably conveyed :-ically, perhaps, the most important of them all, entitled "The Soul's Tragedy," a wild species of Drama, the design and execution of which are thoroughly after our own heart. It is written for the purpose of flaying alive (if we may so express ourselves) certain morbid restless " byronizers" and troublesome democrats to be found in all countries in this our age. The hero, the representative of this class, called Chiappino, is a citizen of the Italian town Faenza, which is under papal domination. No matter, however, what the government may be, Chiappino is one of those who will always be found on the side of opposition (unless, indeed, they have secured the loaves and fishes for themselves); oud, noisy, turbulent, a mischief-maker by profession. Nevertheless, some good men are taken in by his high-sounding liberalism, and our Chiappino has a friend called Luitol

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Hush, and pray!
'Tis not a very hard thing, so to die."
We are to die; but even I perceive,
We cannot quote all her speech. Chiap-
pino flashes forth again :—

"If they would drag one to the market-place,
One might speak there!"

talking.'
"Ay, Lady Beatrice, you must still be
no shouts instantly, "I killed the Provost."
Well, the mob arrives. Chiappi-
The mob, instead of being furious, are in

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