Front matter (continued 6)

Francesco Romanelli (Beatrice Signorini), the artist who paints Artemisia’s portrait, which his wife destroys in a fit of jealousy.

Francis Furini, Parleyings with. (Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in their Day: 1887.) [The Man.] “Francis Furini was born in 1600 at Florence, and has been styled the ‘Albani’ and the ‘Guido’ of the Florentine school. At the age of forty he took orders, and until his death in 1649 remained an exemplary parish priest. In his earlier days he was especially famous for his painting of the nude figure; his drawing is remarkably graceful, but the colour is defective. One of his French biographers complains that he paints the nude too well to be quite proper, and points to the ‘Adam and Eve,’ in the Pitti Palace as a proof of this statement. Perhaps the painter thought so too, for there is a tradition that on his death-bed he desired all his undraped pictures to be collected and destroyed. His wishes were not carried out, and few private galleries at Florence are without pictures by him.” (Pall Mall Gazette, January 18th, 1887.)

[The Poem.] In the opening lines we are introduced to the good pastor, the painter-priest who lived two hundred and fifty years ago at Florence, and fed his flock with spiritual food while he helped their bodily necessities. The picture is a pleasant one, but the poet deals not with the pastor but the artist; and this painter of the nude has been selected by Browning as a text on which to express the sentiments of artists on the subject of,—

as a gospel for mankind. When Mr. Browning writes on art we have, as Mr. Symons expresses it, “painting refined into song.” The lines in the seventh canto beginning—

aptly define the poet’s position in the passionate defence of the nude as his art-gospel. As we are intended to admire God’s handiwork in the “naked star,” so is “the naked female form” declared to be—

Should any object that “the naked female form,” however beautiful, is not perhaps the best thing to display in the shop windows of the Rue de Rivoli or Regent Street, he is set down as “a grubber for pig-nuts,” like Filippo Baldinucci, who praises the painter-priest for ordering his pictures of the nude to be destroyed. Mr. Browning deals very severely with those who think that pictures of the nude have a deleterious influence on the public character, and who endeavour to prevent their exhibition. It is instructive, however, to notice the fact that the Paris police are adopting even severer measures than our own against shopkeepers and others who exhibit pictures of the nude. Where the governing bodies of the two greatest cities of the world take the same view of this serious moral question, we must take leave to hold that if “the gospel of art” has no better means whereby to elevate the race than those of familiarising our youth of both sexes with—

we can very well afford to dispense with it “Omnia non omnibus,” concludes the poet. What is perfectly innocent for the artist is not expedient for the general public, just as the dissecting room, though an excellent school for doctors, is not a suitable place for the people in the street below.

Notes.—Baldinucci, author of the Italian History of Art,—he was a friend of Furini, and it is from his biography that Browning has derived the facts recorded in his poem. Quicherat, J., edited the Procès de condamnation et de réhabilitation de Jeanne d’Arc, in five vols., 1841-9. D’Alençon—Percival de Cagny, a retainer of the Duke D’Alençon, who wrote an account of Joan of Arc, which is to be found in the fourth volume of Quicherat.

Fuseli. See Mary Wollstonecraft and Fuseli.

Fust and his Friends. (The Epilogue to Parleyings.) The scene is laid “Inside the home of Fust, Mayence, 1457.” Johann Fust is often considered the inventor, or at least one of the inventors of printing. He was born at Mayence, in Germany, in the early part of the fifteenth century (date uncertain). The name ultimately became Faust. It has been said that Fust was a goldsmith, but there is no evidence of this. He was a money-lender or speculator, and was connected with Gutenberg, who is now considered to have been the real inventor of printing. Some however, say that Fust invented typography, and was the partner of Gutenberg, to whom he advanced the means to carry out his invention. On Fust first showing his printed books he was suspected of magic, as he appears to have concealed the method by which he turned them out. There is no proof that the monks were hostile to printing, or that they resented the new process of multiplying books on the ground of interference with their business as copyists. Fust and Gutenberg were on good terms with several monasteries, and the early printers often set up their presses in religious houses of various orders. It is exceedingly probable that the whole magic story arose from the similarity between the names Fust and Faust, the pupil of the devil. Browning in this poem accepts the Fust story of the invention of printing. Fust is visited by some monks, who, having heard confused accounts of his work, have come to the conclusion that he has made a compact with Satan, and is in danger of losing his soul; they prepare to exorcise the demon, but cannot remember the proper formula, and make amusing mistakes in their repeated attempts to capture the appropriate Latin terms of the exorcism. They find the inventor melancholy and depressed: he has not succeeded in perfecting his machinery; but while they argue with him the right process suddenly dawns upon him, and invoking the aid of Archimedes (thought by the monks to be a devil of some sort), he runs to his printing room, and in five minutes returns with the psalm which they could not remember accurately printed on slips of paper, one of which he hands to each of the friars. Fust then shows them the printing press, and explains the use of the types and blocks, bursting out into a noble hymn of praise to God for having enabled him to bless mankind with his invention. The monks find it exceedingly simple, and perceive there is no miracle at all. They doubt whether the invention will prove an unmixed blessing for the Church, and dread the trash which will come flying from Jew, Moor and Turk. Huss declared in dying that a swan would succeed the goose they were burning. Fust says he foresees such a man. (Huss means goose in the dialect he spoke. The swan of whom he prophesied was Luther.)

Notes.—Faust and Fust: these names were often confounded, when people thought printing a diabolical art. Palinodes, songs repeated a second time. “Barnabites and Dominican experts”: The Barnabites as a religious order were inferior in learning and theological attainments to the Dominicans, who were experts in matters of heresy. Famulus, a servant, an attendant. “Ne pulvis et ignis”: Latin words misquoted from some monastic exorcism which the monks have half forgotten. “Asmodeus inside of a Hussite,” the devil animating the heretic Hussite or follower of Huss. “Pou sto,” point d’appui: Archimedes said, “Give me pou sto (‘a place to stand on’), and I could move the world.”

Future State, A. Mr. Browning’s belief in the doctrine of a future state of reward and punishment is expressed at great length and with much force in La Saisiaz.

Garden Fancies. (Published in Hoods Magazine, July 1844.) I. The Flower’s Name. The poem describes a garden wherein to a lover’s fancy every shrub and flower is hallowed by the looks and touch of the woman he loves. One flower in particular she named by its “soft meandering Spanish name.” He bids the buds she touched to stay as they are, never to open, but to be loved for ever. Even the roses are not so fair after all, compared with the “shut pink mouth” her fingers have touched. In II., Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis, we have a garden without romance. A student takes amongst the flowers a pedantic old volume, a treatise as dry and crabbed as its title. He read it; then, for his revenge, threw the book into the crevice of a plum tree, amongst the fungi, the moss, and creeping things. Solacing himself with bread and cheese and wine, he read the jolly Rabelais to rid his brain of cobwebs. In process of time the student came to think he had been too severe with the old author, so be fished him up with a rake and put him in an appropriate place on the library shelves, there to dry-rot at ease.

Galuppi, Baldassarre. A musical composer (1706-85). See Toccata of Galuppi’s, A.

George Bubb Dodington, Parleyings with. (Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in their Day, 1887.) [The Man.] “George Bubb Dodington (born 1691, died 1726) was the son of a gentleman of good fortune named Bubb. He was educated at Oxford, elected member of Parliament for Winchelsea in 1715, and soon after sent as envoy to Madrid. In 1720 he inherited the estate of Eastbury, in Dorsetshire, and took the name of Dodington. On his entrance into public life he connected himself with Sir Robert Walpole, to whom he addressed a poetic epistle, which later on he made, by changing the name, to serve for Lord Bute. His career was full of political vicissitudes of the most discreditable kind, by which he managed to obtain a considerable share of the prizes of politics. He held various offices, chiefly in connection with the navy, to which he was more than once treasurer. It was from Lord Bute, with whom he was a great favourite, that he received the title of Lord Melcombe. He loved to surround himself with the distinguished men of the day, whom he entertained at his country seat; and his interesting diary is a storehouse of information about the political intrigues and cabals of the time. Pope and Churchill both wrote in abuse of him, and Hogarth immortalised his wig in his Orders of Periwigs.” (Pall Mall Gazette, Jan. 18th, 1887.)

[The Poem.] Mr. Symons describes this as “a piece of sardonic irony long drawn out,” and as a “Superior Rogues’ Guide or Instructions for Knaves.” Browning satirically tells Dodington that he went the wrong way to work in his attempts to impose upon the world. Admitting the right of the statesman to “feather his own nest” while pretending to care only for the public weal, because even the birds build the kind of nests that suit their own convenience, without regard to other species, he yet declares there is a right and a wrong way even in deceiving people. “You say, my Lord, that the rabble will not believe and follow you unless you lie boldly, and pretend to be animated only by the desire to serve them; but the rabble tell lies for their own purposes daily, and understand the art as well as you do, and as no man obeys his equal, you must produce something which outdoes in this respect anything with which they are familiar.” Browning offers him a hint: wit has replaced force, now intelligence in its turn must go. “You must have a touch of the supernatural, you must awe men—not by miracles, they will not be accepted—but still, you must pretend to some secret and mysterious power, pretend that, though you know you have fools to deal with, there are some wise men amongst them who are not to be deceived, and each man will flatter himself that he is one of these.... Persuade the people that your real character was merely an assumed one. Pretend to despise, not them, but yourself. That will make men think you obey some law, ‘quite above man’s—nay, God’s!’ Missing this secret, your name is greeted with scorn.”

Note.—The Bower-bird: the name given to certain birds of the genera Ptilorhynchus and Chlamydera, which are ranked under the starling family. They are found in Australia. They are called bower-birds because they build bowers as well as nests.

Gerard. (A Blot in the ’Scutcheon.) Lord Tresham’s faithful and trusted man-servant.

Gerard de Lairesse, Parleyings with. (Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in their Day: 1877, No. VI.) [The Man.] “Gerard de Lairesse, a Flemish painter, was born at Liége in 1640. He early began his career, and produced portraits and historical pictures at the age of fifteen. He was of dissipated life, extravagant, and fond of dress, notwithstanding that he was of deformed figure. The Dutch admired him very much, and modestly called him their ‘second Raphael,’ Heemskirk being the first. He painted for many years at Amsterdam, and towards the close of his life was much troubled by his eyesight, which several times left him. He died in 1711. Very fond of teaching, he was always ready to communicate his method to students, and his name is associated with a Treatise on the Art of Painting, which it is not, however, thought that he wrote. His execution was very rapid, and there is a story told that he made a wager that he would paint, in one day, a large picture of Apollo and the Muses, and that he not only gained the wager, but painted into the picture a capital portrait of a curious bystander. His method of work was eccentric: he would prepare his canvas, and, sitting down before it, take up his violin and play for some time; then, putting down the instrument, he would rapidly sketch in the picture, and again resuming the fiddle, would derive fresh inspiration from the music.” (Pall Mall Gazette, Jan. 18th, 1887.)

[The Poem.] Browning rejoices that, though Gerard had lost his sight, his mouth was unsealed and “talked all brain’s yearning into birth.” He prizes his saying that the artist should discern abundant worth in commonplace, and not despise the vulgar things of town and country as unworthy of his art. Beyond the actual, he taught there was ever “Imagination’s limitless domain”: even dull Holland to him became Dreamland. And so in that great “Walk” of his, written after his blindness, he could evolve greater things than we with all our sight. Perhaps his sealed sight-sense left his mind free from obstruction to indulge fancies “worth all facts denied by fate.” But though we cannot see what the poets of old saw in nature when they invested trees with human attributes, and yet lost no gain of the tree, “we see deeper.” “You,” says Browning, “saw the body,—’tis the soul we see.” We can fancy, too, though fact unseen has taken the place of fancy somehow. Poets never go back at all: if the past become more precious than the present, then blame the Creator! But it can never be so. He invites Gerard to ‘walk with him and see what a poet of the present time discerns in the face of Nature, in her varying moods from daybreak till the shades of night.’ Then follows a series of magnificent descriptions of a thunderstorm in the mountains, the defiant pine tree daring all the outrage of the lightning. Then the laugh of morning, the baffled tempest, the trees shaking off the night stupor from their strangled branches. Diana, with her bow and unerring shaft; for gentle creatures, even on a morn so blithe, must writhe in pain—so pitiless is Nature still! And then the conquering noon: the mist ascends to heaven, and the filmy haze soothes the sun’s sharp glare till tyrannous noon reigns supreme. And when at last the long day dies, clouds like hosts confronting each other for battle come trooping silent. Two shapes from out the mass show prominent, as if the Macedonian flung his purple mantle on the dead Darius. And now the darkness gathers, the human heroes tread the world of cloud no longer. ’Tis a ghost appears on earth:

But, says Browning, though we to-day could paint Nature in this manner in the colours of the Past, we rather prefer “the all-including, the all-reconciling Future:

Sad school was Hades! Let it be granted that death is the last and worst of man’s calamities: come what come will—what once lives never dies.”

Notes.—2. “The Walk”: this was the title of a part of Gerard’s work entitled The Art of Painting, by Gerard de Lairesse, translated by J. S. Fritsch, 1778. 5. Dryope: the fable of Dryope turned into a tree is told in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, book ix. 9. Artemis, Diana, the huntress goddess. 10. Lyda, a nymph beloved by Pan, but who disdained his uncouth pathos. 11. Macedonian: Alexander, king of Macedonia, invaded Persia, and was met by Darius with an army of 600,000 men. Alexander defeated them, and Darius was slain by the traitor Bessus. Alexander covered the dead body with his own royal mantle, and honoured it with a magnificent funeral.

Gigadibs, Mr. (Bishop Blougram’s Apology.) He is a young man of thirty—immature, desultory, and impulsive—who criticises Bishop Blougram’s life, and serves to draw out his ideas on his religion and the honesty of his religious conduct.

Give a Rouse. (Cavalier Tunes, No. II.)

“Give her but the least excuse to love me.” (Pippa Passes.) The song which Pippa sings as she passes the house of Jules.

Glove, The. [Peter Ronsard loquitur.] (Dramatic Romances and Lyrics in Bells and Pomegranates, VII., 1845.) This is an old French story of the time of Francis I. It is familiar in various forms to students of literature, and may be found in Schiller, Leigh Hunt, and St. Foix. Mr. Browning, as is his wont, does not tell the story for the sake of telling it, but that he may give a new turn to it and point out something which has been overlooked, but which, on reflection, will always prove to be the precise truth to be conveyed by the narration. The Peter Ronsard who tells the tale was born in 1524, and was called the “prince of poets” by his own generation. He was educated at the Collége de Navarre at Paris, and was page to the Duke of Orleans. He was afterwards attached to the suite of Cardinal du Bellay-Langey. He became deaf, and in consequence gave up diplomacy for literature. He published his Amours and some odes in 1552. Charles IX. gave him rooms in his palace. He died in 1585. The story of the poem is as follows. King Francis I. was one day amusing himself by viewing the lions in his courtyard, in company with the lords and ladies of the palace. The king bade his keeper make sport with an old lion, which was let out of his den to fight in the pit, the spectators being secured by a barrier. The king said, “Faith, gentlemen, we are better here than there.” De Lorge’s lady-love overheard this, and she thought it a good opportunity to test the courage of her lover, so she dropped her glove over the barrier amongst the lions, at the same time smiling to De Lorge the command to jump down and recover it. This was speedily done, but the lover threw the glove in the lady’s face. The king approved this course, and said, “So should I: ’twas mere vanity, not love, which set that task to humanity!” Mr. Browning brings his analysis to bear on this exploit, and shows that the test was not the outcome of mere idle trifling with a man’s life to flatter a woman’s vanity. She desired to try as in a crucible the real meaning of the protestations made by De Lorge; it was necessary for her to know if her lover was going to serve her alone or many. He had offered to brave endless descriptions of death for her sake. When she saw the lions, for whose capture many poor men had dared death with no spectators to applaud, she felt justified in asking this of her lover before she trusted herself in his hands for life. A youth led her away from the scene. She carried her shame from the court, and married the man who protected her from further mockery. Of course De Lorge was at once the favourite both of women and men. He married a beauty. The Clement Marot referred to in the poem was a famous poet of France (1496-1544), and greatly distinguished in her literary history.

God. Browning’s noblest utterances on God are to be found in Christmas Eve, Easter Day, “The Pope” in The Ring and the Book, and Paracelsus.

Goito Castle (Sordello), near Mantua, where Sordello was brought up by Adelaide, wife of Ecelin, with Palma, daughter of Ecelin by a former wife. Sordello lived at Goito in seclusion and boyish pleasures till he was nearly twenty years old.

Gold Hair: A Legend of Pornic. (Dramatis Personæ, 1864.) The poem is said by Mr. Orr to be founded on facts well known at Pornic, a seaside town in Brittany. A young girl well connected died with a great reputation for holiness. She had beautiful golden hair, of which she was very proud. She begged that it might not be disturbed after her death, and she was buried with it intact near the high altar of the church of St. Gilles. Some years after it became necessary to repair the floor of the church in the proximity of the maiden’s tomb. It was found that the coffin had fallen to pieces, and a gold coin was noticed, which led to a more careful examination of the spot. Thirty double louis-d’or were discovered, which had been hidden by the girl in her hair, thus proving that the supposed saint was at heart a miser. “Gold goes through all doors except heaven’s doors”; and for this the girl had lost her heaven. In Stanza xxviii. Mr. Browning teaches a lesson of which he is never weary:—

Original sin, the innate corruption of man’s heart, is illustrated says the poet, by this girl’s avarice. The priest built a new altar with the discovered money.

Goldoni. (Published first in the Pall Mall Gazette, Dec. 8th, 1883; then in the Browning Society’s Papers.) Carlo Goldoni (1707-93) was the most illustrious of the Italian comedy-writers, and the real founder of modern Italian comedy. He had a pension from the French King Louis XVI., which he lost at the Revolution, and he was reduced to the extremest misery. A monument was erected to him at Venice in 1883, and Browning wrote for the album of the Goldoni monument the following lines:—

“Good to Forgive.” (La Saisiaz.) The epilogue to La Saisiaz begins with these words. In Vol. II. of the Selections the poem forms No. 3 of Pisgah Sights.

Gottingen. The university town in Germany to a lecture hall in which Christ went in the vision on Christmas Eve. Here a consumptive lecturer was “demolishing the Christ-myth,” but advising the audience to lose nothing of the Christ idea.

Grammarian’s Funeral, A, shortly after the Revival of Learning in Europe. (Men and Women, 1855; Romances, 1863; Dramatic Romances, 1868.) Mr. Browning often describes a man as a typical product of his age and environment, and invests him with its characteristics, making him figure as an historical personage. He has done so in this case, and we seem to know the grammarian in all his pedantry and exclusive devotion to a minute branch of human knowledge. The revival of learning, after the apparent death-blow which it received when the hordes of Northern barbarism overran Southern Europe and destroyed the civilisation of the Roman empire, began in the tenth century—that century which, as Hallam says (Lit. Europe, i. 10), “used to be reckoned by mediæval historians the darkest part of this intellectual night.” In the twelfth century much greater improvement was made. The attention of Europe was drawn to literature in this century, says Hallam, by, “1st, the institution of universities; 2nd, the cultivation of the modern languages, followed by the multiplication of books and the extension of the art of writing; 3rd, the investigation of the Roman law; and lastly, the return to the study of the Latin language in its Ancient models of purity.” All these factors were at work and progressing gradually down to the fifteenth century. A company of the grammarian’s disciples are bearing his coffin for burial on a tall mountain, the appropriate lofty place of sepulture for an elevated man. As they carry the body, one of them tells his story, and dilates on the praises of the departed scholar. They cannot fitly bury their master in the plain with the common herd. Nor will a lower peak suffice: he shall rest on a peak whose soaring excels the rest. This high-seeking man is for the morning land, and as they bear him up the rocky heights they step together to a tune with heads erect, proud of their noble burden. He was endowed with graces of face and form; but youth had been given to learning till he had become cramped and withered. This man would eat up the feast of learning even to its crumbs. He would live a great life when he had learned all that books had to teach; meanwhile he despised what other men termed life. Before living he would learn how to live:—

Deeper he bent over his books, racked by the stone (calculus): bronchitis (tussis) attacked him; but still he refused to rest. He had a sacred thirst. He magnified the mind, and let the body decay uncared for. That he long lived nameless, that he even failed, was nothing to him. He wanted no payment by instalment; he could afford to wait, and thus even in the death-struggle he “ground at grammar.” And so where the

this lofty man was left “loftily lying.”

Notes.—Hotis’ business, Properly based Oun, Enclitic De, these are points in Greek grammar concerning which grammarians have written learned treatises.

Greek Poems. Mr. Browning had a peculiar power in rendering the ideas of the great Greek poets into strong resonant English verse. His lovely Balaustion’s Adventure, the fascinating and picturesque Aristophanes’ Apology, with the Herakles of Euripides, and the rough, robust, and perhaps over-literal Agamemnon of Æschylus, at once proclaim the Greek scholar and the English master-poet. Some extracts from Professor Mahaffy’s criticism of Mr. Browning’s Greek translations are given below from his History of Classical Greek Literature, vol. i. On the transcription of the Agamemnon (p. 258): “Mr. Robert Browning has given us an over-faithful version from his matchless hand,—matchless, I conceive, in conveying the deeper spirit of the Greek poets. But, in this instance, he has outdone his original in ruggedness, owing to his excess of conscience as a translator” (p. 277). “Mr. Browning has turned his genius for reproducing Greek plays upon this masterpiece, and has given a version which will probably not permit the rest [Miss Anna Swanwick’s, Mr. Morshead’s, etc.] to maintain their well-earned fame, though it is in itself so difficult that the Greek original is often required for translating his English. I confess that, even with this aid, which shows the extraordinary faithfulness of the work, I had preferred a more Anglicised version from his master-hand.” On the transcription of Alcestis (p. 329): “By far the best translation is Mr. Browning’s, in his Balaustion’s Adventure; but it is much to be regretted that he did not render the choral odes into lyric verse. No one has more thoroughly appreciated the mean features of Admetus and Pheres, and their dramatic propriety” (note, p. 335). On the transcription of The Raging Hercules (p. 348): “We can now recommend the admirable translation in Mr. Browning’s Aristophanes’ Apology, as giving English readers a thoroughly faithful idea of this splendid play. The choral odes are, moreover, done justice to, and translated into adequate metre—in this, an improvement on the Alcestis, to which I have already referred.” Speaking afterwards, of the Helena of Euripides, Mr. Mahaffy remarks (p. 353): “The choral odes are quite in the poet’s later style, full of those repetitions of words which Aristophanes derides,”—and he adds in a note: “Mr. Browning has not failed to reproduce this Euripidean feature with great art and admirable effect in his version of the Herakles.”... p. 466: “Nothing is more cleverly ridiculed [in Aristophanes] than those repetitions of the same word which occur in the pathetic lyrical passages of Euripides. The modern poet, who best understands Euripides, has followed his example in this point:—

There are many more instances in this version of the Hercules Furens. This allusion to Mr. Browning suggests the remark that he has treated the controversy between Euripides and Aristophanes with more learning and ability than all other critics, in his ‘Aristophanes’ Apology,’ which is, by the way, an ‘Euripides Apology’ also, if such be required in the present day.”

Guardian Angel, The: A Picture at Fano. (Men and Women, 1855; Lyrics, 1863.) Fano is a city of Italy in the province of Urbino-e-Pasaro. It is situated on the shores of the Adriatic, in a fertile plain at the mouth of the Metauro. Its population in 1871 was 6439. The splendid tombs of the Malatestas are contained in the church of St. Francesco. The cathedral and other churches possess valuable pictures by Domenichino, Guido, etc. The picture referred to in the poem is in the church of St. Augustine. It was painted by Guercino (so called from his squinting), properly called Giovanni Francesco Barbieri, who was born at Cento, near Bologna, in 1590. His first style was formed after that of the Carracci; he fell later under the influence of Caravaggio, whose strong colouring and shadows greatly impressed his mind. The nobles and princes of Italy, and his brother artists, very highly esteemed Guercino’s work, and they classed him in the first rank of painters. He worked very rapidly, completing 106 large altar-pieces for churches, besides 144 other pictures. His greatest work is said to be his Sta. Petronilla, which is now in the Capitol at Rome. Guercino died in 1666, having amassed a large fortune by his labours. There is a good photograph of L’Angelo Custode, in the Illustrations to Browning’s Poems, part i., published by the Browning Society. An angel with wings outspread is standing in a protecting attitude by a little child, and the angel’s left arm embraces the infant, while the right hand encloses the hands of the child clasped in prayer. Cherubs look down from the clouds. In Guercino’s first sketch of his Angel and Child, the angel points to heaven with his left hand, while he enfolds the child’s hands with his right. Mr. Browning was staying at Ancona. He was greatly impressed by the picture, and forgetting that we all have a guardian angel, overlooked his own, and prayed, good Protestant as he was, to Guercino’s angel to protect and direct him when he had done with the child. He, however, recognised Mrs. Browning as his own guardian angel, and with her went three times to see the painting. The Alfred referred to in Stanza vi. was Mr. Alfred Dommett, the Waring of the poem of that name. Mr. Dommett was then in New Zealand, by the Wairoa river of Stanza viii. Not only the consolatory doctrine of Holy Scripture and the Church as to the ministry of angels, but the soothing and elevating influence of religious art in conveying what words would fail to teach half so impressively, are well emphasised by Mr. Browning’s poem. The beautiful figure “Bird of God” is from Dante (Purgatorio, Canto iv.).

Guelfs and Ghibellines. (Sordello.) The poem of Sordello is so full of references to the wars between the Guelfs and Ghibellines, that a knowledge of the origin of this celebrated feud will help to throw light on some paragraphs in the poem. Longfellow, in his notes to Dante’s Inferno, gives the story:—“The following account of the Guelfs and Ghibellines is from the Pecorone of Giovanni Fiorentino, a writer of the fourteenth century. It forms the first Novella of the Eighth Day, and will be found in Roscoe’s Italian Novelists, i. 322. ‘There formerly resided in Germany two wealthy and well-born individuals, whose names were Guelfo and Ghibellino, very near neighbours, and greatly attached to each other. But returning together one day from the chase, there unfortunately arose some difference of opinion as to the merits of one of their hounds, which was maintained on both sides so very warmly that, from being almost inseparable friends and companions, they became each other’s deadliest enemies. This unlucky division between them still increasing, they on either side collected parties of their followers, in order more effectually to annoy each other. Soon extending its malignant influence among the neighbouring lords and barons of Germany, who divided, according to their motives, either with the Guelf or the Ghibelline, it not only produced many serious affrays, but several persons fell victims to its rage. Ghibellino, finding himself hard pressed by his enemy, and unable longer to keep the field against him, resolved to apply for assistance to Frederick I., the reigning emperor. Upon this, Guelfo, perceiving that his adversary sought the alliance of this monarch, applied on his side to Pope Honorius II., who being at variance with the former, and hearing how the affair stood, immediately joined the cause of the Guelfs, the emperor having already embraced that of the Ghibellines. It is thus that the apostolic see became connected with the former, and the empire with the latter faction; and it was thus that a vile hound became the origin of a deadly hatred between the two noble families. Now, it happened that in the year of our dear Lord and Redeemer 1215, the same pestiferous spirit spread itself into parts of Italy, in the following manner. Messer Guido Orlando being at that time chief magistrate of Florence, there likewise resided in that city a noble and valiant cavalier of the family of Buondelmonti, one of the most distinguished houses in the state. Our young Buondelmonte having already plighted his troth to a lady of the Amidei family, the lovers were considered as betrothed, with all the solemnity usually observed on such occasions. But this unfortunate young man, chancing one day to pass by the house of the Donati, was stopped and accosted by a lady of the name of Lapaccia, who moved to him from her door as he went along, saying: “I am surprised that a gentleman of your appearance, Signor, should think of taking for his wife a woman scarcely worthy of handing him his boots. There is a child of my own, whom, to speak sincerely, I have long intended for you, and whom I wish you would just venture to see.” And on this she called out for her daughter, whose name was Ciulla, one of the prettiest and most enchanting girls in all Florence. Introducing her to Messer Buondelmonte, she whispered, “This is she whom I have reserved for you”; and the young Florentine, suddenly becoming enamoured of her, thus replied to her mother, “I am quite ready, Madonna, to meet your wishes”; and before stirring from the spot he placed a ring upon her finger, and, wedding her, received her there as his wife. The Amidei, hearing that young Buondelmonte had thus espoused another, immediately met together, and took counsel with other friends and relations, how they might best avenge themselves for such an insult offered to their house. There were present among the rest Lambertuccio Amidei, Schiatta Ruberti, and Mosca Lamberti, one of whom proposed to give him a box on the ear, another to strike him in the face; yet they were none of them able to agree about it among themselves. On observing this, Mosca hastily arose, in a great passion, saying, “Cosa fatta capo ha,” wishing it to be understood that a dead man will never strike again. It was therefore decided that he should be put to death, a sentence which they proceeded to execute in the following manner: M. Buondelmonte returning one Easter morning from a visit to the Casa Bardi, beyond the Arno, mounted upon a snow-white steed, and dressed in a mantle of the same colour, had just reached the foot of the Ponte Vecchio, or old bridge, where formerly stood a statue of Mars, whom the Florentines in their pagan state were accustomed to worship, when the whole party issued out upon him, and, dragging him in the scuffle from his horse, in spite of the gallant resistance he made, despatched him with a thousand wounds. The tidings of this affair seemed to throw all Florence into confusion; the chief personages and noblest families in the place everywhere meeting, and dividing themselves into parties in consequence; the one party embracing the cause of the Buondelmonti, who placed themselves at the head of the Guelfs; and the other taking part with the Amidei, who supported the Ghibellines. In the same fatal manner, nearly all the seigniories and cities of Italy were involved in the original quarrel between these two German families: the Guelfs still supporting the interests of the Holy Church, and the Ghibellines those of the Emperor. And thus I have made you acquainted with the history of the Germanic faction, between two noble houses, for the sake of a vile cur, and have shown how it afterwards disturbed the peace of Italy for the sake of a beautiful woman.’”

Gwendolen Tresham. (A Blot in the ’Scutcheon.) The cousin of Mildred Tresham.

Gypsy. (The Flight of the Duchess.) The old crone who is sent by the Duke to frighten the Duchess, and who rescues her from her unhappy life.

Hakeem or Hakem. (Return of the Druses.) He was the chief of the Druses. The first hakeem was the Fatimite Caliph B’amr-ellah. He professed to be the incarnate deity. He was slain near Cairo, in Egypt, on Mount Makattam.

Halbert and Hob. (Dramatic Idyls, First Series, 1879.) Two men, father and son, of brutal type, and the last of their line, are sitting quarrelling one Christmas night in their homestead. High words, followed by taunts and curses, led to an attack on the father by his furious son, who flew at his throat with the intention of casting him out in the snow. The father was strong and could have held his own in the scuffle, but suddenly all power left him: he was struck mute. This still more enraged the son, who pulled him from the room till they reached the house-door-sill. Slowly the father found utterance and told his son that on just such a Christmas night long ago he had attacked his father in a similar manner and had dragged him to the same spot, when he was arrested by a voice in his heart. “I stopped here; and, Hob, do you the same!” The son relaxed his hold of his father’s throat, and both returned upstairs, where they remained in silence. At dawn the father was dead, the son insane. “Is there a reason in nature for these hard hearts?” Certainly there is, says the mental pathologist. Persons born with such and such cranial and cerebral characteristics cannot help being brutal and criminal. They are handicapped heavily by nature from the hour of their birth, and they only follow out a law of their development, for which they are not responsible when they become criminal. The mental pathologist would have no difficulty in drawing the portraits of Halbert and Hob. There is a monotony and family likeness in the criminal physiognomy which does not require an expert to detect. When a specialist such as Dr. Down goes over a great prison like Broadmoor, he has no difficulty in indicating for us the precise aberrations from the normal type which distinguish between the honest man and the criminal. This would be a terrible reflection on the Divine providence, if we omitted to take into account the pregnant last line of Mr. Browning’s poem:

As Nature is never without her compensations, so there is a reason above all our materialism, our facial angles, our oxycephalic and our microcephalic heads which justifies the ways of God to men. Doctors are slow to recognise this, but judges always act upon the principle. Experts in criminal pathology find responsibility with great difficulty in the men they are endeavouring to save from the gallows. The judge, however, keeps to the common-sense rule that if the criminal knew that he was doing what he ought not to do, he is responsible before the law for his crime. Halbert heard the voice in his heart—Hob relaxed his hold of the father’s throat. Conscience rules supreme even over heredity and cerebral aberration. The basis of this story is found in Aristotle’s Ethics, I., vii., c. 6.

“Heap Cassia, Sandal-buds, and Stripes.” The first line of the song in Paracelsus iv.

Helen’s Tower. Lines written at the request of the Earl of Dufferin and Clandeboye, on the tower which the Earl erected to the memory of his mother, Helen, Countess of Giffard. (Printed in the Pall Mall Gazette, Dec. 28th, 1883.)

Henry, Earl Mertoun. (A Blot in the ’Scutcheon.) He was Mildred Tresham’s lover, and was killed by her brother, Earl Tresham.

Herakles == Hercules, who wrestles with death, conquers him, and restores Alkestis to her husband, in Balaustion’s Adventure. The Raging Hercules of Euripides, which Balaustion read to Aristophanes, is translated by Mr. Browning in the volume Aristophanes’ Apology.

Heretic’s Tragedy, The; A Middle-Age Interlude. (Men and Women, 1855; Romances, 1863; Dramatic Romances, 1868.) “It would seem to be a glimpse from the burning of Jacques du Bourg Molay, at Paris, A.D. 1314; as distorted by the refraction from Flemish brain to brain during the course of a couple of centuries.” [The History.] Molay was Grand Master of the order of the Knights Templars, suppressed by a decree of Pope Clement V. and the general council of Vienne, in 1312. The Knights Templars were instituted by seven gentlemen at Jerusalem, in 1118, to defend the holy places and pilgrims from the insults of the Saracens, and to keep the passes free for such as undertook the voyage to the Holy Land. They took their name from the first house, which was given them by King Baldwin II., situated near the place where anciently the temple of Solomon stood. By the liberality of princes, immense riches suddenly flowed to this Order, by which the knights were puffed up to a degree of insolence which rendered them insupportable even to the kings who had been their protectors; and Philip the Fair, king of France, resolved to compass their ruin. They were accused of treasons and conspiracies with the infidels, and of other enormous crimes, which occasioned the suppression of the Order. The year following, the Grand Master, who was a Frenchman, was burnt at Paris, and several others suffered death, though they all with their last breath protested their innocence as to the crimes that were laid to their charge. These were certainly much exaggerated by their enemies, and doubtless many innocent men were involved with the guilty. A great part of their estates was given to the Knights of Rhodes or Malta. (Butler’s Lives of the Saints—sub May 5.) For half a century before the suppression of the Order, horrible stories about various unholy rites practised at its midnight assemblies had been in circulation. It was said that every member on his initiation was compelled to deny the Lord Jesus Christ, to spit upon and trample under foot a crucifix, and submit to certain indecent ceremonies. It was charged against them that hideous four-footed idols were worshipped, and other things too terrible to narrate were said to be done at these assemblies. Whether these things were true or not, has been hotly disputed ever since the accusations were made. The spitting on the cross seems, at any rate in France, to have been admitted by the accused; many of the worst things confessed were admitted under the most cruel tortures, and are consequently more likely to have been false than true. In Carlyle’s essay on the “Life and Writings of Werner” (Critical and Miscellaneous Essays, vol. i., p. 66: 1888), the whole story of these mysterious rites is discussed. After several pages of quotations from Werner’s drama The Templars in Cyprus, Carlyle says, “One might take this trampling on the Cross, which is said to have been actually enjoined on every Templar at his initiation, to be a type of his secret behest to undermine that institution (the Catholic Church) and redeem the spirit of religion from the state of thraldom and distortion under which it was there held. It is known at least, and was well known to Werner, that the heads of the Templars entertained views, both on religion and politics, which they did not think meet for communicating to their age, and only imparted by degrees, and under mysterious adumbrations, to the wiser of their own order. They had even publicly resisted, and succeeded in thwarting, some iniquitous measure of Philippe Auguste, the French king, in regard to his coinage; and this, while it secured them the love of the people, was one great cause, perhaps second only to their wealth, of the hatred which that sovereign bore them, and of the savage doom which he at last executed on the whole body.”

[The Poem.] The Abbot Deodaet and his monks are singing in the choir of their church about the burning alive of the Master of the Temple two hundred years before. He has sinned the unknown sin, and sold the influence of the Order to the Mohammedan. In a graphic and lurid manner they picture the details of the execution. They have no pity for the victim, and seem to be gloating over his sufferings. They imagine that the victim calls in his agony on the Saviour whom he forsook and traitorously sold; he cries now “Saviour, save Thou me!” The Face upon which he had spat, the Face on the crucifix which he trampled upon, is revealed to the burning man feature by feature; he now sees his awful Judge, his voice dies, and John’s soul flares into the dark. Said the Abbot, “God help all poor souls lost in the dark!”

Notes.—i., Organ: plagal cadence. The cadence formed when a subdominant chord immediately precedes the final tonic chord. ii., Emperor Aldabrod, probably the family name of one of the Greek emperors, but I can find nothing about him. Sultan Saladin, of Egypt and Syria, whose portrait is so faithfully drawn by Sir Walter Scott, in The Talisman. Pope Clement V. (1305-14). Platina, in his life of this Pope, says only a few words on the Templars: “He took off the Templars, who were fallen into very great errors (as denying Christ, etc.), and gave their goods to the Knights of Jerusalem”; clavicithern: an upright musical instrument like a harpsichord. iv., Laudes: a Catholic service associated with Matins. It consists, amongst other devotions, of five Psalms. vi., Salvâ reverentiâ: “saving reverence,” like the “saving your presence” of the Irishman. vii., Sharon’s Rose: Solomon’s Song, ii. 1. The rose was the symbol of secrecy. viii., leman: a sweetheart of either sex.

Hervé Riel. (Published in the Cornhill Magazine, March 1871. Browning received £100 for it, which sum he gave to the Paris Relief Fund, to provide food for the starving people after the siege of Paris. Published in the Pacchiarotto volume in 1876.) The story told in the poem is strictly historical. Hervé Riel was a Breton sailor of Le Croisic, who, after the great naval battle of La Hogue in 1692, saved the remains of the French fleet by skilfully piloting the ships through the shallows of the Rance, and thereby preventing their capture by the English. For this splendid service he was permitted to ask whatever reward he chose to name. The brave Breton asked merely for a whole day’s holiday, that he might visit his wife, the Belle Aurore. Dr. Furnivall says: “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. The war between Louis XIV. and William III. was undertaken by the former with the object of restoring James II. to the English throne. Admiral Turnville engaged the English fleet off Cape La Hogue, and thereby wrecked the French fleet and the cause of James. Apropos of Hervé Riel, Mr. Kenneth Grahame says (Browning Society’s Papers, March 30th, 1883, p. 68*): ‘In Rabelais’ Pantagruel, lib. IV., cap. xxi., Panurge says, ‘... quelque fille de roy ... me fera exiger quelque magnificque cenotaphe, comme feit Dido à son mary Sychee; ... Germain de Brie à Hervé, le nauctrier Breton,’ etc. Then a note says, ‘En 1515, dans un combat naval, le Breton Hervé Primoguet, qui commandoit la Cordelière, attacha son navire en feu au vaisseau amiral ennemi la Regente d’Angleterre, et se fit sauter avec lui. Germain de Brie ou Brice (Brixius) qui celebra ce trait heroique dans un poeme latin, etoit un des amis de Rabelais.’ This was a forerunner of Browning’s hero. The coincidence of names, etc., is curious.”

Hippolytos. (See Artemis Prologizes.) The Hippolytus of Euripides is the chaste worshipper of Diana (Artemis), who will give no heed to Venus. His step-mother Phædra loves him, and kills herself when she discovers he will not succumb to her attentions.

Hohenstiel-Schwangau. See Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau.

Holy-Cross Day [On which the Jews were forced to attend an annual Christian Sermon in Rome]. (Men and Women, 1855; Romances, 1863; Dramatic Romances, 1868.)—[The History.] Holy Cross Day, or the Festival of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, falls on September 14th annually. It is kept in commemoration of the alleged miraculous appearance of the Cross to Constantine in the sky at midday. The discovery of the True Cross by St. Helen gave the first occasion of the festival, which was celebrated under the title of the Exaltation of the Cross on September 14th, both by the Latins and Greeks, as early as in the fifth or sixth centuries at Jerusalem, from the year 335. (See for the history of the festival Butler’s Lives of the Saints, under September 14th.) The particular details of this poem are not historical, but it is quite true that such a sermon was preached to Jews from time to time, and that they were driven to church to listen to it. A papal bull, issued in 1584, formerly compelled the Jews to hear sermons at the church of St. Angelo in Pescheria, close to the Jewish quarter. The Pescheria or fish market adjoins the Ghetto, the quarter allotted to the Jews by Paul IV. This pope compelled the Jews to wear yellow head-gear; and, among other oppressive exactions, they had to provide the prizes for the horse-races at the Carnival. In a note at the end of the poem Mr. Browning says, “The late Pope abolished this bad business of the Sermon.” The conduct of the popes towards the Jews varied according to the policy or humanity in the character of the pontiff. “In 1442 Eugenius IV. deprived them of one of their most valuable privileges, and endeavoured to interrupt their amicable relations with the Christians: they were prohibited from eating and drinking together. Jews were excluded from almost every profession, were forced to wear a badge, to pay tithes; and Christians were forbidden to bequeath legacies to Jews. The succeeding popes were more wise or more humane. In Naples the celebrated Abarbanel became the confidential adviser of Ferdinand the Bastard and Alphonso II.; they experienced a reverse, and were expelled from that city by Charles V. The stern and haughty Pope Paul IV. renewed the hostile edicts; he endeavoured to embarrass their traffic by regulations which prohibited them from disposing of their pledges under eighteen months; deprived them of the trade in corn and in every other necessary of life, but left them the privilege of dealing in old clothes. Paul first shut them up in their Ghetto, a confined quarter of the city, out of which they were prohibited from appearing after sunset. Pius IV. relaxed the severity of his predecessor. He enlarged the Ghetto, and removed the restriction on their commerce. Pius V. expelled them from every city in the papal territory except Rome and Ancona; he endured them in those cities with the avowed design of preserving their commerce with the East. Gregory XIII. pursued the same course: a bull was published, and suspended at the gate of the Jews’ quarter, prohibiting the reading of the Talmud, blasphemies against Christ, or ridicule against the ceremonies of the Church. All Jews above twelve years old were bound to appear at the regular sermons delivered for their conversion; where it does not seem, notwithstanding the authority of the pope and the eloquence of the cardinals, that their behaviour was very edifying. At length the bold and statesmanlike Sextus V. annulled at once all the persecuting or vexatious regulations of his predecessors, opened the gates of every city in the ecclesiastical dominions to these enterprising traders, secured and enlarged their privileges, proclaimed toleration of their religion, subjected them to the ordinary tribunals, and enforced a general and equal taxation.” (Milman’s History of the Jews, book xxvii.)

[The Poem.] Part of the satire of the poem is in the fictitious extract from the Diary by the Bishop’s Secretary, 1600, prefixed to it. The Bishop looks upon the matter as though he were compelling the Jews to come in and partake of the gospel feast; he flatters himself that many conversions have taken place in consequence of the enforcement of this law, and that the Church was conferring a great blessing on the Jews by permitting them to partake of the heavenly grace. What the Jews themselves thought of the business is told in the poem. The speaker describes the crowding of the church by the Israelites, packed like rats in a hamper or pigs in a stye; to the life the poet hits off the behaviour of the wretched audience, compelled to listen to that which they abhorred, and to pretend to be converted, and to affect compunction and interest in doctrines which they detested. Then the most serious part of the poem begins: the speaker complains that the hand which gutted his purse would throttle his creed, and for reward the men whom he has helped to their sins would help him to their God; then the pathos deepens, and while the pretended converts are going through the farce of acknowledging their conversion in the sacristy, the speaker meditates on Rabbi Ben Ezra’s Song of Death. The night the Jewish saint died he called his family round him and said their nation in one point only had sinned, and he invokes Christ if indeed He really were the Messiah, and they had given Him the cross when they should have bestowed the crown, to have pity on them and protect them from the followers of His teaching, whose life laughs through and spits at their creed. Perhaps, indeed, they withstood Christ then: it is at least Barabbas they withstand now! Let Rome make amends for Calvary. Let Him remember their age-long torture, the infamy, the Ghetto, the garb, the badge, the branding tool and scourge, and this summons to conversion; by withstanding this they are but trying to wrest Christ’s name from the devil’s crew.

Home, D. D.: the Spiritualist medium. See Mr. Sludge the Medium.

Home Thoughts from Abroad. (Published in Dramatic Romances and Lyrics, in Bells and Pomegranates, VII., 1845.) In praise of all the mighty ravishment of our English spring, and the lovely sister months April and May,—

And nowhere, surely, are these months so delightful as in England! Melon-flowers do not make up “for the buttercups, the little children’s dower.” In many parts of Southern Europe the trees have all been ruthlessly cut down, lest they should harbour birds. The absence of our hedgerows does much to mar the beauty of a Continental landscape in spring.

Home Thoughts from the Sea. (Dramatic Romances and Lyrics, in Bells and Pomegranates, VII., 1845.) Patriotic reflections on passing the Bay of Trafalgar by one who, remembering how here England helped the Englishmen, asks himself “How can I help England?”

House. (Pacchiarotto, with other Poems: 1876.) If we accept Shakespeare’s Sonnets in their natural sense, as the best authorities say we must, they open up to the public gaze passages in the life of the great poet which those who love an ideal Shakespeare would rather have not known. If, says Mr. Browning in the poem, Shakespeare unlocked his heart with a sonnet-key, the less Shakespeare he! For his own part, he will do nothing of the sort; and, though probably few men led purer and holier lives from youth to manhood than Mr. Browning, he declines to admit the vulgar gaze of the public into the secret chambers of his soul. In earthquakes, indeed, the fronts of houses often fall, and expose the private arrangements of the home to the impertinent observation of the passer-by. In earthquakes this cannot be helped; but a writer may keep his secrets to himself till an imprudent biographer gets hold of them to make “copy” of. As a fact, all that the world is really concerned with in Mr. Browning’s life and opinions can be gathered “by the spirit-sense” from his works. The main idea of the poem is very similar to that of At the Mermaid.

Householder, The. (Fifine at the Fair.) The Epilogue to the poem, telling how Don Juan is at last united to his wife Elvire by death.

How it strikes a Contemporary. (Men and Women: 1855.) The faculty of observation is essential both to the poet and the spy. Lavater said that “he alone is an acute observer who can observe minutely without being observed.” The poet of Valladolid was mistaken by the vulgar mob for an agent of the Government, because they were always catching him taking “such cognisance of men and things.” His picture is sketched in a very few lines; but these are sufficient to show us the very man, in his scrutinising hat, crossing the Plaza Mayor of the dull and deserted city, in which there was—one would think—as little life to interest a poet as to employ a spy. We soon get to feel that the poet-evidences in the man’s behaviour should have been sufficiently strong to save him from the reproaches of his neighbours. The dog at his heels, the note he took of any cruelty towards animals or cursing of a woman, the interest in men’s simple trades, the poring over bookstalls, reveal to us the image of his soul. However, his fellow-citizens in all these things thought they had evidence of a chief inquisitor; and in the land of Spain, which for many centuries cowered under the shadow of the most terrible weapon ever forged against the liberties of man, inquisition and espionage were in the air. Men were better judges of spies than of poets; they were more familiar with them. So it was set down in their minds that all their doings were sent by this recording prowler to the king. All the mysteries of the town were traced to his influence: A’s surprising fate, B’s disappearing, C’s mistress, all were traced to this “man about the streets.” But it was not true, says the contemporary, that if you tracked the inquisitor home you would find him revelling in luxury. On the contrary, his habits were simple and abstemious; at ten he went to bed, after a modest repast and a quiet game of cribbage with his maid. And when the poor, mysterious man came to die in the clean garret, whose sides were lined by an invisible guard who came to relieve him, there was no more need for that old coat which had seen so much service. How suddenly the angels change the fashion of our dress—and how much better they understand us than do our neighbours!

How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix. (Dramatic Romances and Lyrics, in Bells and Pomegranates, 1845.) There is no actual basis in history for the incidents of this poem, though there is no doubt that in the war in the Netherlands such an adventure was likely enough. Three men go off on horseback at their hardest, at moonset, from the city of Ghent, to save their town—through Boom, and Düffeld, Mecheln, Aerschot, Hasselt, Looz, Tongres, and Dalhem, to the ancient city of Aix. The hero of the work was the good horse Roland, who was voted the last measure of wine the city had left. Two of the horses dropped dead on the road, and the noble Roland, bearing “the whole weight of the news,” with blind, distended eyes and nostrils, fell just as he reached the market-place of Aix, resting his head between the knees of his master.

Humility. (Asolando, 1889.) A flower-laden girl drops a careless bud without troubling to pick it up. She has “enough for home.” “So give your lover,” says the poet, “heaps of love,” he thinking himself happy in picking up a stray bud, “and not the worst,” which she has gladdened him by letting fall.

“I am a Painter who cannot Paint.” (Pippa Passes.) Lutwyche’s speech begins with these words.

“I go to prove my Soul.” (Paracelsus.) The words of the hero of the poem when he starts on his career.

Ibn-Ezra == the historical person who forms the subject of the poem Rabbi Ben Ezra (q.v.)

Imperante Augusto Natus Est. (Asolando, 1889.) In the reign of Augustus Octavianus Cæsar, second emperor of Rome, two Romans are entering the public bath together, and while the bath is being heated they converse in the vestibule about the great services which Octavianus has rendered to the city and the empire, and one of them refers to the panegyric on the Emperor read out in public on the previous day by Lucius Varius Rufus. He had praised the Emperor as a god, and the speaker goes on to say how he once met Octavianus as he was going about the city disguised as a beggar. At the end of the poem is the story told by Suidas, the author of a Greek lexicon, who lived before the twelfth century, and who was probably a Christian, as his work deals with Scriptural as well as pagan subjects. This myth narrates the visit of Augustus Cæsar to the oracle at Delphos. “When Augustus had sacrificed,” said Suidas, “he demanded of the Pythia who should succeed him, and the oracle replied:—

Nicephorus relates that when Augustus returned to Rome after receiving this reply, he erected an altar in the Capitol with the inscription “Ara Primogeniti Dei.” On this spot now stands the Church of S. Maria in Aracœli, a very ancient building, mentioned in the ninth century as S. Maria de Capitolio. The present altar also incloses an ancient altar bearing the inscription Ara Primogeniti Dei, which is said to have been the one erected here by Augustus. According to the legend of the twelfth century, this was the spot where the Sibyl of Tibur appeared to the Emperor, whom the Senate proposed to elevate to the rank of a god, and revealed to him a vision of the Virgin and her Son. This was the origin of the name “Church of the Altar of Heaven.” It is historical that Augustus used to go about Rome disguised as a beggar. Jeremy Taylor’s account of events in the Roman world, as recorded in his Life of Christ, sec. iv., will serve as a good introduction to the historical matters referred to in the poem:—“For when all the world did expect that in Judæa should be born their prince, and that the incredulous world had in their observation slipped by their true prince, because He came not in pompous and secular illustrations; upon that very stock Vespasian (Sueton. In Vitâ Vesp. 4; Vide etiam Cic., De Divin.) was nursed up in hope of the Roman empire, and that hope made him great in designs; and they being prosperous, made his fortunes correspond to his hopes, and he was endeared and engaged upon that future by the prophecy which was never intended him by the prophet. But the future of the Roman monarchy was not great enough for this prince designed by the old prophets. And therefore it was not without the influence of a Divinity that his predecessor Augustus, about the time of Christ’s nativity, refused to be called “lord” (Oros. vi. 22). Possibly it was to entertain the people with some hopes of restitution of their liberties, till he had griped the monarchy with a stricter and faster hold; but the Christians were apt to believe that it was upon the prophecy of a sibyl foretelling the birth of a greater prince, to whom all the world should pay adoration; and that prince was about that time born in Judæa. (Suidas In histor. verb. “Augustus.”) The oracle, which was dumb to Augustus’ question, told him unasked, the devil having no tongue permitted him but one to proclaim that ‘an Hebrew child was his lord and enemy.’” Octavianus chose the title of Augustus on religious grounds, having assumed the exalted position of Chief Pontiff. The epithet Augustus was one which no man had borne before—a name only applied to sacred things. The rites of the gods were termed august, their temples were august, and the word itself was derived from the auguries. The cult of the Cæsar began to assume a ritual and a priesthood at the very time when the approaching birth of Christ was to destroy the empire and its religious belief. Mrs. Jameson, in her Legends of the Madonna, p. 197, says: “According to an ancient legend, the Emperor Augustus Cæsar repaired to the sibyl Tiburtina, to inquire whether he should consent to allow himself to be worshipped with divine honours, which the Senate had decreed to him. The Sibyl, after some days of meditation, took the Emperor apart and showed him an altar; and above the altar, in the opening heavens, and in a glory of light, he beheld a beautiful Virgin holding an infant in her arms, and at the same time a voice was heard saying, ‘This is the altar of the Son of the living God!’ whereupon Augustus caused an altar to be erected on the Capitoline Hill with this inscription, Ara Primogeniti Dei; and on the same spot, in later times, was built the church called the Ara Cœli—well known, with its flight of one hundred and twenty-four marble steps, to all who have visited Rome. This particular prophecy of the Tiburtine sybil to Augustus rests on some very antique traditions, pagan as well as Christian. It is supposed to have suggested the ‘Pollio’ of Virgil, which suggested the ‘Messiah’ of Pope. It is mentioned by writers of the third and fourth centuries. A very rude but curious bas-relief, preserved in the Church of the Ara Cœli, is perhaps the oldest representation extant. The Church legend assigns to it a fabulous antiquity; and it must be older than the twelfth century, as it is alluded to by writers of that period. Here the Emperor Augustus kneels before the Madonna and Child, and at his side is the sibyl Tiburtina pointing upwards.” Of course, such a subject became a favourite one with artists. There is a famous fresco on the subject by Baldassare Peruzzi at Siena, Fonte Giusta. There is also a picture dealing with it at Hampton Court, by Pietro da Cortona. St. Augustine (De Civitate Dei, lib. xviii., cap. 23) describes the prophecy of Sibylla Erythrea concerning Christ:—“Flaccianus, a learned and eloquent man (one that had been Consul’s deputy), being in a conference with us concerning Christ, showed us a Greek book, saying they were this sibyl’s verses; wherein, in one place, he showed us a sort of verses so composed that, the first letter of every verse being taken, they all made these words: ᾽Ιησους Χριστος, Θεου υιος σωτὴρ (Jesus Christ, Son of God, the Saviour).” Some think this was the Cumean Sibyl. Lactantius also has prophecies of Christ out of some sybilline books, but he does not give the reference. The Latin hymn sung in the Masses for the Dead, and well known as the Dies Iræ, has this verse:

Notes.—Publius: not historical. Lucius Varius Rufus was a tragic poet, the friend of Virgil and Horace. He wrote a panegyric on the Emperor Augustus, to which Mr. Browning refers in the opening lines of the poem. Little Flaccus was Horace, who declared that Varius was the only poet capable of singing the praises of M. Agrippa. His tragedy Thyestes is warmly praised by Quintillian. Epos: heroic poem. Etruscan kings. The Rasena or Etrusci inhabited Etruria, in that part of Italy north of Rome. The kings were elected for life. Roman families were proud to trace back their ancestry to the Etruscan kings. Mæcenas: patron of letters and learned men, the adviser of Augustus. He was descended from the ancient kings of Etruria. Quadrans: a Roman coin, worth about half a farthing of our money. The price of a bath, paid to the keeper of the public bagnio. Thermæ, the baths. Suburra: a street in Rome, where the dissolute Romans resorted. Quæstor, the office of Quæstor, under the empire, was the first step to higher positions. Ædiles, magistrates. The baths were under their superintendence. Censores, officials whose duty it was to take the place of the consuls in superintending the five-yearly census. Pol! an oath. By Pollux! Quarter-as: in Cicero’s time, the as was equal to rather less than a halfpenny. Strigil, a flesh brush. Oil-drippers, used after bathing.

In a Balcony. (Published in Men and Women: 1855.) A drama which is incomplete. Concentrated into an hour, we have the crises of three lives, which, passing through the fire, reveal a tragedy which has for its scene the balcony of a palace. A Queen has arrived at the age of fifty with her strong craving for love still unsatisfied. Constance, a cousin of the Queen and a lady of her court, is loved by Norbert, who is in the Queen’s service. He has served the State well and successfully, and the Queen has set her heart upon him. Norbert is advised by Constance to act diplomatically, and pretend that he has served the Queen only for her sake. He must not permit her to see the love which he has for the woman to whom he has pledged himself. The Queen, who is already married in form, though not in heart, offers to dissolve the union, in an interview which she has with Constance, and shows how eagerly she grasps at the prospect of a new life which opens up before her. Constance is prepared to sacrifice herself for Norbert and the Queen. She seeks Norbert, and reveals to him the real state of affairs. The Queen discovers the lovers, and hears Norbert declare his love for Constance, which she tries to divert to the Queen. At once the Queen sees all her hopes dashed to the ground. She says nothing; but having left the balcony, the music of the ball, which is proceeding within, suddenly ceases, the footsteps of the guard approach, the lovers feel their impending doom; but one passionate moment unites them in heart for ever, and they are led away to death.

In a Gondola. (Dramatic Lyrics, in Bells and Pomegranates, No. III.: 1842.) In the fourth book of Forster’s Life of Dickens is a letter which Dickens wrote to Maclise, from which we learn that Browning wrote the first verse of this poem, beginning, “I send my heart up to thee,” to express Maclise’s subject in the Academy catalogue. Dickens says, in a letter to the artist: “In a certain picture called the ‘Serenade,’ for which Browning wrote that verse in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, you, O Mac, painted a sky. If you ever have occasion to paint the Mediterranean, let it be exactly of that colour.” In the poem a lover and his mistress are singing in a gondola—conscious of their danger, for the interview is a stolen one, and the three who are referred to are perhaps husband, father, and brother, or assassins hired by one of them. The chills of approaching death avail not to cool the ardour of their passion in this precious hour in the gondola. They feel they have lived, let death come when it will; and as they glide past church and palace, reality is concentrated in their boat, the shams and illusions of life are on the banks. The lover is stabbed as he hands the lady ashore. He craves one more kiss, and dies. He scorns not his murderers, for they have never lived:

Notes.—Castelfranco (born 1478) is Giorgione, one of the greatest Italian painters. His father belonged to the family of the Barbarella, of Castelfranco in the Trevisan. For his Life see Vasari. Schidone was an Italian painter of the sixteenth century. Haste-thee-Luke is the English of Luca-fà-presto (“Luke work-fast”), nickname of Luca Giordano (1632—1705), a Neapolitan painter. His nickname was given to him, not on account of his rapid method of working, but in consequence of his poor and greedy father urging him to increased exertions by constantly exclaiming “Luca, fà presto.” The youth obeyed his father, and would actually not leave off work for his meals, but was fed by his father’s hand while he laboured on with the brush. Giudecca: a great canal of Venice. “Lido’s wet, accursed graves.” Byron desired to be buried at Lido. Ancient Jewish tombs are there, moss-grown and half covered with sand. The place is desolate and very gloomy. Lory: a species of parrot.

Inapprehensiveness. (Asolando.) The ruin referred to in the fourth line is that of the old palace of Queen Cornaro, who, having been driven out of her kingdom of Cyprus, kept up a shadow of royalty here, with Cardinal Bembo as her secretary. It was he who told the story, in his Asolani. Mr. Browning thought that there was no view in all Italy to compare with that from the tower of the old palace. Two friends stand side by side contemplating the scene. The lady’s attention is attracted to a chance-rooted wind-sown tree on a turret, and to certain weed-growths on a wall. She is inapprehensive that by her side stands an incarnation of dormant passion, needing nothing but a look from her to burst into immense life. So little does one soul know of another. The Vernon Lee in the last line is a well-known authoress, Violet Paget, best known perhaps by her work entitled Euphorion.

In a Year. (Men and Women, 1855; Dramatic Lyrics, 1868.) Finely contrasts the constancy of a woman’s love with the inconstancy of man’s. Love is not love unless it be “an ever fixed mark.” In exchange for the man’s love, the woman gave health, ease, beauty, and youth, and was content to give “more life and more” till all were gone, and think the sacrifice too little. That was the woman’s “ever fixed mark.” The man asks calmly: “Can’t we touch these bubbles, then, but they break?”

Incident of the French Camp. (Dramatic Lyrics, in Bells and Pomegranates, III.: 1842.) Ratisbon (German Regensburg) is an ancient and famous city of Bavaria, on the right bank of the Danube. It has endured no less than seventeen sieges since the tenth century, accompanied by bombardments, the last of which took place in 1809, when Napoleon stormed the town, which was obstinately defended by the Austrians. Some two hundred houses and much of the suburbs were destroyed. As the Emperor was watching the storming, a rider flew from the city full gallop, saluting the Emperor. He told him they had taken the city. The chief’s eye flashed, but presently saddened as he looked on the brave youth who had brought the news. “You are wounded!” “Nay, I’m killed, sire!” and the lad fell dead.

Inn Album, The. (1875.) The chief features of this tragedy, “where every character is either mean, or weak, or vile,” are taken from real life. It is “the story of the wrecked life of a girl who loved her base seducer as a god.” This curious study in mental pathology opens with a description of the visitors’ book of a country inn, filled with the usual idiotic entries which are found in such books. The shabby-genteel parlour of the inn is occupied by two men playing at cards—a young and a middle-aged man. The elder, a cultivated and accomplished roué, has just lost to the younger man ten thousand pounds at play. The loser has hitherto been pretty uniformly the winner; but his companion, who has succeeded in plucking the pigeon, has not deceived him. He has seen through his pretences, and is fully aware that he is accompanied on this trip to the village where the inn in which they are staying is situated, purely for the chance it offered of winning money from him for the last time before his approaching marriage. The polished snob who has won is inclined to be satirical at his companion’s expense, and loftily desires him to consider the debt as cancelled: he is a millionaire, and can afford to do without it. This the elder man, with perfect politeness, declines, and assures him that it shall be paid. They leave the inn. The young man is to visit his intended bride; but he dare not introduce his companion, as his reputation has made it impossible to do so. As they walk towards the station the young man inquires how it is that his friend, with all his advantages in life, is in every way a failure. He then learns that his chances were missed four years ago, when he should have married a woman with whom he had certain relations, and who could have saved him from his aimless and wayward life. He had won the heart of a lofty-minded girl, had seduced her, and, though he had not intended marriage at first, had offered it. When she discovered that he had betrayed her without thinking of marrying her, she rejected his proposal, which had come too late to appease her wounded pride, and had settled down as the wife of an obscure country parson, old and poor. Weakly, she had neglected to secure her safety by telling her husband the story of her past, and in consequence was liable at any moment to be the victim of her seducer for the second time. The scoundrel had led the life of a woman-wrecker, and his love for his victim had turned to hate, as he told his companion, because she had disdained to save him from himself. When the elder man has unburdened himself, then the younger tells his story too. He has loved a peerless woman, who refused him, as she was vowed to another. There are points in his story which suggest to him that they have both loved the same woman, though he says that could not be, as he has heard that she married the man of whom she spoke. The young man now parts from his companion, and bids him return to the inn, there to await him for an hour, while he tries to induce his aunt to receive him as her guest. In the third part of the poem we are introduced to two women—an elder and a younger—who are talking in the parlour of the inn, just left vacant by the departure of the two card-players. The younger is the girl whom the young man of the story is to marry; and she has begged her old friend, the elder woman, to meet her, that she may see the man whom she is to marry. She has come by the train, has been met at the station by her young friend, and they adjourn to the little inn to talk matters over quietly. While the younger woman is absent from the parlour, and the elder is engaged in turning over the leaves of the visitors’ book, she is terror-stricken at seeing her old lover enter the room. The lady is the clergyman’s wife, and the man is the old roué who is waiting for his friend who has won his ten thousand pounds. She believes the whole affair is a scheme to entrap her, and bitterly reproaches the man who has ruined her life, and even now must drag her from her retirement for further persecution. He indulges in recriminations, pretending that it is his life which she has wrecked, and that she is inspired with hatred for him though he has not ceased to love her. She thanks God that she had grace to hurl contempt at the contemptible:

Revealing to him the bitterness of her position, hanging, as it were, over the brink of a yawning precipice, his old love for her is reawakened, and he kneels to the injured woman. He entreats her to fly with him to

But the woman sees through him, and says:

And while he is kneeling there, in bursts the young man, who has returned to say that his aunt declines to meet him. He is startled to see the lady to whom he had vainly offered his heart four years ago, and rushes to the conclusion that he too has been entrapped for some purpose. The fifth section of the poem opens with a scornful denunciation of the trick which he considers stands confessed in the scene which he beholds. “O you two base ones, male and female! Sir!” he exclaims; “half an hour ago I held your master for my best of friends, and four years since you seemed my heart’s one love!” The woman explains to him that she has been sent for simply to counsel his cousin on the question of her proposed marriage. She finds him innocent save in folly, and will so report. The elder man she bids to leave the youth, and leave unsullied the heart she rescues and would lay beside another’s. While she speaks the devil is tempting him to one more crime. He will turn affairs to his own advantage. He writes some lines in the album before him, closes the book, hands it to the indignant woman, and begs her to leave him alone with his friend while he discusses the situation. In the book which she receives he has written a note to her telling her that her young lover is still faithful to her, and threatening her that if she does not receive him on familiar terms the story of her past shame shall be exposed to her husband. Left alone with the young man, he opens out a scheme of infernal ingenuity, whereby at once he will pay his gambling debt and avenge himself for the contempt and scorn with which his unhappy victim has once more received the offer of his affection. He proposes to barter the woman who has unwittingly put herself into his power—to compel her to yield herself up to the man in exchange for the ten thousand pounds he cannot otherwise pay. He explains to him that she has deluded her parson husband—would have yielded to himself had he not determined to substitute his friend. “Make love to her; pick no phrase; prevent all misconception: there’s the fruit to pluck or let alone at pleasure!” He leaves the room, and in superb composure the intended victim enters. Captive of wickedness, she warns him: “Back, in God’s name!” “Sin no more!” she cries: “I am past sin now.” She implores him to break the fetters which have bound him to the evil influence which has destroyed her life. Her noble bearing under the terrible circumstances assures him of her innocence of any complicity in a trick. He tells her the man has told heaps of lies about her, which he had not believed. Blushing and stumbling in his speech, he contrives to let her know the use that was to be made of her. Not knowing if there were truth in what was told him of her marriage, he offers her his hand if she is free to accept it,—any way, to take him as her friend. She gives him her hand. At that moment the adversary returns. “You accept him?” he asks. “Till death us do part!” she answers. “But before death parts, read here the marriage licence which makes us one.” He then displays the awful words addressed to her in the fatal page she holds in her hand. She reads, and when she comes to the last line—

turning to the young man, she pitifully asks, “How could mortal ‘stop it’?” “So!” he cries. “A tiger-flash, and death’s out and on him!” In the closing scene the wretched, hunted woman dies. She has secured her vindicator’s acquittal on the charge of murder by writing in the album that he has saved her from the villain, righteously slain, who would have outraged her. As she dies the young girl who was to have married the defender of the dead woman appears on the scene, and the tragedy closes. In Notes and Queries for March 25th, 1876, Dr. F. J. Furnivall thus mentions the incidents on which the poem is based: “The story told by Mr. Browning in this poem is, in its main outlines, a real one—that of Lord De Ros, once a friend of the great Duke of Wellington, and about whom there is much in the Greville Memoirs. The original story was, of course, too repulsive to be adhered to in all its details—of, first, the gambling lord producing the portrait of the lady he had seduced and abandoned, and offering his expected dupe, but real beater, an introduction to the lady as a bribe to induce him to wait for payment of the money he had won; secondly, the eager acceptance of the bribe by the younger gambler, and the suicide of the lady from horror at the base proposal of her old seducer. The story made a great sensation in London over thirty years ago. Readers of The Inn Album know how grandly Mr. Browning has lifted the base young gambler, through the renewal of that old love, which the poet has invented, into one of the most pathetic creations of modern time, and has spared the base old roué the degradation of the attempt to sell the love which was once his delight, and which, in the poem, he seeks to regain, with feelings one must hope are real, as the most prized possession of his life. As to the lady, the poet has covered her with no false glory or claim on our sympathy. From the first she was a law unto herself; she gratified her own impulses, and she reaped the fruit of this. Her seducer has made his confession of his punishment, and has attributed, instead of misery, comfort and ease to her. She has to tell him, and the young man who has given her his whole heart, that the supposed comfort and ease have been to her simply hell; and tell, too, why she cannot accept the true love that, under other conditions, would have been her way back to heaven and life. What, then, can be her end? No higher power has she ever sought. Self-contained, she has sinned and suffered. She can do no more. By her own hand she ends her life; and the curtain falls on the most profoundly touching and most powerful poem of modern times.” The young girl of the poem is the invention of the poet; the other characters took part in the actual tragedy. In his Memoirs, first series, Greville mentions Lord De Ros from time to time, and they travelled together in Italy. Under date of “Newmarket, March 29th, 1839,” Greville makes the following entry in the first volume of the second series of his Memoirs, concerning the death of his friend: “Poor De Ros expired last night soon after twelve, after a confinement of two or three months from the time he returned to England. His end was enviably tranquil, and he bore his protracted sufferings with astonishing fortitude and composure. Nothing ruffled his temper or disturbed his serenity. His faculties were unclouded, his memory retentive, his perceptions clear to the last; no murmur of impatience ever escaped him, no querulous word, no ebullition of anger or peevishness; he was uniformly patient, mild, indulgent, deeply sensible of kindness and attention, exacting nothing, considerate of others and apparently regardless of self, overflowing with affection and kindness of manner and language to all around him, and exerting all his moral and intellectual energies with a spirit and resolution that never flagged till within a few hours of his dissolution, when nature gave way, and he sank into a tranquil unconsciousness, in which life gently ebbed away. Whatever may have been the error of his life, he closed the scene with a philosophical dignity not unworthy of a sage, and with a serenity and sweetness of disposition of which Christianity itself could afford no more shining or delightful example. In him I have lost, ‘half lost before,’ the last and greatest of the friends of my youth; and I am left a more solitary and a sadder man.”

Instans Tyrannus == The Threatening Tyrant. (Men and Women, 1855; Dramatic Romances, 1868.) The title of this poem was suggested by Horace’s Ode on the Just Man (Od. iii. 3. 1):—

(‘The just man, firm to his purpose, is not to be shaken from his fixed resolve by the fury of a mob laying upon him their impious behests, nor by the frown of a threatening tyrant, etc.’) These lines are said to have been repeated by the celebrated De Witte while he was subject to torture. When men or causes are suppressed by tyranny, the tyrant knows well in his heart that force alone, and not justice, enables him to crush opposition to his will; and he is the first to see, even if he do not acknowledge, the Divine Arm thrust forth from the heavens to protect his victims and avenge their wrongs. From some undefined cause a poor, contemptible man was the object of a tyrant’s hate: he struck him, tried to bribe him, tempted his blood and his flesh. Having tried every way to extinguish the man, he contrived thunder above and mine below him to destroy, as a rat in a hole, this friendless wretch, when suddenly the man saw God’s arm across the sky. The man

[Archdeacon Farrar refers the incidents of this poem to the persecution of the early Christians.—Browning Society Papers, Pt VII., p. 22*.]

In Three Days. (Men and Women, 1855; Dramatic Lyrics, 1868.) A lover anticipates that in three days he shall see his lady. He is aware that three days may change his future, as has often been changed the history of the world in the time. He knows, too, that though three days may cast no shadow in his way, still the years to follow may bring changes and chances of unimagined end. He reiterates that in three days he shall see her, and fear of all that the future may have in store is absorbed in the blissful anticipation.

Italian in England, The. (Dramatic Romances and Lyrics, in Bells and Pomegranates, No. VII., 1845.) The incident is not historical, though something of the kind might well have happened to any of the Italian patriots in their revolt against the Austrian domination. A prominent Italian patriot is hiding from the Austrian oppressors of his country after an unsuccessful rising. He has taken refuge in England, and the poem tells how the Austrians pursued him everywhere, and how he would have been taken if a peasant girl, to whom he confessed his identity, had not preferred humanity and the love of her country to the gold she might have earned by delivering him to his pursuers. [Mazzini must have gone through many such experiences, and the poem was one which he very highly appreciated.] Hunted by the Austrian bloodhounds, hiding in an old aqueduct, up to the neck in ferns for three days, the pangs of hunger induced him to attract the attention of a peasant girl going to her work with her companions: he threw his glove, to strike her as she passed. Without giving any sign that could acquaint her friends with her object, she glanced round and saw him beckon; breaking a branch from a tree, so as to recognise the spot, she picked up the glove and rejoined her party. In an hour she returned alone. He had not intended to confide in the woman, but her noble face led him to confess he was the man on whose head a great price was set. He felt sure he would not be betrayed. He bade her bring paper, pen and ink, and carry his letter to Padua, to the cathedral; then proceed to a certain confessional which he mentions, and whisper his password. If it was answered in the terms he named, then she was to give the letter to the priest. She promised to do as he desired. In three days more she appeared again at his hiding-place. She told him she had a lover who could do much to aid him. She brought him drink and food. In four days the scouts gave up the search, and went in another direction. At last help arrived from his friends at Padua. He kissed the maiden’s hand, and laid his own in blessing on her head. When he took the boat from the seashore, on the night of his escape, she followed him to the vessel. He left, and never saw her more. And now that he is safe in England, he reflects that it is long since he had a thought for aught but Italy. Those whom he had trusted, those to whom he had looked for help, had made terms with the oppressors of his country; his presence in his own land would be awkward for his brethren. But there is one “in that dear, lost land” whose calm smile he would like to see; he would like to know of her future, her children’s ages and their names, to kiss once more the hand that saved him, and once again to lay his own in blessing on her head, and go his way. “But to business!”