this nature, the sad and striking story of Carmagnola; a Piedmontese who fought for Venice, and was put to death in 1432, though apparently quite innocent, in a manner as dark and treacherous as it was ungrateful. We remember on the first occasion of our reading the account of Carmagnola, even in Sismondi's English abridgment of his great work, being struck with its poetic character, and wondering whether it had ever been made a theme of song. And it was with gratification that we discovered that a religious and patriotic writer, now famous throughout Europe, Alessandro Manzoni, had won his first spurs in the arena of literature by his tragedy of 'Il Conte di Carmagnola.' Goethe, who, with all his grievous faults, was ever generous to rising merit, helped largely to spread the reputation of the then new candidate for fame.

Here then is an opportunity of comparing Mr. Browning with a great foreign poet of our day. For save that Luria' is not actually historical in its dramatis persona, the basis of the plot is very similar to that of Manzoni's 'Carmagnola,' though the treatment shows that there has not been the slightest imitation. The Italian has perhaps in one or two points the advantage. As a lyrist, Manzoni is hardly surpassed by any living bard, and his laments over these old dissensions of his countrymen, which have borne such bitter fruit in their present subjection, have a marvellous pathos and dignity. Nothing in its way can be finer than the song of the Chorus, which he has adopted from the Greek stage, where it dwells on the common language and lineage and motherhood of the combatants, all children of the land so divided from the rest, so encircled with the Alps and sea :—

'D'una terra son tutti: un linguaggio
Parlan tutti: fratelli li dice

Lo straniero: il comune lignaggio
A ognun d'essi dal volto traspar.
Questa terra fu a tutti nudrice,
Questa terra di sangue ora intrisa,
Che natura dall' altre ha divisa,
E recinta coll' Alpe e col mar.'

Or where it depicts the ladies at brilliant soirées making a display of the necklaces and zones which a husband or a lover has snatched from the deserted wives and sisters of the conquered :

'Qui le donne alle veglie lucenti
Dei monili far pompa e dei cinti
Che alle donne deserte dei vinti
Il marito o l'amante rapi.'

But in all that concerns the development of individual cha

racter, and forcible representation of the essence of what is commonly known as Macchiavellian policy, we venture to think our own poet far superior. Luria himself is a magnificent conception; and though we always, for our own part, regret a dénouement which involves suicide, it must be remembered that Luria, like Othello, is not a Christian, but a Moor.

We have thus far only dwelt in detail upon the poems contained in the two volumes of the edition of 1849. A few words must now be devoted to the much smaller publication of 1850, entitled 'Christmas Eve and Easter Day.' For this remarkable work brings our author before us as a religious poet. One of the first queries on this head that will probably occur to our readers is, whether Mr. Browning is reverent. Now the answer to this question is less obvious than might be imagined. A real distinction must be drawn, if possible, between what appears to us to lack reverence, and what is intentionally so on the part of the writer. For example, it is common among continental religionists, of whatever creed, to use the words of Holy Scripture with far less reserve than is usual in Great Britain. This we believe to be a real misfortune, but it would be unjust to class it with intentional mockery. Another kind of apparent irreverence sometimes arises from the very reserve which renders a man unwilling to own to all that he feels, when, in the words of this very volume

'When the frothy fume and frequent sputter

Prove that the soul's depths boil in earnest.'

And there exists another modification of the same feeling, when the reserve takes the form of some ironical turn of expression. Instances of all three of these may be easily discovered in Mr. Browning's poetry. We should be sorry always to undertake their defence, and we fear that some, who would otherwise reap benefit from Christmas Eve,' may be repelled by parts, despite the apology, of which a distich has just been quoted. The author imagines himself on the eve of the great festival, -firstly, at a sermon in a little dissenting meeting-house, (by the bye, what Dissenters are there who keep Christmas Eve?) then at a service at S. Peter's, Rome, and thirdly, at a lecture at Göttingen. And the conclusion is, that he could understand Dissent, though repelled by its vulgarity; that he could understand Romanism, though repelled by its excess of ceremony; but that German Rationalism appeared to him alike inconceivable and inconsequential. The Hudibrastic rhyming, here and elsewhere adopted by Mr. Browning, may, we think, be likened to that strange prose style with which we are familiar in the works of a very different person-Mr. Carlyle. Both peculiarities are partly natural, partly strained beyond nature;

both remarkably felicitous at moments and in reference to certain themes; both at times repulsive and scarcely reverential in their application; both, though impressive in the hands of such masters, wearisome and almost intolerable in the hands of imitators. As, however, we only mentioned, without exhibiting, our poet's powers of humour and fine irony, we are glad to take the opportunity of quoting a specimen, where the lash is applied with as much fitness as skill. It relates to the lecture of the Göttingen professor :

'So he proposed inquiring first
Into the various sources whence
This myth of Christ is derivable;
Demanding from the evidence
(Since plainly no such life was liveable)
How these phenomena should class?
Whether 't were best opine Christ was,
Or never was at all-or whether
He was and was not, both together—
It matters little for the name
So the Idea be left the same:
Only, for practical purpose' sake,
'Twas obviously as well to take
The popular story,-understanding
How the inaptitude of the time,

And the penman's prejudice, expanding

Fact into fable fit for the clime,

Had, by slow and sure degrees, translated it

Into this Myth, this Individuum

Which, when reason had strained and abated it
Of foreign matter, gave, for residuum,

A man a right true man, however,

Whose work was worthy a man's endeavour!

Work, that gave warrant almost sufficient

To his disciples, for rather believing

He was just omnipotent and omniscient,

As it gives to us, for as frankly receiving

His word, their tradition,-which, though it meant
Something entirely different

From all that those who only heard it

In their simplicity thought and averred it,
Had yet a meaning quite as respectable :
For, among other doctrines delectable,
Was he not surely the first to insist on
The natural sovereignty of our race?'

Of the remaining poem, 'Easter Day,' we must speak in terms of the highest admiration. It is, in truth, though couched in most poetic form, a very solemn sermon; unattractive, therefore, of course, to those who dislike sermons in every shape, but full of most pregnant and suggestive matter for those who look closely enough into their own hearts to feel the difficulties attendant upon faith and obedience, and, at the same time, really recognise the insufficiency of earthly pursuits, and even earthly

affections, to fill the heart which was created for higher things than these. This poem might not inaptly bear as a motto those golden words in the first chapter of the Confessions of S. Austin:- Fecisti nos ad Te, et inquietum est cor nostrum donec requiescat in Te.'

Mr. Browning's latest volumes, Men and Women,' which we have here made the excuse for a general estimate of his writings, should not, perhaps, be attempted until the reader has in some degree attuned himself by the study of the earlier works to our poet's peculiar cast of thought. We do not mean that they will not prove very valuable, and very enjoyable, without such a process, but they will certainly gain very much by it. Wordsworth's dictum

'And you must love him, ere to you

He will seem worthy of your love,'

is true in respect of a very valuable if not a large class of authors; and the fifty poems comprised in these latest volumes seem to need that clue which fondness for our poet's earlier works will go far to supply. They are sketches of very varied phases of life, drawn alike from history and experience-the experience of a deep and earnest thinker. Some of our contemporaries of the daily and weekly press appear inclined to charge all the obscurity upon the indolence and hurry of the writer. With unfeigned respect for their abilities, we would ask, whether it is not possible that they themselves may have been compelled to read and criticise in a hurry. Ecce signum. A newspaper, justly distinguished for the excellence of its criticisms, selected the following lines as remarkable for their obscurity, and left the reader to discover the sense. They are taken from a singularly original and delicate One Word More,' wherein the poet commends his productions to his poetess-wife :

'There they are, my fifty men and women,
Naming me the fifty poems finished!
Take them, Love, the book and me together;
Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.'

We trust that our readers will agree with us that a moment's thought will render the signification of these verses patent enough. Mr. Browning has won the hand of a lady who can not only love him, but can appreciate his powers. Take, 'then,' he says to that great poetess, my fifty men and women, -that is to say, the poems of these now completed volumes: accept them as you have already accepted their author, and let me give to you the productions of my head, as I have already given the affections of my heart.' If the expression, 'naming me,' be objected to, we can only say that it is tolerated in plain prose.

Thus, in the very first chapter of a popular novel, Mr. Reade's 'Never Too Late to Mend,' we find,' What did me, the Honourable Frank Winchester?' We do not cite Mr. Reade's authority as final, but it is certainly hard to deny to poets a licence which is not condemned in prose writers.

We ought to apologise for wasting time in the explanation of what is so obvious. But an example was needed to show that the accusation of obscurity may be made very recklessly, even in quarters where we might least expect it. Of the causes of

Mr. Browning's obscurity, where he really is obscure, we have already spoken, and would only now repeat, that without denying the justice of the charge, in toto, it is only fair to admit, in his case, palliations which are freely accepted for poets of past time. If Mr. Nelson Coleridge might justly defend Pindar from the charge of being a rambling rhapsodist, on the ground that his links of connexion are too fine for the perception of the careless reader; if a recent editor of Eschylus, Mr. Paley, may truly assert of his author, that he is difficult because he is profound, 'or in other words, because he treats of matters beyond the reach of man's ordinary knowledge and perceptions; if Dante and others may be not only excused, but even admired, because they are figurative and symbolic,—we claim a like privilege for the poems now under consideration. Obscurity which is meaningless is indefensible; obscurity which, by a little thought and attention, will reveal the form behind the veil, is often attractive from its very vagueness: it leaves us something to fill up, it suggests the illimitable and infinite. Is it always most pleasant to see the outline of scenery cut clearly and distinctly against the sky? Have we never heard of men who, amidst the unbroken azure that met their gaze in the Mediterranean, have sighed for a passing glimpse of the mists that robe the Highland mountains?

We shall only suggest the key to a few of the poems contained in Men and Women,' lest we should endanger a diminution of the profit and pleasure which the reader may experience in opening the words for himself. Several, indeed, are self-explanatory. The touching sketch headed 'Protus;' the playful satire on Up at a Villa;' the picture of Cleon,' a gentlemanly poetising Greek of the apostolic age, too nonchalant to inquire into the claims of Christianity-are among the most obvious of these poems. In some cases, where the story is equally clear, the issue is, indeed, left uncertain; but this very uncertainty, probably, adds to the interest. We may settle for ourselves, according to our temperament, or according to the feeling of the hour, sanguine or despondent, whether, at the close of the scenes 'In a Balcony,' the queen long