98

THE RING AND THE BOOK.

HE book referred to is composed, as Browning

ΤΗ

says, of printed briefs and manuscript letters, to which he applied a process like that of the Roman jewellers, who make an unusually delicate ring by alloying the thread of gold until it will bear file and hammer, and, after these tools have done their work, cleanse away the dross with acids, so as to leave the shape perfect. Thus was created the poem which is dedicated thus:

:

'O lyric Love, half angel and half bird, And all a wonder and a wild desire,

Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun,

Took sanctuary within the holier blue,
And sang a kindred soul out to his face,-

Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart

When the first summons from the darkling earth Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue, And bared them of the glory-to drop down

To toil for man, to suffer or to die,—

This is the same voice: can thy soul know change?
Hail, then, and hearken from the realms of help!
Never may
I commence my song, my due
To God, who best taught song by gift of thee,
Except with bent head and beseeching hand-

That still, despite the distance and the dark,
What was, again may be ; some interchange
Of grace, some splendour once thy very thought,
Some benediction anciently thy smile :

-Never conclude, but raising hand and head
Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn
For all hope, all sustainment, all reward,
Their utmost up and on,- so blessing back

In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home, Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud, Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall!' *

The story opens about two hundred years ago in Rome, and among the actors are two married people, named Pietro and Violante Comparini. Their rank was humble, their reputation good, and their residence situated near the Pincian Hill, in the Via Villoria, which runs out of the Corso. They also owned a lonely little suburban villa, situated in the Pauline district, and meant for jaunts and jollity; and Pietro had, during his life, the interest from a sum of money, by which his children would be benefited in the same way; though, if he should die childless, this income would pass out of the family to other heirs. His contented and easy disposition joined with Violante's stirring and striving one, made such a union as ensures health of body and peace of mind. They lived a gay and careless life, Pietro's soul satisfied when his cronies told him there was no wine so good

* Book I. ll. 1391, &c.

as that which he drank every day, and his wife's heart swelling her bodice with joy as she saw her neighbours turn their heads wistfully, and sigh after the load of lace which she carried into church. Indeed, they indulged themselves so freely that, by the time they reached fifty, they were obliged to ask for a share of the monthly dole given out in secret by the Pope to the shamefaced poor. Meantime, debts increased and creditors grew importunate, knowing how little money the fat, rosy, easy man would leave behind him. Pietro and Violante now felt more deeply than ever what had previously been their only trouble, namely, their lack of children. But at last, in 1680 or '81, she told him, with a smile, and a blush, that her prayers had been heard, and in due time he might expect an heir. She did not tell him of the shamefnl bargain she had just made with a washerwoman, who was soon to be the mother of a base-born babe.

This child was tenderly brought up, as their daughter Pompilia, by these two ignoble people, who did their best-partly in God's way and partly in another way than His--to scramble somehow through the world's mud, careless how much they were splashed themselves, provided that they could hold their child high above the mire, and keep her soul white enough for all the three. Pietro and Violante learned to save money, and their creditors left them in peace, thinking that the income from the trust-fund

Both

would not be forfeited by his dying childless. were wrapped up in their love of the strange, tall, pale, beautiful creature, who grew up before them, as does the lily in the legend, to bow its white, miraculous birth of buds before the Virgin. Pompilia herself said that, up to her marriage, her thirteen years were each day as happy as the day was long.

These thirteen years of Pompilia's childhood were scarcely ended when, one afternoon, as Pietro was taking his siesta and Pompilia embroidering in her own chamber, Violante received a visit from a priest, of smooth manners, soft speech, and sleek face, who introduced himself as the Abate Paolo, younger brother of Count Guido Franceschini, a nobleman of Tuscany, now for many years a resident at Rome. Paolo kept brushing his broad-brimmed hat and setting aright his silk stockings, but never loosed the hold of his sharp grey eyes upon Violante, as he told her of the high rank and ancient grandeur of their family, who were no longer rich, considering their station, but yet not so very poor. They still kept the old palace, now rather dilapidated, in Arezzo, and they had also their wild, breezy villa, on the hillside. at Vittiano. His brother was so fond of these that he insisted on giving up all his prospects in Rome, though he had a patron there who was Cardinal, and might yet do much for the family: Guido had lost his ambition, however, and began to pine for his old

home. And thither he wished to take a wife, who need not have great wealth or high rank—his own being sufficient-but must be tender, faithful, and young enough to take up willingly a new mode of life. Paolo had heard what a lily of a maiden Pompilia was, and he now asked for her formally as Count Guido's wife. This he said, kissed Violante's hand devoutly, rose to his full height, and went forth grandly, as if the Pope were coming next.

The woman rubbed her eyes awhile, and then ran to wake her husband and tell him how their child was to be a Countess. She was all the more joyful for a reason which she could not tell him. Her conscience had often troubled her for passing off Pompilia as her daughter, and here seemed a way thrown open by God Himself, to give her a place which should really be her own. As she told the girl afterwards, she fancied that the finger of God was pointing out the time when this slip of wild briar, which she had plucked to love and wear, should be planted in soil where it could live on its own roots, and get to be what it would be called. Pietro was rather sorry at the prospect of losing his daughter, but soon he recovered his cheerfulness, took his cane and periwig, and sallied forth pompously into the Piazza di Spagna, to receive congratulations from his friends who were lounging there at the fountain. Everybody laughed at him, and told him that Count Guido was fifty years