BOOKS.

MR. BROWNING'S DRAMATIC IDYLS.*

Tim is by far the best book which Mr. Browning has pub- lished for many years. Though not reaching the level of his Men and Women, or of the finest portions of The Bing and the Book, it has many passages full of his characteristic power, and except where a rough style gives dramatic force to the sketch, as in the picture of John Bunyan's penitents, Ned Bratt,s and his wife, nothing at all of the truculent ugliness, the ostentatious broken-windedness of his latest gasping style of English verse. Of course, his subjects are, as usual with Mr. Browning, startling subjects. He not only loves to flash his weird figures upon the imagination with all the suddenness and abruptness of a magic lanthorn, but to present you with a subject that takes your breath away as much by the singularity of its attitude as by the suddenness of its appearance. He rejects purposely the shading and the moral atmosphere which make the grim- mest subjects seem natural when they are given in connection with all the conditions of their history and origin, for his object is to make you see the wonder of the world, rather than its har- mony, or the context which, partly at least, explains it. But assuming, as the critic always must assume, the poet's special bent and genius, there is nothing specially harsh in this volume, and much that is really powerful, while the harshest pictures in it are lent a touch of grandeur by the purpose which penetrates the life portrayed.

We do not take great interest in the first or second of the Idyls. The picture of Martin Relph's remorse for his cowardice, or other motive only half-understood even by himself, in not having stayed the execution of an inno- cent woman by shouting out that he saw the messenger arriving with the reprieve, is somewhat too vague and un- finished to be interesting. The man hardly knows what his own guilt was, or whether he really was guilty of anything but mareadiness of nature ; nor is the cortfusion in his mind which has grown up since the fatal day as to what it is of which he accuses himself, painted with sufficient force to make the picture interesting from that point of view. For a very different reason we cannot admire Mr. Browning's " Pheidippides,"—the idyl whose subject is the great runner, who took to Sparta within two days the news of the Persian inva- sion, and came back only to announce the coldness and jealousy of the Spartans, and their willingness to leave Athens to her fate. The chief point of the legend is the story that Pheidippides came upon the god Pan,—the god of Arcadian and pastoral pleasures,

• Dramatic Idyls. By Robert Browning. London: Smith, Elder, end 00.

—in the course of his race, and received from the god a promise to assist Athens in the coming struggle, and a remonstrance with the Athenians for not having hitherto paid Pan due honours.. This is a raw sort of legend, which needs poetic manipulation and motive to give it anything like beauty or force. Mr. Browning- lends it none, but tells it in its bareness, without any effort to show what there was in the Arcadian goat-god,—the god who was supposed to inspire those sudden, wild passions of fear, called panic-fear, such as seized Persia at Marathon,—which would specially lead him to favour Athens, the most accomplished and least merely naturalistic of the States of Greece, or to fight in her ranks against the invading Persian. The theme might have been made poetical, but needs poetic motive to render it so. Mr. Browning has not attempted this, and the legend, in his versifi- cation of it, remains as wanting in artistic wholeness as it is in the gossipy story of Herodotus.

The first of these Idyls which strikes us as fully worthy of Mr. Browning is the fine story, reminding us of Emily Brontë and the figures in Wuthering Heights, of the father and son, Halbert and Hob,—two wild North-England savages who agreed to live and growl at each other, till at last the passion in them broke loose in the scene described in the following idyl ;—

"HALBERT AND HOB.

Here is a thing that happened. Like wild beasts whelped, for den, In a wild part of North England, there lived once two wild men Inhabiting one homestead, neither a hovel nor hut, Time out of mind their birthright : father and son, these—but-- Such a son, such a father ! Most wildness by degrees Softens away : yet, last of their line, the wildest and worst were- these.

Criminals, then ? Why, no : they did not murder and rob ; But, give them a word, they returned a blow—old Halbert as young Hob : Harsh and fierce of word, rough and savage of deed, Hated or feared the more—who knows ?—the genuine wild-beast breed.

Thus were they found by tbe few sparse folk of the country-side ; But how fared each with other ? E'en beasts conch, hide by hide,. In a growling, grudged agreement : so, father and son lay curled The closelier up in their den because the last of their kind in the_ world.

Still, beast irks beast on occasion. One Christmas night of snow, Came father and son to words—such words ! more cruel because. the blow To crown each word was wanting, while taunt matched gibe, and curse Competed with oath in wager, like pastime in hell,—nay, worse : For pastime turned to earnest, as up there sprang at last The son at the throat of the father, seized him and held him fast.

Out of this house you go !'—(there followed a hideous oath)— ' This oven where now we bake, too hot to hold as both ! If there's snow outside, there's coolness : out with you, bide a spelt In the drift and save the sexton the charge of a parish shell !'

Now, the old trunk was tough, was solid as stump of oak Untouched at the core by a thousand years : mach less had its seventy broke One whipcord nerve in the muscly mass from neck to shoulder- blade

Of the mountainous man, whereon his child's rash hand like a feather weighed.

Nevertheless at once did the mainin,oth shut his eyes, Drop chin to breast, drop hands to sides, stand stiffened—arms and thighs All of a piece—struck mute, much as a sentry stands, Patient to take the enemy's fire : his captain so commands.

Whereat the son's wrath flew to fury at such sheer scorn Of his puny strength by the giant eld thus acting the babe new-born : And Neither will this turn serve !' yelled he. Out with you!. Trundle, log ! If you cannot tramp and trudge like a man, try all-fours like a dog!'

Still the old man stood mute. So, logwise,—down to floor Pulled from his fireside place, dragged on from hearth to door,— Was he pushed, a very log, staircase along, until A certain turn in the steps was reached, a yard from the house-- door-sill.

Then the father opened his eyes—each spark of their rage extinct,— Temples, late black, dead-blanched,—right-hand with left-hand linked,—

He faced his son submissive ; when slow the accents came, They were strangely mild, though his son's rash hand on his neck lay all the same.

'Halbert on such a night of a Christmas long ago, For such a cause, with such a gesture, did I drag—so- My father down thus far ; but, softening here, I heard A voice in my heart, and stopped : you wait for an outer word.

For your own Bake, not mine, soften you too I Untrod Leave this last step we reach, nor brave the finger of God ! I dared not pass its lifting : I did well. I nor blame Nor praise you. I stopped here : Halbert, do you the same

Straightway the eon relaxed his hold of the father's throat. They mounted, side by side, to the room again : no note Took either of each, no sign made each to either : last As first, in absolute silence, their Christmas-night they passed.

At dawn, the father sate on, dead, in the self-same place With an outburst blackening still the old bad fighting-face : But the son crouched all a-tremble like any lamb new-yeaned.

When he went to the burial, someone's staff he borrowed,—tottered and leaned.

But his lips were loose, not locked,—kept muttering, mumbling. ' There !

At his cursing and swearing !' the youngsters cried : but the elders thought 'In prayer.' A boy threw stones : he picked them up and stored them in his vest.

So tottered, muttered, mumbled he, till he died, perhaps found rest. Is there a reason in nature for these hard hearts ?' 0 Lear, That a reason out of nature must tarn them soft, seems clear!"

The closing couplet throws out this grim picture in fine relief against that "Reason in Nature" which transmitted so hard and savage a disposition from father to son, and from son to son's son, and also against that "Reason out of Nature" which touched in turn both father and son with a softening remorse for their unfilial passion,—the father more spontaneously, but with little effect on his subsequent life ; the son only through his father's recollection, but with a transforming effect on his subsequent life.

The Russian idyl, Ivan Ivanovitch, on the old subject of the mother who threw three of her babies to the pursuing wolves in order to save her own life, is also very grim and powerful, especially in its ending,—the calm execution of the wretched creature by the self-possessed hero of her village, the Rus- sian peasant who first hears her tale, and discerns the truth of the matter in spite of the unfortunate mother's attempt to falsify the facts, and make it appear that she had endeavoured to guard her children from the wolves by her own body. Ivan Ivanovitch takes upon himself to judge that for a mother who, whether from panic or selfishness, had acted thus unnaturally, to survive her terrible deed, would be intole- rable for all, herself included ;—that the only fitting thing to do with a life thus reeking of memories utterly unnatural to a woman and a mother, was to extinguish it, with as little delay as possible, so as to leave the least possible stain on the tradi- tions of a world which, without true mothers,—nay, without the overruling and peremptory instincts which can alone make true mothers,—would soon cease to be a human world at all. We can give but the short passage in which this deed of judg- ment is narrated, and that in which, after inquest held by the

village, Ivan is told that he is acquitted of all guilt, an acquittal which he coldly accepts as matter of course :— " Down she sank. Solemnly Ivan rose, raised his axe,—for fitly, as she knelt, Her head lay : well-apart, each side, her arms hung,—dealt Lightning-swift thunder-strong one blow—no need of more ! Headless she knelt on still : that pine was sound at core (Neighbours were used to say)—cast-iron-kerneled—which Taxed for a second stroke Ivan Ivanovitch.

The man was scant of words as strokes. 'It had to be : I could no other : God it was bade "Act for me !" ' Then stooping, peering round—wlfat is it now he lacks ? A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe. Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind. The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake wind Into a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps." . . . . . ........

"So while the youngers raised the corpse, the elders trooped Silently to the house : where halting, some one stooped, Listened beside the door; all there was silent too.

Then they held counsel; then pushed door and, passing through, Stood in the murderer's presence. Ivan Ivanovitch Knelt, building on the floor that Kremlin rare and rich He deftly cut and carved on lazy winter nights. Some five young faces watched, breathlessly, as, to rights, Piece upon piece, he reared the fabric nigh complete. Sasebo., Ivan's old mother, sat spinning by the heat Of the oven where his wife Katia stood baking broad.

Ivan's self, as he turned his honey-coloured head,

Was just in act to drop, 'twist fir-cones,—each a dome,—

The scooped-out yellow gourd presumably the home Of Kolokol the Big : the bell, therein to hitch, —An acorn-cup—was ready : Ivan Ivanovitch Turned with it in his mouth. They told him he was free As air to walk abroad. 'How otherwise ?' asked he."

This is, on the whole, decidedly the finest of these idyls. It paints a grandeur of unhesitating, calm self-reliance in the village hero, such as is hardly conceivable in our world of doubts and scruples, and paints, too, the clearness and coldness and freedom from all liability to agitation, which would be the only possible conditions of siph Draconic rigour of purpose.

And the closing idyl, the picture of Bunyan's brazen converts, the bad Bedford innkeeper, Ned Bratts and his wife, who, in the vivacity of the impression made upon them by the Pilgrim's Pro- gress, rush into Court to confess a long list of crimes and murders, and to demand immediate judgment and execution while their re- pentance lasts, is also drawn with Mr. Browning's most vigorous, not to say violent, strokes. The painting makes less impression on us than that of the Russian peasant's calm and inflexible erasure, as it were, of the stained and miserable mother's life from the life of earth, just because the later sketch is so violent and the characters so strange a compound of flowers of sulphur and flowers of grace. There is something of the dignity of sculp- ture in the idyl of Ivan Ivanovitch,—nothing but the most

violent contrasts of colour in the weird picture of the conquest of grace over coarse cravings and vulgar lusts. Yet even here the glimpse given of Bunyan himself, has true gran- deur. "Tab," Ned Bratts' wife, is giving her account of her visit to the poet-tinker in his prison, to reproach him, as she intended, for refusing to let his blind daughter supply her and her husband, as usual, with the stout laces which Bunyan was. accustomed to make in his prison :—

"'She takes it in her head to come no more—such airs These hussies have ! Yet, since we need a stoutish lace,— " I'll to the jailbird father, abuse her to his face !" So, first I filled a jug to give me heart, and then, Primed to the proper pitch, I posted to their den- Patmore—they style their prison! I tip the turnkey, catch My heart up, fix my face, and fearless lift the latch— Both arms a-kimbo, in bounce with a good round oath Ready for rapping out : no " Lawks " nor "By my troth !"

There sat my man, the father. He looked up : what one feels When heart that leapt to mouth drops down again to heels ! He raised his hand . . . Hast seen, when drinking out the night, And in, the day, earth grow another something quite Under the sun's first stare ? I stood a very stone.

"Woman!" (a fiery tear he put in every tone), "How should my child frequent your house where lust is sport, Violence—trade ? Too true! I trust no vague report.

Her angel's hand, which stops the sight of sin, leaves clear The other gate of sense, lets outrage through the ear.

What has she heard !—which, heard shall never be again.

Better lack food than feast, a Dives in the—wain Or reign or train—of Charles !" (His language was not ours : 'T is my belief, God spoke : no tinker has such powers.) "Bread, only bread they bring—my laces: if we broke Your lump of leavened sin, the loaf's first crumb would choke!"

Down on my marrow-bones ! Then all at once rose he : His brown hair burst a-spread, his eyes were suns to see : Up went his hands : "Through flesh, I reach, I read thy soul!

So may some stricken tree look blasted, bough and bole, Champed by the fire-tooth, charred without, and yet thrice-bound With drerimeut about, within may life be found, A prisoned power to branch and blossom as before, Could but the gardener cleave the cloister, reach the core, Loosen the vital sap : yet where shall help be found ?

Who says, How save it ?'—nor 'Why cumbers it the ground?'

Woman, that tree art thou! All sloughed about with scurf, Thy stag-horns fright the sky, thy snake-roots sting the turf !

Drunkenness, wantonness, theft, murder gnash and gnarl Thine outward, case thy soul with coating like the made Satan stamps flat upon each head beneath his hoof !

And how deliver such ? The strong men keep aloof, Lover and friend stand far, the mocking ones pass by, Tophet gapes wide for prey : lost soul, despair and die !

What then ? 'Look unto me and be ye saved saith God : 'I strike the rock, outstreats the life-streem at my rod !

Be your sins scarlet, wool shall they seem like,—although As crimson red, yet turn white as the driven snow!"

There, there, there! All I seem to somehow understand Is—that, if I reached home, 'twas through the guiding hand Of his blind girl, which led and led me through the streets, And out of town and up to door again. What greets First thing my eye, as limbs recover from their swoon ? A Book—this Book she gave at parting. "Father's boon— The Book he wrote : it reads as If he spoke himself : He cannot preach in bonds, so,—take it down from shelf When you want counsel,—think you hear his very voice !" "

That is not what " Tab " would have said. It is Tab'u thought distilled through Mr. Browning's mind. But it is powerful with the kind of power to which Mr. Browning- accustomed us in years long past, before he condensed his verse into a rasping, short-hand style of his own, and wrapt up his meaning in metaphysical innuendoes. Of these new dramatic Idyls, three at least will live, if not quite on a level with the best of his weird imaginative works, still by virtue of a kind of power which no other writer in our language could have im-

parted to them,—by the vividness of their own life, and the subtlety of their own significance.