1868 was produced the most elaborate of all his works, 'The Ring and the Book,' an Italian story of the seventeenth century concerning certain assassins Put to death By heading or hanging, as befitted ranks, The latest works of Mr. Browning are Balaustion's Adventure, including a Transcript from Euripides,' (1871)-which is another recital of the story of Alcestes, supposed to be told by a Greek girl who had witnessed the performance; Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society' (1871); a name under which is thinly vailed the name of Louis Napoleon; Fifine at the Fair' (1872); 'Red Cotton Night-cap Country' (1873); and Aristophane's Apology, including a Transcript from Euripides, being the last Adventure of Balaustion' (1875). Aristophanes Splendour of wit that springs a thunder ball- we have this bright pen-and-ink portrait: And no ignoble presence! on the bulge Of the clear baldness-all his head one brow True, the veins swelled, blue network, and there surged A red from cheek to temple-then retired As if the dark-leaved chaplet damped a flame Was never nursed by temperance or health. But huge the eyeballs rolled black native fire, Imperiously triumphant, nostrils wide Waited their incense; while the pursed mouth's pout While the head, face, nay, pillared throat thrown back, I thought, such domineering deity Hephaistos might have carved to cut the brine Of In 1875 also appeared from the prolific pen of the poet The Inn Album.' A fertile and original author with high and generous aims, Mr. Browning has proved his poetic power alike in thought, description, passion, and conception of character. But the effect of even his happiest productions is marred by obscurity, by eccentricities of style and expression, and by the intrusion of familiar phrases and Hudibrastic rhymes or dry metaphysical discussions. His choice of subjects-chiefly Italian-his stories of monastic life, 'repulsive crimes, and exceptional types of character-are also against his popularity. The Ring and the Book' is prolix: four volumes of blank verse, in which the same tale of murder is told by various interlocu. tors, with long digressions from old chronicles and other sources— such a work must repel all but devoted poetical readers. These, however, Mr. Browning has obtained, and the student who perseveres, digging for the pure untempered gold' of poetry, will find his reward in the pages of this master of psychological monologues and dramatic lyrics. Mr. Browning is a native of Camberwell in Surrey, born in 1812, and educated at the London University. He is also an honorary Fellow of Balliol College, Oxford. In November 1846 he was married, as already stated, to Miss Elizabeth Barrett. Of Mr. Browning's many descriptions of the sunny south,' the following is a favourable specimen, and Miss Mitford states that it was admired by Mr. Ruskin for its exceeding truthfulness: Picture of the Grape-harvest. But to-day not a boat reached Salerno, So back to a man Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards In the vat half-way up on our house-side Like blood the juice spins, While your brother all bare-legged is dancing Till breathless he grins, Dead-beaten, in effort on effort To keep the grapes under, For still when he seems all but master, In pours the fresh plunder From girls who keep coming and going And eyes shut against the rain's driving, For under the hedges of aloe, And where, on its bed Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple All the young ones are kneeling and filling Their laps with the snails, Tempted out by the first rainy weather Your best of regales, As to-night will be proved to my sorrow, When, supping in state, We shall feast our grape-gleaners—two dozen, Three over one plate Macaroni, so tempting to swallow, In slippery strings, And gourds fried in great purple slices, That colour of kings. Meantime, see the grape-bunch they've brought you The rain-water slips O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe Which the wasp to your lips Still follows with fretful persistence. Nay, taste while awake, This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball, That peels, flake by flake, Like an onion's, each smoother and whiter; Next sip this weak wine At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking. ""Tis clear,' cried they, our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation-shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!' IV. An hour they sat in council, At length the Mayor broke silence: O for a trap, a trap, a trap!' Just as he said this, what should hap Looking little, thongh wondrous fat; Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous V. 'Come in '-the Mayor cried, looking bigger: Quoth one: 'It's as my great grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone. VI. He advanced to the Council-table: And, Please your honours,' said he, 'I 'm able, All creatures living beneath the sun, On creatures that do people harm, The mole, and toad. and newt, and viner; And people call me the Pied Piper.' (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same check; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying, As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 'Yet,' said he, poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats: And, as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats, Will you give me a thousand guilders?" 'One? fifty thousand!'-was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. VII. Into the street the Piper stept, Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And the muttering grew to a grumbling; (As he the ma uscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary, Which was At the first shril notes of the pipe, Into a cider-press's gripe; And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Just as methought it said, "Come, bore me !" VIII. You should have heard the Hamelin people With a, 'First, if you please, my thousand guilders l IX. A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For Council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle. Vin-de-Orave, Hock And half the money would replenish |