CHAPTER XVIII.

THE ROMANCES.

AMONG the poems Browning made between 1845 and 1855 were a group called "Dramatic Romances." And when the group is examined, to ascertain what is meant by a dramatic romance," it becomes clear that it is a poem in which the matter and incidents are mainly imagined, and in which what fact there may be is construed with a view to certain ends of the imagination. And they are "dramatic " because told from the standpoint and through the mask of one of the "actors." The "Grammarian's Funeral" and "Waring" are "romances," and so are " The Boy and the Angel" and "The Statue and the Bust." In all of these the shaping mind of the poet is at work to present a dramatic picture of his thought.

But some of these poems lie closer to the outward facts of life, and are more shaped in that medium; while others are more purely imaginative, and the series of images and emotions is so much their more obvious aspect, that you wonder whether they are

only flights of fancy. I refer to "The Flight of the Duchess" and "Childe Roland more especially.

The first in point of time is "The Flight of the Duchess; it is also nearer the others in manner. I do not know where, if anywhere, the poet got the first suggestion of this romance, but judge that it is his own invention. The story is simple. The speaker is a huntsman, whose family has long been in the service of the duke, and much valued. This man tells the story so far as he understood it, and, like all stories of years past, that have made a deep impression on the simple but intense imagination of such people, it has grown to a romantic legend. The style is meant to suggest the speech and tone of the peasant, and verse and phrase are such as to give his mode. You may, indeed, demur to so rude a transcript, and most of all to the rhymes; but if you accept the dramatic intention, you must allow some freedom to the humour of the speaker.

And the character of the huntsman is one of the "successes" of the poem. His bluff, hearty, vivid nature, his simple yet deep and generous heart, his shrewd sense and brusque realism, with what you find in these natures, a strong vein of poetry and ardour, and a truly chivalrous temper, make him the very man to tell the story here told.

Its

The story is told thirty years after the event. period is that of decadent feudalism, in a country where old fashions linger long. The poem opens with a picture of the country. It is a great, wide,

wild land, bounded by mountains with solemn pine woods on their slopes, opening on a wider and wilder land bounded by the sea. The old duke was a strong baron, fit to rule such a land and enjoy its life. The young duke is of another kind and for another sphere. The sturdy baron died, and left his young son to his wife's care. She was a sickly, sour, masterful woman, from another country and of obscure origin. The son is like her, and, to make him more fully to her mind, she takes him to her own country to be educated. So the old hall was dull and empty for years, and when they came back the results of descent and training were too plain. The young duke was pert, full of his travels, full of himself, scornful towards his own rough northern land, and full of Parisian notions.

And one of these ideas was a fantastic and shallow regard for his own country and its past. It was rough, but stood nearer picturesque "heroic" times, and was full of crude poetry. So he set himself to "restore" the past; to set up again its dead forms, and make an idle show of them. Having nothing solid to do, and no life in himself, he plays at living the life his fathers really lived. Such a spirit is a double falsehood. The past has no meaning to it and the present no use. There is no reality; all is shadow and make-believe. The honest huntsman knows this; sees the thing so hollow that it gets its value even for the duke from the impression it makes on others. And the very horse he rides, "all legs and length," is a type of the sham it is.

But soulless as is the duke, he must marry. So he brought a lady to his castle to be "duchess," not wife, as part of his ceremonial, for no moral object. She was from a convent; very little lady, but quick,

fervid, and full of life and enjoyment, so much so she "might have been made in a piece of nature's madness -a woman frank, vivid, and natural, with interest in everything, longing to live, with heart in every tone, meaning in every look, fascinating and friendly to all. What a contrast! The stiff, selfconscious, dead-alive formalist, all affectation and pride, beside this woman! And worse still the mother! Her very first tone and glance chilled the girlish heart and took the light from her face. The duke did not know her, did not affect to love her. Such things were not in his plan. Yet it had been better if in this case they had been. The very retainers see the situation. The lady got over her first shock, and meant to make the best of so stupid a life. She would live the life there was, and take her part in it. But that was not the duke's idea. She was for show, not use, and, being "his," must take his way, "sit, stand, see, and be seen," just when required, and "die away the life between." And when she tried to give her help, she was treated as a child whose opinions matter so little that they are simply ignored.

She now saw where she was, and lost hope. Chilled and frustrated, she grew sad and ill. The duke saw this, and thought it done to spite him. Any

illness springing from the soul he could not conceive. But he will bring her to reason, and arranges a great hunting-party, in which she is to take her part. The part gave much trouble to find, and when it had been found she would not fulfil it. The duke and the mother did their worst to bring her to terms, but the lady kept her purpose.

The hunting went without her help. The duke, angry with her, left the castle by sunrise. Just outside he came on a troop of gipsies. It was a land, set between the civilized and ruder peoples and cultures, where gipsies seemed native, and showed their full powers. In the troop was one who might be the very oldest gipsy above ground, skilled in all their lore, well known in, and knowing the country well. She begged the duke that she might go and pay her duty to the duchess; and he, thinking to show the duchess what life and sorrow might bring a woman to, and so teach her submission, let the crone go, sending our huntsman with her.

The gipsy had heard the lady's story from the duke, and she had skill in the "cure of souls," if he had not. So she went with zeal. She no sooner left the duke than her mien and face changed. She grew, taller, brighter, younger. Her eyes grew "live and aware; " her soul and aim shone through her. And in the presence of the duchess she became the very genius of a great message and a great deliverance. Life's pure fire seemed to flow with magnetic power from her speech and spirit. Words, we are told,