th the patient brow and
lamentable smile," with flower-like body, in white hospital array--a
child with eyes of infinite pathos, "whether a flower or weed, ruined:
who did it shall account to Christ."

In these three introductory books we have the view of the matter taken
by those who side with Count Guido, of those who are all for Pompilia,
and of the "superior person," impartial because superciliously
indifferent, though sufficiently interested to "opine."

In the ensuing three books a much higher poetic level is reached. In the
first, Guido speaks; in the second, Caponsacchi; the third, that
lustrous opal set midway in the "Ring," is Pompilia's narrative. Here
the three protagonists live and move before our eyes. The sixth book may
be said to be the heart of the whole poem. The extreme intellectual
subtlety of Guido's plea stands quite unrivalled in poetic literature.
In comparing it, for its poetic beauty, with other sections, the reader
must bear in mind that in a poem of a dramatic nature the dramatic
proprieties must be dominant. It would be obviously inappropriate to
make Count Guido Franceschini speak with the dignity of the Pope, with
the exquisite pathos of Pompilia, with the ardour, like suppressed
molten lava, of Caponsacchi. The self-defence of the latter is a superb
piece of dramatic writing. Once or twice the flaming volcano of his
heart bursts upward uncontrollably, as when he cries--

"No, sirs, I cannot have the lady dead!
That erect form, flashing brow, fulgurant eye,
That voice immortal (oh, that voice of hers!)--
That vision of the pale electric sword
Angels go armed with--that was not the last
O' the lady. Come, I see through it, you find,
Know the manoeuvre! Also herself said
I had saved her: do you dare say she spoke false?
Let me see for myself if it be so!"

Than the poignant pathos and beauty of "Pompilia," there is nothing more
exquisite in our literature. It stands alone. Here at last we have the
poet who is the Lancelot to Shakspere's Arthur. It takes a supreme
effort of genius to be as simple as a child. How marvellously, after the
almost sublime hypocrisy of the end of Guido's defence, after the
beautiful dignity of Caponsacchi's closing words, culminating abruptly
in the heart-wrung cry, "O great, just, good God! miserable me!"--how
marvellously comes upon the reader the delicate, tearful tenderness of
the innocent child-wife--