abours procured for him,
an impassable, if unseen, gulf lay between them.

Three years had passed, when suddenly, one night, the wife begged to
speak with her husband alone. Her request was granted; and then the
truth broke forth. She loved--had loved--no one but him; but she was
jealous of his devotion to the State. She imagined herself second to it
in his affections; and it was the jealousy in her which had made her
strive to arouse it in him. That other man had been nothing to her but a
tool. Her secret, she now knew, was killing her. Conscience forbade her
to elude her punishment by death. She therefore spoke.

"Would she write this?" he asked; and he dictated to her the confession
she had just made, in the terms most humiliating to him who was intended
to hear it.

"Could she but write it in her blood!" This, too, was possible. He put
into her hand a dainty Eastern weapon, one prick of which, he said,
would draw so much blood as was required. It did more than this, for it
was poisoned. But, before she died, she knew that her explanation had
raised her husband's contempt into hatred, and that the revenge of which
she was now found worthy had quenched the hatred in forgiveness.

"She lies as erst beloved" (the narrative concludes) "in the church of
him who hears this confession; whom his grate conceals as little as that
cloak once did--whom vengeance overtakes at last."

The poisoned dagger, which was the instrument of revenge--the pledge of
forgiveness--is spoken of as part of a collection preserved in the
so-called study, which was the scene of the interview; and the speaker
dwells at some length on the impression of deadly purpose combined with
loving artistic care, which their varied form and fantastic richness
convey. This collection is actually in Mr. Browning's possession; and he
values it, perhaps, for the reason he imputes to its imagined owner:
that those who are accustomed to the slower processes of thought, like
to play with the suggestions of prompt (if murderous) action; as the
soldier, tired of wielding the sword, will play with paper and pen.

HISTORICAL POEMS, OR POEMS FOUNDED ON FACT.

Many of Mr. Browning's poems are founded on fact, whether historical, or
merely of known occurrence; but few of them can be classed by their
historic quality, because it is seldom their most important. In "Prince
Hohenstiel-Schwangau," for instance, we have a chapter in recent
history: but we only read it as