In this poem the hero of the story unconsciously describes himself by his manner of telling it,—­a reflective action of the dramatic faculty, which Browning, among living poets, possesses in a marked degree.  The “moral” is so skilfully inwoven into the substance of the narrative as to conceal the appearance of design, and the reader has swallowed the pill before its sugar-coating of fancy has dissolved in his mouth.  There are few of Hebel’s poems which were not written for the purpose of inculcating some wholesome lesson, but in none does this object prominently appear.  Even where it is not merely implied, but directly expressed, he contrives to give it the air of having been accidentally suggested by the theme.  In the following, which is the most pointedly didactic of all his productions, the characteristic fancy still betrays itself:—­

  THE GUIDE-POST.

  D’ ye know the road to th’ bar’l o’ flour? 
    At break o’ day let down the bars,
  And plough y’r wheat-field, hour by hour,
    Till sundown,—­yes, till shine o’ stars.

  You peg away, the livelong day,
    Nor loaf about, nor gape around;
  And that’s the road to the thrashin’-floor,
    And into the kitchen, I’ll be bound!

  D’ ye know the road where dollars lays? 
    Follow the red cents, here and there: 
  For if a man leaves them, I guess,
    He won’t find dollars anywhere.

  D’ ye know the road to Sunday’s rest? 
    Jist don’t o’ week-days be afeard;
  In field and workshop do y’r best,
    And Sunday comes itself, I’ve heerd. 
  On Saturdays it’s not fur off,
     And brings a basketful o’ cheer,—­
  A roast, and lots o’ garden-stuff,
     And, like as not, a jug o’ beer!

  D’ ye know the road to poverty? 
     Turn in at any tavern-sign: 
  Turn in,—­it’s temptin’ as can be: 
     There’s bran’-new cards and liquor fine.

  In the last tavern there’s a sack,
     And, when the cash y’r pocket quits,
  Jist hang the wallet on y’r back,—­
     You vagabond! see how it fits!

  D’ ye know what road to honor leads,
     And good old age?—­a lovely sight! 
  By way o’ temperance, honest deeds,
     And tryin’ to do y’r dooty right.

  And when the road forks, ary side,
     And you’re in doubt which one it is,
  Stand still, and let y’r conscience guide: 
     Thank God, it can’t lead much amiss!

  And now, the road to church-yard gate
     You needn’t ask!  Go anywhere! 
  For, whether roundabout or straight,
     All roads, at last, ’ll bring you there.

  Go, fearin’ God, but lovin’ more!—­
     I’ve tried to be an honest guide,—­
  You’ll find the grave has got a door,
     And somethin’ for you t’other side.