and big Tab, his slut of a wife,—­these are drawn after the broad British style of humorous illustration, which combines a frank exaggeration of the characteristic lines with, at times, a certain grace in deformity.  Here at least is downright belief in the invisible, here is genuine conviction driven home by the Spirit of God and the terror of hell-fire.  Black Ned and the slut Tabby as yet may not seem the most suitable additions to the company of the blessed who move singing

    In solemn troops and sweet societies;

but when a pair of lusty sinners desire nothing so much as to be hanged, and that forthwith, we may take it that they are resolved, as “Christmas” was, to quit the City of Destruction; and the saints above have learnt not to be fastidious as they bend over repentant rogues.  Thanks to the grace of God and John Bunyan’s book, husband and wife triumphantly aspire to and attain the gallows; “they were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided.”  A wise economy of spiritual force!—­for while their effectual calling cannot be gainsaid, the final perseverance of these interesting converts, had they lingered on the pilgrims’ way, as Ned is painfully aware, might have been less of a certainty.

Browning’s method as a story-teller may be studied with special advantage in Clive.  The circumstances under which the tale is related have to be caught at by the reader, which quickens his attention and keeps him on the alert; this device is, of course, not in itself difficult, but to employ it with success is an achievement requiring skill; it is a device proper to the dramatic or quasi-dramatic form; the speaker, who is by no means a Clive, has to betray something of his own character, and at the same time to set forth the character of the hero of his tale; the narrative must tend to a moment of culmination, a crisis; and that this should involve a paradox—­Clive’s fear, in the present instance, being not that the antagonist’s pistol, presented at his head, should be discharged but rather that it should be remorsefully or contemptuously flung away—­gives the poet an opportunity for some subtle or some passionate casuistry.  The effect of the whole is that of a stream or a shock from an electric battery of mind, for which the story serves as a conductor.  It is not a simple but a highly complex species of narrative.  In Muleykeh, one of the most delightful of Browning’s later poems, uniting, as it does, the poetry of the rapture of swift motion with the poetry of high-hearted passion, the narrative leads up to a supreme moment, and this resolves itself through a paradox of the heart.  Shall Hoseyn recover his stolen Pearl of a steed, but recover her dishonoured in the race, or abandon her to the captor with her glory untarnished?  It is he himself who betrays himself to loss and grief, for to perfect love, pride in the supremacy of the beloved is more than possession;