Æschylus or Shakespeare than runs through the work of the great modern realists. What was the latent breadth or depth of Shelley's dramatic genius we cannot say, as he had not time himself to know. It is incomplete in the "Cenci;" for example, in the figure of Orsino the lines are not cut sharp and deep enough; he is drawn too easily and lightly; the picture looks thin and shadowy beside the vivid image we get from the old report of the: Cenci trial. That sketch of Monsignor Guerra, the tall delicate young priest, with long curls and courtly graces, playing on crime as on a lute with fine fingers used to music-making, might have been thrown out in keen relief against the great figure of Cenci; a Caponsacchi turned ignoble instead of noble, and as well worth drawing had the hand been there to draw. As it is, he plays but a poor part, borne up only by the sweet strength of Shelley's verse. But is Cenci himself the mere and monstrous embodiment of evil made flesh, the irrational and soulless mask of lust and cruelty, that critics have called him? Is he in effect as inanimate and unreal as Guido is real and alive? To me, putting aside the difference of handling between the schools of which Shakespeare and Balzac are respectively the heads, the one seems as true as the other. Cenci, as we see him, is the full-blown flower, the accomplished result of a life absolute in its luck, in power and success and energetic enjoyment. His energy is insatiable of emotions, and has few left to make trial of; the conscience of this sharpens and exasperates the temper of his will. Something within him, born as much of the spirit as the flesh, is ravenous and restless as fire. To feel his power