must admit that as a raconteur Bandello knew his business thoroughly, and that he performed it with quite conspicuous skill.
It is remarkable that, while all, or nearly all, his tales contain the germs of drama, being tragedies and comedies in brief, Bandello should himself have no dramatic sense. With something of the frank unconsciousness of a child he handles his vast materials dexterously, almost jocularly, yet with no clear perception of their deep tragic and spiritual significance. The tale for him is just a tale, to move, to divert one for the moment; a succession of merry, romantic, or grievous events, not the appalling picture of the warfare and the shipwreck of souls. He is at no pains to bring us into touch with his characters, to breathe upon the dry bones and make them live. A poet, a psychologist, even within the narrow space of a novella, would assuredly have done this. Bandello was neither. He could not give the touch that transfigures. He was merely a fluent, adroit tale-teller, with a power of graphic description that, were he among us to-day, would presently have made him the enfant gâté of the Fleet Street press. At this point he certainly touches our century. To use a slang phrase, just
