R360112A. Paracelsus.
The Sheffield Iris, 12 January 1836.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 3, 364.
“And this was Paracelsus.” These are the last words of this poem, and in all likelihood will soon be all that will remain of it; upon the tomb-stone of the still-born volume, will soon be inscribed, “And this was Paracelsus.” The author of this volume has been most unfortunate and unpoetical in the choice of his subject; a wandering quack,—a pretender to science,—a deluder and defrauder of the people, is a thing of every day’s occurrence, and of every age and country, and so vile, degrading and infamous in itself, that there is nothing in it to inspire the sublimity of the full blaze of poetic truth. Paracelsus, who is a real character, and flourished in the beginning of the sixteenth century, had his education in genuine literature and real science altogether neglected; but being a proper subject, was initiated, by the good bishops and parsons of the day, in all the mighty secrets of the occult sciences; and the learned reader may judge of the hero of the poem, when he is told that Paracelsus once filled the chair of physic and surgery at the University of Basil, and that his first acts in that place of honour were to burn publicly in the amphitheatre the works of Avicenna and Galen; thus ignorance triumphed over science, and honest worth was compelled to hide its head before quackery and deceit. Such a wretch, the life of so gross an imposter, is a most unfortunate theme, and in this day is not likely to have many charms, or to amuse or instruct many readers. But on the style of the writer, on the powers of his invention, on the vividness and range of his imagination, and the brilliancy and acuteness of his wit, depends the merit or demerit, the success or failure of his work. But when the subject itself is injured, and the genius of the author has neither wings wherewith to soar, nor music wherewith to charm, there soon will be written on its tomb-stone, as on this of Paracelsus, which will be all that will remain, “This poem is a mere prosaic memoir of the selected hero, which (as the author says,) might be slipped within the leaves of any of the histories of his life, as a sort of commentary upon the events and actions recorded.” A dramatic commentary is a sort of literary anomally, and not one likely to be called for, nor very soon to be repeated. The following is a specimen of the author’s composition; whether it be poetry, or whether it be prose, the reader may judge for himself:—
Par. True I am brutal—’tis a part of it;
A plague-fit: you are not a lazar-hunter,
How should you know? Well then, you think it strange
I should profess to have fail’d utterly,
And yet propose an ultimate return
To courses void of hope: and this, because
You know not what temptation is, nor how
’Tis like to ply me in the sickliest part.
You are to understand, that we who make
Sport for the gods, are hunted to the end:
There is not one sharp volley shot at us,
Which, ’scaped with life, though hurt, we slacken pace
And gather by the way-side herbs and roots
To staunch our wounds, secure from further harm—
We are assail’d to life’s extremest verge.
It will be well indeed if I return,
A harmless busy fool, to my old ways!
I would forget hints of another fate
Significant enough, which silent hours
Have lately scared me with.
Another specimen, and if the reader is not satisfied, we would advise him to study this very singular poem for himself. Paracelsus exclaims,
__________It is you indeed!
Are you alone here?
Fest. All alone; you know me?
This cell?
Par. An unexceptionable vault—
Good brick and stone—the bats kept out, the rats
Kept in—a snug nook: how should I mistake it.
A wonderful description of a cell, but perhaps Paracelsus’s wings failed him. What a pity the poet did not lend him the bats; but still he would have been kept out of this “snug nook”; so he could not do more than fall amongst the rats. What a flight of fancy; what a stretch of imagination! Oh, Shakspeare, if thou hadst lived in this day, the blaze of thy glory would have been eclipsed;—the sun would have set in eternal night.
Reviewed:
Paracelsus (RB), London: Effingham Wilson, 1835.
___________________
