R360423A. Paracelsus.
The Metropolitan Journal, 23 April 1836, pp. 35–36.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 3, 385–386.
Paracelsus was ambitious, at least, so says Mr. Browning, he was, according to the same gentleman, of a noble nature, of a commanding mind, of a soul that circled the world.
Had he then no heart! Did love never enchain him? Did no fair vision of beauty ever glide before his eyes, and with snowy arms bind him in delicious languishment? Oh yes, Paracelsus was in love! In his proud youth, when hope was high, and his breast throbbing with noble impulses; then, amid the lovely gardens of Würzburg, had the heart of the haughty youth become enchained by the gentle Michal! So, at least, we may naturally be led to suppose. Was she beautiful? Read.
Her calm sweet countenance,
Though saintly, was not sad; for she would sing
Alone … Does she still sing alone, bird-like,
Not dreaming you are near? Her carols dropt
In flakes through that old leafy bower built under
The sunny wall at Würzburg, from her lattice
Among the trees above, while I, unseen,
Sate conning some rare roll from Tritheim’s shelves,
Much wondering notes so simple could divert
My mind from study. Those were happy days!
Respect all such as sing when all alone.
The whole of Part III. is extremely good.
The mind of Paracelsus is made to expand, enlarge and see clearly; his objects seem now already within his grasp; the vision of Fame comes nearer—it waxes brighter and brighter.
Part IV. Paracelsus aspires. The scene is a house at Calmar, in Alsatia. The year 1528. The audience, Paracelsus himself, the faithful Festus, and John Oporinus, the babbling secretary, who divulged, that his master was always intoxicated, and constantly retired to bed with his clothes on!
Fame is likened to a glorious city in the distance[.] First, all is dark and dim; vapours and clouds surround tower and spire and minaret; but, at length
Glory beyond all glory ever seen
By waking sense or by the dreaming eye,
The sun breaks out and all is clear and luminous.
I am a wanderer: I remember well
One journey, how I fear’d the track was miss’d—
So long the city I desired to reach
Lay hid, when suddenly its spires afar
Flash’d through the circling clouds; you may conceive
My transport: soon the vapours closed again,
But I had seen the city, and one such glance
No darkness could obscure: nor shall sad days
Destroy the vivid memories of the past:
I will fight the battle out!—a little spent
Perhaps—but still an able combatant.
This section, pages 144 to 147, contains a fine song, trumpetted forth by Paracelsus, when half glorious.
We are not told any thing as to the musical powers of the old boy; but if the melody were equal to the words, it might have been sung to an Emperor.
Part V. we do not understand. It is headed, “Paracelsus attains.” What does he attain? Not his object of ambition, surely; for he is discovered in a lonely cell in a hospital of Salsburg: he is ill, and poor, and old; and he dies miserably and forsaken of all mankind save only Festus and Aprile. Yet the vision of love was with him also in that loathsome dungeon: and through the mist of half a century, the wretched old man, in his blackened dreams, still beholds his beloved Michal.
Cruel … I seek her now—I kneel—I shriek—
I clasp her vesture—but she fades, still fades;
And she is gone; sweet human love is gone!
’Tis only when they spring to heaven that angels
Reveal themselves to you; they sit all day
Beside you, and lie down at night by you, [p. 36→]
Who care not for their presence—muse or sleep—
And all at once they leave you and you know them!
We are so fool’d, so cheated! Even now
I am not too secure against foul play:
The shadows deepen, and the walls contract—
No doubt some treachery is going on!
’Tis very dusk. Where are we put, Aprile?
Have they left us in the lurch? This murky loathsome
Death-trap—this slaughter-house—is not the hall
In the golden city! Keep by me, Aprile,
There is a hand groping amid the blackness
To catch us. Have the spider-fingers got you,
Dearest? Hold on me for your life; if once
They pull you … Hold …
’Tis a dream—no more.
Farther on, we have the old gentleman at his confessions.
He tells us, that his boasted wisdom was a palpable fraud: yet he hates and abhors all mankind, because they proclaimed him an imposter.
And as the pulse of the life beats low, and the flickering flame just gleams, his spirit becomes inspired, and in high converse and eloquent declamation, he passes in review, over the whole of his headstrong and stormy career.
Thus he speaks of himself. He sought Fame by right: he was born to it; it was his destiny; he was not one of the common herd of men: he plunged, what he won and what he lost sleeps with himself.
Yes, it was in me; I was born for it—
I, Paracelsus: it was mine by right.
Doubtless a searching and impetuous spirit
Might learn from its own motions that some task
Like this awaited it about the world;
Might seek somewhere in this blank life of ours
For fit delights to stay in longings vast;
And, grappling strenuously with Fate, compel her
To fill the creature full whom she dared frame
Hungry for joy; and, bravely tyrannous,
Grow in demand, still craving more and more,
And make the joy conceded prove a pledge
Of further joy to follow—bating nothing
Of its desires, but seizing all pretence
To turn the knowledge and the rapture wrung
From Destiny as an extreme, last boon,
Into occasion for new coverings,
New strifes, new triumphs. Doubtless a strong spirit
Might do all this unaided and alone,
So glorious is our nature, so august
Man’s inborn uninstructed impulses—
His naked spirit so majestical!
But it was born in me: I was made so.
Thus much time saved: the feverish appetites,
The tumult of unproved desire, the aimless
Uncertain yearnings, near-sighted ambition,
Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in tears
Were saved me, though the lion-heart repines not
At working through, such lets its purpose out.
We have already exceeded our limits, and reluctantly, we close the volume.
It is long since we have been so much gratified with any modern poetry.
The style of the composition, to be sure, is somewhat peculiar; but in thought and imagination few writers of the present day can equal Mr. Browning.
His mind has the happy mean betwixt the philosopher and the poet; in reflection he is as sound as in fancy he is rich and various.
Out of a very bad subject he has wrought a very good poem.
If there is a fault, it results from the imperfectness of the plot. If the language is anywhere bald and insufficient, we must blame Paracelsus.
In conclusion, we welcome Mr. Browning to our private party of poets; and we beg to introduce him, with the right hand of fellowship, to our Grand Editorial Saturnalia of next evening at six o’clock!
O.
Reviewed:
Paracelsus (RB), London: Effingham Wilson, 1835.
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