R370600B. Strafford.
The New Monthly Belle Assemblée, June 1837, pp. 322–323.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 3, 407–408.
A twice told tale is wearisome enough, but in our humble opinion a half told tale is even more insipid, and what, in the name of wonder, was Mr. Browning thinking of in the progress of his drama, that induced him every now and then to [p. 323→] leave an hiatus, for his auditors to fill up from their own store of historical recollections! We need not intimate to Mr. Browning that out of the number of play-goers, one half, at least, know little or nothing of history, and consequently may consider Strafford to be a character of mere imagination; and the greater portion of the other half would rather be spared the trouble of refreshing their memories from Hume and Smollett. Strafford might have been made a very powerful, and perhaps popular acting piece, had it been differently constructed; but its want of imagery, and the worse than affected simplicity of style in which it is written, leave the author but little hope of its surviving for any length of time. The grave nod of the physician silently pronounces its doom, and not even the skill of Paracelsus can rescue it from death.
If such disjointed sentences as this extract displays be the newest fashion for poetic declamation, we congratulate Mr. Browning on his being the leader of the ton, though for ourselves we must acknowledge, much as we may like to drive over Macadamized roads, we do not like to peruse Macadamized blank verse. Strafford says—
Youth is the time—our youth,
To think and to decide on a great course;
Age with its action follows; but ’tis dreary
To have to alter one’s whole life in age—
The time past, the strength gone! as well die now.
When we meet Pym, I’d be set right—not now!
I’d die as I have lived—too late to change!
Best die. Then if there’s any fault, it will
Be smothered up: much best! You’ll be too busy
With your hereafter, you will have achieved
Too many triumphs to be always dwelling
Upon my downfall, Pym? Poor little Laud
May dream his dream out of a perfect church
In some blind corner? And there’s no one left—
Verily this is very prosy, and had better have been “smothered” before it had met the public eye. Was there no “blind corner” in which this precious bantling could have been dropped? But we will not dwell upon its “downfall”—the mutes stand at the door, and the bell tolls for its funeral. We do not wish to be severe on Mr. Browning, but really when a gentleman who does possess talent, writes in a manner wholly derogatory to his genius, he ought to be told of it. Had he been content with having the play acted, he would have considerably lessened the regret we feel at seeing this abortion in print—for we all know that stage declamation does wonders even for bad composition, for people will patiently listen to the recital of things which they cannot be expected to have patience to peruse. The dialogue, too frequently bears a resemblance to the confusion of voices in a crowded party, where all talk, but few listen: the actors in the drama are restless, fidgetty sort of personages, who seem, to quote the author’s own words, to say—
Aye, here I know I talk—and I will talk—
They all seem ignorant of the necessity of repose—of the powerful eloquence of silence; ignorant of the best way of appealing to the heart, of working deeply on the passions. It is a pity that a subject like Strafford, which affords so fine a scope for the exercise of dramatic talent, should not have been better treated. But perhaps Mr. Browning would exclaim with Strafford—
Oh! my fate is nothing
Nothing!——
and wonder that we do not admire or understand several passages in the following extract:—
Strafford.
What if I curse you, send a strong curse forth
Clothed from my heart, lapped round with horror til
She’s fit, with her white face, to walk the world
Scaring kind natures from your cause and you—
Then to sit down with you at the board-head,
The gathering for prayer
Vane.
Oh speak, Pym! speak!
Strafford.
Creep up, and quietly follow each one home—
You—you—you—be a nestling care for each
To sleep with, hardly moaning in his dreams—
She grows so quietly—until he starts
Gets off with a half-eaten heart away—
Oh you shall ’scape with less, if she’s my child!
Oh for a glossary—for anything that can teach us to comprehend this unintelligible jargon! Really we begin to think that some odd sort of person has taken advantage of bearing the same patronymic as the author of “Paracelsus,” and meanly endeavoured to foist his spurious production on the public under the sanction of Mr. Browning’s name.
Reviewed:
Strafford (RB), London: Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, Green, 1837.
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