R450600B. Paracelsus.
The Theologian, June 1845, pp. 276–282.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 10, 394–396.
The mighty truth, that self-sacrifice hallows and ennobles, that the resignation of selfish pleasures and desires tends to the true development of the very “Ego” thus apparently abandoned,—this truth, sealed as it is by the deep impress of Revelation, and sanctioned by the inmost heart of man, has often been developed by the poet, more especially in these our latter days. Thus Goethe in his “Faust” has pointed to this absorption of self in the love of our fellow-creatures as the highest goal for man, as another word for real and enduring happiness. Somewhat of the same truth do we find shadowed forth in the dramatic poem now before us. Here we have a philosopher, or a searcher for abstract truth, who passes his whole life in a journey of discovery to which he sacrifices all the usual sources of earthly happiness, and who eventually, having constantly failed in his pursuits, yet gains in the hour of death real glowing happiness, from the thought, that man in the abstract may soon attain what has been denied to him individually, that a spiritual millenium of the most wondrous order will eventually relieve the wants and satisfy the aspirations of humanity. In this thought Paracelsus dies happy, and thus the goal of love is attained, and egotism lost in sympathy.
Now, whilst we would be the first to proclaim the enduring truth, that self-sacrifice in a truly noble cause is the first of virtues, (how, indeed, should it be otherwise, seeing that our Lord and Saviour, our model in all things, the All-wise, the All-beneficent, has thus sacrificed Himself for the human race?) we still feel it our bounden duty to protest against any morbid application of this great principle; to point the limits within which it should alone move and have its being. To speak more plainly, selfishness, as the word is commonly understood, is a vice; but self-esteem, the desire to improve and ennoble the “Ego,” and to bring it into ever closer connection with the Lord of all things,—this is a laudable, a most virtuous instinct, deprived of which life would be bare existence, and man but as the beasts that perish. What is called self-sacrifice in a noble cause is not really the sacrifice of self. It may be indeed a resignation of our mortal powers and faculties, but it cannot be an injury to our immortal souls. On the contrary, it must needs ennoble and develope the higher “Ego” placed within us. It must raise us in the scale of created beings, and draw us nearer to the centre of love. Let us ask, which must be regarded as the highest faculty of the human soul? Who will not answer, Love? Love towards our Divine Maker, and our fellow-creatures. Can love teach us then to hate? This would be self-sacrifice indeed. Could we for the sake of our love for God condemn ourselves to perpetual exile from His presence, we might in that case be perhaps held to effect a moral self-sacrifice. Yet [p. 277→] even this is doubtful; for if in our exile we should retain the knowledge that it was caused by our love of God, that knowledge would itself sustain, nay, virtually imparadise us. To apply these remarks, it is unnatural to imagine that either Faust, or Paracelsus, or any other mortal, should die in a state of blissful felicity, without the slightest reference to their own enduring existence. If, indeed, they were represented as absorbed in the love of God, there would be no difficulty in comprehending their self-neglect; for then they might feel too assured of their love for Him, and of His bounteous sympathy, to entertain any doubts of their coming communion with their Maker. Says not Holy Writ itself, “Perfect love casteth out fear?” But when they are represented as altogether absorbed in the prospect of the future happiness of their fellow-creatures, and ready to pass into nothingness, if those who follow them do but attain unto light, we cannot but feel that they are acting unnaturally and foolishly. An immortal soul has been granted to every man, whether for weal or woe: a soul that strains ever upward, ever onward, to some far set goal. That soul can never resign its nature; it can never calmly submit to annihilation; it must needs shrink with horror from the bare idea of nothingness. Let it not be imagined that we would too highly exalt man’s nature: that we would deny that nature to be now corrupt and sinful. No; but still the desire for good, the craving for something higher, something nobler; in plain words, the aspiration to an eternity of love, is granted to us all. We may, alas! extinguish this desire and still this craving; we may separate ourselves from the love of God, and erect our own “Ego” as a separate domination, in direct opposition to the will of our Almighty Maker. In other words, we may learn to hate good, and create our proper hell. And this, as we have before observed,—this is the only moral self-sacrifice which truly deserves the name. But is this noble? Let us not be deceived by words! The highest purpose of our earthly being, our noblest, our dearest earthly task, is to elevate our moral being through the love of the Great Atoner, so as to render ourselves worthy of His eternal happiness. We are beside ourselves, if we dream of bartering away, of resigning to nothingness, that “Ego,” which must consign us to perpetual weal or woe, which in loving sympathy with its Divine Creator, must partake in all the joys of holiness, or banished by rebellious selfishness from His presence, must remain for ever in its freedom of despair. Freedom, we say, for we are indeed free to act thus. God will not make us loving, by a mere exercise of omnipotence, without the concurrence of our own wills. We, even we, may thwart the Almighty Maker. Enough of this. Our mighty subject leads us farther than we had intended to go. Once more we repeat, the total absorption of the “Ego” in the prospect of our fellow-creatures’ happiness, is but a morbid fancy. Every soul on earth has its own special being and its own special goal. It cannot resign that being and that goal without sinning against the laws of its nature. We will not affirm that the author of the poem [p. 278→] before us has absolutely taught the reverse of this great truth. Still many, at least, would read his poem in this sense. Such a construction might be put upon it; and we consequently feel bound to protest in limine against the theory of a “noble self-annihilation,” before entering on a brief examination of the beautiful poem before us.
Browning’s “Paracelsus” is indeed one of the most remarkable,—one of the most poetically beautiful works, that has been added for many years to our stores of national literature. A profundity of thought is displayed in it, almost unrivalled in the poetic creations of our countrymen; whilst the imaginativeness, the picturesque fancy of the illustrative comparisons, the tenderness and loving depth of soul developed in the characters of the drama, form a whole that must at once challenge high admiration for its grandeur and nobility, and heartfelt sympathy with its gentler beauties. “Paracelsus” is written in the form of a dramatic poem, in which there are four interlocutors, Paracelsus, his friends Festus and Michal (the latter a lady), and a mad poet called Aprile. The story, or plot, if so it can be called, is briefly this. Paracelsus, inspired by the wish of attaining true knowledge,—knowledge of the cause and purpose of all things, rushes forth into the world,—resolving to sacrifice all the joys of life to this self-fixed goal. Festus and Michal at first strive to dissuade him; but at last, carried away by his enthusiasm, cheer him on his course. He seeks knowledge: but his object seems purely selfish; since he loves with a pure heart neither God nor man. He makes various important discoveries, but as his chief goal remains as far as ever from him, he is altogether dissatisfied. At last he meets (after years) the poet Aprile, who is mad from an excess of what he needs,—love for God and man. His converse with this being leads him to see his own selfishness. To atone for it, he hastens to the haunts of men, resolved to communicate to them at least the little knowledge which he has attained. But even now he acts more from a sense of duty than of love. He despises, even though he instructs them. At last they turn upon him, and drive him as a deceiver from their presence. Now he gives free current to his longings for vengeance. He treats men as the fools which they have shewn themselves, and really condescends in his anger to the very quackeries they have accused him of. Finally he dies a wretched outcast in an hospital; yet not alone. Festus, his faithful friend, is by his side, and hears his last dying confession of his own joy in the contemplation of the coming happiness of his fellow-creatures. So he dies, abjuring selfishness and hate, and we turn from his death-bedside with a humble hope of his resurrection to future glory. We have given but a passing sketch of the leading incidents of the drama, or rather of the mental operations which supply the place of incidents. On this subject Browning himself says in his preface, that his is an attempt “to reverse the method usually adopted by writers, whose aim it is to set forth any phenomenon of the mind or the passions, by the operation of persons and events; instead of having [p. 279→] recourse to an external machinery of incidents, to display somewhat minutely the mood itself in its rise and progress, and suffer the agency by which it is influenced to be generally discernible in its effects alone.” Still, let it not be imagined that there is no stirring interest in this drama; nothing to excite the hopes and fears and sympathies of the reader. What can be more beautiful than the admiring love of Festus for his great, though erring friend? What can be more graceful than the slight but charming sketch which is here given us of Festus’ chosen bride Michal? The poetry in which the drama is embodied is of the very highest order: worthy indeed of its author, for whom we scruple not to challenge admiration and acknowledgement, as the first poet of the day. Let us give some proofs of the truth of this allegation, before we proceed. Thus beautifully speaks Browning in the person of Paracelsus of the influence of man’s birth on creation.
Man, once descried, imprints for ever
His presence on all lifeless things. The winds
Are henceforth voices; wailing, or a shout,
A querulous mutter, or a quick gay laugh;
Never a senseless gust, now man is born.
The herded pines commune, and have deep thoughts,
A secret they assemble to discuss
When the sun drops behind their trunks, which glare
Like grates of hell. The peerless cup afloat
Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph
Swims bearing high above her head. No bird
Whistles unseen; but, through the gaps above
That let light in upon the gloomy woods,
A shape peeps, from the breezy forest-top,
Arch, with small pucker’d mouth and mocking eye.
The morn has enterprise; deep quiet droops
With evening; triumph, when the sun takes rest;
Voluptuous transport, when the cornfields ripen
Beneath a warm moon like a happy face.—
And this to fill us with regard for man!—
Where shall we find more charming fancy, more imaginative, more glowing imagery than this? Or for a yet higher flight, listen to the sad wailings of the mad Aprile, who from his excess of love for the Beautiful, has been unable to devote himself to one goal only, and thus attain the Practically Useful. He is addressing Paracelsus, whom he believes to have succeeded where he failed.
Did’st thou, when nerving thee to this attempt,
Ne’er range thy mind’s extent, as some wide hall,
Dazzled by shapes that fill’d its length with light,
Shapes, cluster’d there to rule thee, not obey—
That will not wait thy summons, will not rise
Singly, nor when thy practised eye and hand
Can well transfer their loveliness, but are
By thee for ever, bright to thy despair?
Did’st thou ne’er gaze on each by turns, and ne’er [p. 280→]
Resolve to single out one, though the rest
Should vanish, and to give that one, entire
In beauty, to the world; and to forget
Its peers, whose number baffles mortal power?
And, this determined, wert thou ne’er seduced
By memories, and regrets, and passionate love,
To glance once more farewell? and did their eyes
Fasten thee, brighter and more bright, until
Thou could’st but stagger back unto their feet,
And laugh that man’s applause or welfare ever
Could tempt thee to forsake them?
The italics, we need scarcely observe, are our own. Here again is a glorious aspiration, nobly expressed by Paracelsus, in behalf of mankind.
To make some unexampled sacrifice
In their behalf; to wing some wondrous good
From heaven or earth for them; to perish, winning
Eternal weal in the act: as who should dare
Pluck out the angry thunder from its cloud,
That, all its gather’d flame discharged on him,
No storm might threaten summer’s azure weather.
Or again, for a description of night verging towards morning, is it possible to surpass this?
Festus. Hark!
Paracelsus. ’Tis the melancholy wind astir
Within the trees. The embers, too, are grey;
Morn must be near.
Festus. Best ope the casement. See,
The night, late strewn with clouds and flying stars,
Is blank and motionless. How peaceful sleep
The tree-tops all together! like an asp
The wind slips whispering from bough to bough.
And again, somewhat later,
The heavy darkness seems
Diluted; grey and clear without the stars.
The shrubs bestir and rouse themselves, as though
Some snake, that weigh’d them down all night, let go
His hold: and from the east, fuller and fuller,
Day, like a mighty river, flowing in,
But, clouded, wintry, desolate, and cold.
Then again, how many noble passages are there still briefer than these, single lines conveying mighty thoughts and beautiful images. Thus the poet says, speaking of the charm he, as poet, would throw over the outer world:
For clay, once cast into my soul’s rich mine,
Should come up crusted o’er with gems.
But we must quote no further. We fear indeed that what we have quoted will scarcely do justice to this work. Yet we doubt not that all [p. 281→] readers possessed of poetic imagination and perception will acknowledge the marvellous beauty of much which we have placed before them. Still, the highest merits of this poem remain almost untouched on. These will be found chiefly in that dramatic verisimilitude, that entering into the very heart and soul of man which is Browning’s special prerogative; that pourtraying of separate individualities which it is almost impossible to confound or miscomprehend. The selfish, yet highly imaginatively and powerfully minded Paracelsus, the trusting Festus, the gentle Michal, and the loving Aprile, how clearly, how distinctly does each of these personages stand forth from the canvass! After we have once made their acquaintance they are no longer ideal creations to us. They have become denizens of the sphere of mortality; and we sympathize with them or love them as such. It is more particularly in the portraiture of gentle hearts and noble deeds that Browning excels. Thus, how charmingly is the trusting nature of woman, ever attracted by what appears great and noble, marked in Michal, when, after trying with Festus to dissuade Paracelsus from his intended life of pilgrimage, she exclaims, won by his enthusiastic exposition of his hopes,
Vex him no further, Festus: it is so!
How nobly again is Festus’ confidence in his great friend manifested, when, after listening to his confession of his comparative failure in his search, and to his consequent sinful misery, he replies,
Be brave, dear Aureole!* Since
The rabbit has his shade to frighten him,
The fawn a rustling bough, mortals their cares;
And higher natures yet would slight and laugh
At these entangling fantasies, as you
At trammels of a weaker mind:—but judge
Your mind’s dimension by the shade it casts!
I know you.
________
*Paracelsus’ name.
________
Nay, even Paracelsus himself we can but love, when we see him thus affected by the tidings of Michal’s death, which he receives from Festus, after a long conversation in which Paracelsus has angrily detailed all his wrongs, and Festus striven to calm him. (This positively must be our last extract.)
Par. You have felt sorrow, Festus? ’Tis because
You love me.—Sorrow, and sweet Michal yours!
Well thought on.—Never let her know this last
Dull winding up of all! These miscreants dared
Insult me, me, She loved:—so grieve her not.
Fest. Your ill success can little grieve her now.
Par. Michal is dead!—Pray Christ we do not craze!
Fest. Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus!—
Fool! fool! This is the heart, grown sorrow-proof!—
I cannot bear those eyes. [p. 282→]
Par. Nay, really dead?
Fest. ’Tis scarce a year——
Par. Stone dead! Then you have laid her
Among the flowers ere this .... Now, do you know,
I can reveal a secret which shall comfort
Even you. I have no julep, as they think,
To cheat the grave; but a far better secret.—
Know then, you did not ill to trust your love
To the cold earth: I have thought much of it—
For I believe we do not wholly die.
Fest. Aureole ....
Par. Nay, do not laugh; there is a reason
For what I say: I think the soul can never
Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see,
Very unfit to put so strange a thought
In an intelligible dress of words;
But take it as my trust, she is not dead.
How terribly calm, and yet how beautiful is this! Paracelsus is a great poem, one that requires long and careful study for a full appreciation, but which contains many beauties, that will strike the reader at the first glance. It is truly important; as shewing, how futile, independent of Revelation, is all human search for Divine knowledge. It leaves us with the impression that even the mightiest minds, separated from the source of Truth, must needs wander into grievous error. In fine, it confirms us in that belief, which despite the imaginary infallibility of human philosophy, is daily growing stronger in the hearts and souls of the thinkers of the age; that belief, which leaves Kantism and Benthamism as mere shadows of the hour behind it; which Paracelsus here expresses, and which may be said to convey the very essence of Christianity, as establishing the superiority of spirit over mind,—
Love, hope, fear, faith,—these make humanity!
intellect is subordinate to conscience.
[?Archer T. Gurney]
Reviewed:
Paracelsus (RB), London: Effingham Wilson, 1835.
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