R451200B. Paracelsus and Pippa Passes.
The English Review, December 1845, pp. 273–277.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 11, 364–365.
[Also reviewed in the article containing this review were works by EBB (see p. 351) and Coventry Patmore. We include only those comments pertaining to RB.]
And now we must leave Miss Barrett for Robert Browning. We do so with somewhat of the sensation experienced in issuing from a cathedral to the open air: the one, consecrated all over, its atmosphere incense—its sounds, chants—its solemn glooms only lighted through the painted effigies of saint or angel:—the other, nature’s own wide temple,—fresh, genial, invigorating, and free.
Mr. Browning unites within himself more of the elements of a true poet than perhaps any other of those whom we call “modern” amongst us; yet there are few writers so little read, so partially understood. He came into the literary forum in such a mysterious guise, (that Paracelsus of his,) and carried his great gifts about him with such a careless air, that men took but little notice of the unostentatious stranger. This first work was by no means adapted to be a “noisy herald of his fame:” it purports to be a sort of autobiography of the great Alchemist, and is almost as obscure as the subject itself. Yet Paracelsus won for its author instant consideration among the few who were capable of appreciating its merits: it exhibits great power and resources; but it is perhaps the most difficult simple poetry in the English language. The diction is remarkable for simplicity, even when expressing the most complex thought; and the whole poem has an easy rhythmical flow that almost lulls us into forgetfulness of its deep meanings. This is in itself an evidence of the ease and mastery of his subject possessed by the writer. Moreover, notwithstanding its occasional obscurity, this work possesses rare merit: without pausing to examine our author’s philosophy, we are struck by the nobleness, energy, and polish of his style, and still more by his delicate delineation of character. The restless and aspiring nature of the alchemist, with his proud and fierce independence—the independence of one who had “held his own” against kings and priests, and, as he believed, against death itself;—the patient, enduring, reverential friendship of Festus, recognizing the deity even in Bacchus—the faintly-seen, but still bright love of Michal—star through his [p. 274→] stormy life—the spiritual but passionate Aprile:—all these are finely and firmly drawn.
After his “Paracelsus” came “Sordello,” a work requiring so much labour to understand, that common people in self-defence pronounced it to be unintelligible, and as such it reacted on its predecessor. Our author next sent his mind amongst us in a new form, combining many elements of popularity—but it was too late: the reputation his former works had acquired for mysticism cast its shadow on these more mature productions; nor was this all they had to contend with—as if in defiance, the author gave to these truthful and genuine poems the fantastic name of “Bells and Pomegranates,” and inflicted on the first of the series the incomprehensible title of “Pippa passes.”
Let no one ask contemptuously “what’s in a name?” in this instance it involved a destiny. We know, and we rejoice to know that neglect of such a man as our author is can be but temporary: we have only endeavoured to account for what, we fear, cannot be denied.
The fine judgment of character and versatile genius of our author is best proved by these “Bells and Pomegranates”; but we cannot pass by Paracelsus without making an extract or two in vindication of our eulogy. These must be necessarily very brief, and are taken almost at random:—
My heart! they loose my heart, those simple words;
Its darkness passes, which nought else could touch;
Like some dark snake that force may not expel,
Which glideth out to music sweet and low. * *
Take a glimpse of Constantinople in which there is an actual picture sketched by a stroke—
Over the waters in the vaporous west,
The sun goes down as in a sphere of gold
Behind the arm of the city, which between,
Athwart the splendour black and crooked runs,
Like a Turk verse along a scymetar.
A passing illustration:—
But judge
Your mind’s dimensions by the shade it casts.
One more, and we have done:—
Thus climbs
Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever!
The centre fire heaves underneath the earth,
And the earth changes like a human face;
The molten ore bursts up among the rocks—
Winds into the stone’s heart-out branches bright [p. 275→]
In hidden mine-spots, barren river-beds—
Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask—
* * * The wroth sea’s waves are edged
With foam, white as the bitter lip of Hate.” * *
This passage is followed by some pages of great strength and beauty, rich in thought, as richly clothed in expression. It is impossible to lay down Paracelsus without a feeling of surprise that a mind so energetic, yet serene—so imaginative, yet so well controlled—should be evidenced in the first work of an author scarcely emerged from boyhood when he wrote it.
The “Bells and Pomegranates” are, in plain English, a series of pamphlets that have been published at intervals during the last four years.* They abound in almost every variety of composition, from the most stately tragic, to the airiest lyric. These sketches exhibit sometimes the rude, almost coarse fidelity to common life of a Teniers, and sometimes the delicate finish of Poussin; sometimes the warm, luxuriant colouring of a Titian, and not seldom the grand majestic outlines of an Angelo. “King Victor and King Charles,” “The Return of the Druses,” “The Birthday of Colombe,” and the “Blot in the Scutcheon,” are all dramas—rather, however, adapted for reading than for theatrical representation. In the whole four there is scarcely action enough to render one well fitted for the stage; whilst in any one, there is thought, poetry, and feeling sufficient to defend the whole. Of these, the last is the most earnest, pathetic, and impassioned; the “Return of the Druses” the most skilful; but the “Birthday” is the most genial and abstractive of them all. At this late period of our Review we cannot trust ourselves to quotation at any length, but we commend to the reader’s notice the characters of the chivalrous Tresham and Gwendolen; of Loÿs and Anäel, and Berthold and the Duchess, with especial confidence. “Pippa passes” is also in a dramatic form, and perhaps displays the versatile powers of our author to greater advantage than any other of his poems. It consists of a collection of various passionate scenes of various human life,—all bound together by the “one touch of nature” that “makes the whole world kin.” Pippa (Italian diminuitive for Felippa) is a poor, angel-hearted, factory girl of Lombardy, embarrassed with the blessing of a holyday—the only one allowed to her throughout the year. Rising as the dawn—
O’er night’s brim boils at last;
Boils, pure gold, o’er the cloud-cup’s brim.
* * * * [p. 276→]
Till the whole sunrise, not to be supprest,
Rose-reddened, and its seething breast
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.
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*These are prettily got up, admirably printed, and sold for a shilling!
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She feels the responsibilities of a day all her own, and ponders how she can turn it to good. No how! as it seems to her; but she sings her hymn, and sets out upon her unconscious mission, leaving the will for the deed, to please—
All service ranks the same with God:
If now, as formerly, he trod
Paradise, God’s presence fills
Our earth; and each, but as God wills
Can work—God’s puppets, best and worst,
Are we; there is no last and first.
And so she passes along with her child-like songs, some of which break in on various scenes of temptation, and turn the wavering sinner to repentance, truth, and justice. This may seem forced as a fact, but as an allegory is it not deeply true? Who can look back upon the dream-like drama of his life, without grateful or mournful remembrance of some association that saved, or might have saved his soul from sin?
But we have to apologize to our author for writing so much of him, and so little from him. Our limits are already exceeded, and we must be content with a quotation or two. In the very powerfully written but very unconventional episode of Ottima and her paramour, we have this storm:—
Buried in woods we lay, you recollect;
Swift ran the searching tempest over head,
And ever and anon some bright white shaft
Burnt thro’ the pine-tree roof—here burnt and there,
As if God’s messenger thro’ the close-wood screen
Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture,
Feeling for guilty thee and me—then broke
The thunder like a whole sea overhead—
* * * *
Bind it thrice about my brow,
Crown me your queen—your spirit’s arbitress
Magnificent in sin. Say that!
Sebald. I crown you
My great white queen—my spirit’s arbitress
Magnificent—
Pippa without, singing. God in his heaven
All’s right with the world!
Pippa passes.
And so throughout—the several episodes are thus interrupted, and their passion changed. [p. 277→]
Pippa lies down at night with another hymn:—happy, she knows not why; but she has been doing angels’ work, and all the more so from its unconsciousness. And thus the allegory speaks to the “poor in heart”;—“hold up your heads, or rather your hearts, children of suffering and sorrow: ye, too, are heaven’s ministers; and ofttimes more so than they whose wealth and power win them honour in the eyes of servile men. Your honour is angels’ eyes.”
One word must be said about the lesser poems, however hastily; and yet on second consideration it were better to be silent than to speak lightly of any man’s work. And these are work, strenuous nervous work, that makes the subject ring to the stroke of the workman. They are vigorous, versatile, original; but the knowledge of nature and truthfulness they display are strangely associated with, and expressed in strange words; ingenuity of rhymes is carried to an extreme; and the author will often persist in supposing that we know what he means so well, that there is no necessity for him to inform us on the matter. Nevertheless, these two lyrical numbers (three and seven) would and will alone vindicate his fame.
These are the only faults we are compelled to speak of: and we must say in conclusion that Mr. Browning is no mannerist; that if he copies at all, he does so from the early fathers of our poetry, which lends a dignity, and yet a freshness to his style, that is too rare amongst us now. We might, indeed, quote from Sir John Hanmer’s poems, in proof that he too has studied our early writers, but we have only time to say farewell to our author in the following graceful lines, addressed to him by a great master of our language:—
There is delight in singing, though none hear
Beside the singer; and there is delight
In praising, tho’ the praiser sit alone
And see the praised far off him, far above.
Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world’s,
Therefore on him no speech; and short for thee,
Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale,
No man hath walked along our roads with step
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing; the breeze
Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where
The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.*
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*W.S. Landor.
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[Eliot Warburton]
Reviewed:
Paracelsus (RB), London: Effingham Wilson, 1835.
Bells & Pomegranates. No. I. Pippa Passes (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1841.
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