R470100A. Luria and A Soul’s Tragedy.
The New Quarterly Review, January 1847, pp. 350–352.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 14, 385–386.
Among the psychological poets of the day, it is impossible to pass over Robert Browning. His last ventures claim our attention—“Luria,” and “a Soul’s Tragedy,”—both of them strongly touched with the style mystical, but more than usually intelligible nevertheless. There has always been, and probably always will be, an order of poets, who, not looking out on nature for themselves, nor mixing in society on the common terms of fellowship, withdraw to the study of poetry as an abstract art, and refining on its means and ends, devote their efforts to the metrical manifestation of their own separate individuality; and then claim to be original, simply because of the unwonted mode of their proceeding, and the obscurity of the results. To this order of mind belongs Mr. Browning. Not only, like Walter Savage Landor, does he aim at the peculiar in his mode of thinking out and executing his subjects, but he has also invented a symbol language exclusively his own, which requires interpretation. The latter, of course, has been a work of time. His innovations on, and additions to, the English language, were at first comparatively few, though then sufficient to make the ordinary reader wonder what he meant; gradually, they became more numerous, so as to baffle the understanding of initiate students themselves. Hence, in his mystical poem of “Paracelsus,” there were gleams and glances of sweet and serene beauty, making up bright rents in “the blanket of the dark,” through which, like Heaven they “peeped through,” as if to cry out to the frantic poet, “Hold! hold!” and cease to darken knowledge in that way any longer! Our bard, however, disregarded the admonition; he felt evidently that to be intelligible would be an impeachment on his understanding. Who would write for the many? Who, then, for the few? Who, then, for any body but himself? “Paracelsus,” at any rate, though generally dim, was still sometimes clear. Accordingly, Mr. Browning undertook the tragedy of “Strafford,” written upon the principle of there being scarcely a completed sentence in the whole poem. Mr. Macready, nevertheless, did marvels with these disjecta membra. We recollect the occasion well. Scene after scene we listened, and seemed to understand the business that passed before our eyes; but of the dialogue, beyond the general impression that words were spoken in different tones of passion and emphasis, we could make nothing. Every now and then a phrase or two flashed on the mind with a [p. 351→] mysterious significance; then again all was blank, or the mere interlocution of suggestive fragments. We were fain to attribute the strange sensation we consequently experienced to Mr. Macready’s asthmatic style of elocution, and amiably supposed that he had indulged it more than usual on the evening in question. On our arrival at home, however, the tragedy itself lay on our table. We took it up eagerly—read here—read there,—all the same! It was not the actor’s mannerism,—it was the author’s caprice!
Somehow, nevertheless, we contrived to make out what we thought the writer meant. Then came “Sordello!”—that baffled every attempt. There has yet been found no mind able to comprehend the author’s purpose. The detail of the story—the character of the persons—what they do, what they say, though an account of both seems to be rendered—every thing, save the first line and the last, is as inexplicable as the riddle of the sphynx. Yet is there something in the mass of obscurity so singularly piquant, that while we retain the book in our possession, we are prompted, as we have already related, once and again to look into it, in the forlorn hope that the enigma has a solution.
Mr. Browning redeemed himself in the first number of his “Bells and Pomegranates.” Pippa Passes is a beautiful poem; addressed undoubtedly to the highest class of readers, and not without its difficulties both in subject and treatment; but still fascinating and charming, in a peculiar sense, to the poetic student. “King Victor and King Charles,” the next number, was less felicitous: the theme was undramatically rendered, so far as it was removed by its style and structure from popular sympathy. “The Return of the Druses” has fine passages, but is liable to the same objection in a still greater degree. “The Blot on the ’Scutcheon,” produced at Drury Lane, was a melo-dramatic theme, poetically treated. Never was subject more domestic, more easy of execution for the stage; scarcely ever was failure more signal. Whatever may be the merits of Mr. Browning’s dramas, they are unsuited for the theatre. His “Colombe’s Birth-day,” lately published, is pleasant reading—(the second or third time, if on the first or second perusal one has come to understand the plot), but displays the author’s usual perversities, both in sentiment and diction.
After what we have said, we are happy to record that the “Luria” and “the Soul’s Tragedy,” now published, are generally intelligible. Their aim, however, is not so high, nor their scope so wide, as with the best of Mr. Browning’s pieces. We have in “Luria” a modern Coriolanus, illtreated by his adopted [p. 352→] country, deprived of his triumph in the moment of success; yet gently, patiently yielding to its sentence, preferring suicide to revenge. “The Soul’s Tragedy” consists of two parts: the first written in blank verse, the second in prose; each in harmony with its particular subject. We have first the patriot conceiving all manner of fine things in behalf of his kind,—sensitive and sentimental to a degree of maniac extravagance; and next the same man, in possession of temporary power, guilty of all the enormities against which his indignant eloquence had been previously directed. Both these are founded on notions obvious and familiar enough; but they may be read with facility, and this is something, where the composition is Mr. Browning’s, to begin with. We have left ourselves no room for extracts; but it is not by extracts that Mr. Browning can be judged. They may mislead, but must fail to inform. He who would appreciate Mr. Browning’s poetry, must first learn to admire. A hard condition! yet one which will amply repay the learner; for Mr. Browning, notwithstanding his perversity and obscurity, is in the first class of poets. He soars out of sight, indeed; but it is the spectator’s weakness that he cannot follow him. Would the poet, mighty as he is, condescend to public appreciation, no man would be more successful. There is no doubt of Mr. Browning’s genius; but genius, to be appreciated, should be amiable, in all the humility of true pride.
Reviewed:
Bells & Pomegranates. No. VIII. Luria; and A Soul’s Tragedy (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1846.
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