R490600A. Poems (1849).
The English Review, June 1849, pp. 354–386.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 15, 394–406.
If it be important, be indispensable, that the organs of the Church and State, the representatives of the great principles of order and religion, should never be wanting in the hour of trial to their country and their God, should always be ready to devote their main attention to the graver questions of the age,—it remains, nevertheless, scarcely less expedient, that less serious subjects should also be discussed by them from a Christian point of view; that the world should be shown, Christianity is not a thing apart, but a living principle, capable of permeating all things, and of glorifying the very use of that world, and of “the flesh.” Thus, on a recent occasion, we shrank not from examining and praising the great “Humourists” of the day, lovingly recognizing those elements of Christian truth apparent in many of their creations: thus we now purpose, not to introduce to our readers’ notice, (for praised he already has been in this Review,) but to give them some sufficient notion of, the Poet and Dramatist, Robert Browning. Such minds as his should be dealt with fairly and honourably: we have no right to reject or pass them by, because they do not treat religious themes directly, or use our own exact phraseology: in so doing, we should adopt a suicidal course, implying that our Christian philosophy was not sufficiently comprehensive to include any general truth which should not at first sight appear a part of our dogmatic system.
Having said so much by way of preamble, we must proceed to assert, lest we should appear to do Mr. Browning injustice, that he is always reverential, and sometimes directly Christian. His main error, indeed, is one of a serious nature; but some of our readers may perhaps esteem it a virtue. We know that there are enthusiastic Churchmen and earnest Christians, who applaud the murderous deed of Tell, and warmly sympathize with, if they do not sanctify the memory of, Charlotte Corday. We do not belong to this class of thinkers: in our eyes, murder is always murder; and political murder is perhaps the most odious of slaughters. Once admit the possible right, in such a case as Tell’s for instance, and the meanest scoundrel has but to allege conscience, and he is justified in assassinating the best of kings, or the first of heroes, because, forsooth, he regards their existence as fatal to the rights [p. 355→] of man. Now, we do not assert that Mr. Browning would seriously advocate political murder; but he certainly alludes to it, and even treats of it, in a most lenient tone. To mention one single instance, in his dramatic poem of “Paracelsus,” a certain poet called Aprile, expressing his desire to be at once sculptor, painter, poet, and musician, and giving a list of those objects he should especially wish to embody, declares he would omit
no youth who stands,
Silent and very calm amid the throng;
His right hand ever hid beneath his robe,
Until the tyrant pass.
In the poem of “Pippa passes,” we have another offensive instance of the same apparent predilection, against which we must beg to enter our most energetic protest. Another mischievous tendency of this poet’s, in our opinion, is towards the exaltation of suicide, as a high and noble act. From time immemorial, poets have availed themselves of this method of disposing of troublesome characters, but we have not the less objection to it on this account. It has indeed been made a question, even among Christian casuists, whether in some instances death might not be preferable to shame. We are of opinion, however, that the Christian’s paramount duty must be endurance, even in the most extreme cases. But Mr. Browning’s suicides are not suicides of this character: that in “Luria,” as well as that in “The Blot of the Scutcheon,” do not pertain to any such category, and, from a Christian point of view, they are certainly indefensible. Nevertheless, we should not be too severe on a blot which Mr. Browning shares in common with so many other writers: we would exhort him indeed to avoid this error for the future; but with this, we rest content. Finally, one other moral objection to certain of Mr. Browning’s creations may be advanced with too much truth: though the general spirit of purity breathing from his works be deserving of all praise, he is not sufficiently studious of certain external decencies; he has treated themes, with a moral purpose we admit, and perhaps even with a moral effect,—which had better been left untouched. This remark holds good more particularly of parts of “Pippa passes,” of the general design of “The Blot on the Scutcheon,”—otherwise a truly exquisite work, treated with wonderful pathos, grace, and delicacy,—and of two or three of the short dramatic lyrics,—we will name only “The Confessional.” We have now said the worst that can be said on the score of morality; and the moral and even religious beauties which counterbalance these [p. 356→] errors are so great, as to call for the genial appreciation of all true lovers of poetry or of truth.
Robert Browning is still, we believe, a young man, though he has been before the world as an author for some ten or twelve years. His genius may be said to be pre-eminently dramatic,—so much so, indeed, that whatever he writes, takes consciously or unconsciously a dramatic form. His lyrics are almost all monodramas; and his one long poetic tale, “Sordello,” is almost unintelligible, from the abruptness of its conversational and dramatic style.
Who wills may hear Sordello’s story told:—
His story?
The poet commences, asking himself a question in the second line, and throughout strangely embodying his own momentary moods of thought and fancy, without placing himself for a moment in the position of those to whom the tale is told; making no allowance for their inevitable ignorance of the minutest historic circumstances connected with his theme, but going straight on,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
exhausting his readers in their attempts to keep pace with his passionate advance, and at last leaving them all far, far, behind him. “Sordello,” not having been republished in that new edition of Mr. Browning’s works which especially engages our attention, scarcely falls within the scope of the present essay. We will only say, therefore, that its tendency is in our opinion morbid, and so, rather mischievous than otherwise, and that its style is preeminently harsh and rugged: it is such a work as a great man only could have created, with all its faults; but it is deficient in moral healthfulness, and therefore we do not regret its absence from the present edition. We believe that we understand it, speaking generally,—having studied it carefully; and therefore venture to pronounce our opinion on so abstruse a theme. One other work of Mr. Browning’s, a tragedy on the subject of “Strafford,” performed with great success some ten years ago, has not been republished here. We are glad of this also. Regarded as a drama, it was, no doubt, a fine and stirring creation, despite the exaggeration so prominent in it, and the many starts and bursts, which made ill-natured people call it
a thing of shreds and patches:
but, in our opinion, it was deficient in the important element of historic truth,—embodying, and exaggerating even, the prevalent [p. 357→] absurd notions as to the royal martyr’s faithlessness and tyranny, and, in fact, representing him as a kind of moral monster. Strange is it, that after the testimony of such men as Hume and the elder D’Israeli—men not likely, from their creed or position, to overvalue the representative of Anglican high churchmanship—every stupid calumny, which Puritan rancour ever devised, should be revived in this enlightened age. The mad fury of a Carlyle might be regarded as a thing of course: his praise would be desecration, his abuse is praise: the worshipper of a Mahomet is the natural adversary of a Charles. He, who cringes in the attitude of adoration before successful brute force, in every age and country, was not likely to appreciate the royal martyr. But that Mr. Macaulay should have been so carried away by the fashionable superstition on this score, as to accuse the king of faithlessness, because, while for the sake of peace he negotiated with the London parliament, he recorded his protest that it was no true parliament,—adding other charges of a still more preposterous nature,—this may well excite our wonder at the bigotry and prejudice of man. But we must not wander from our theme.
“Strafford” is not in the present volumes, and we therefore dismiss it from our consideration; proceeding at once to the contents of this edition, which might afford matter for several comprehensive essays, instead of the cursory review we shall be enabled to bestow: for the works contained in this edition (counting the dramatic lyrics as one series) may be said to be all great works, and worthy of serious consideration: they are characterized by deep earnestness, sweet pathos, high purpose, and intense dramatic truthfulness. That to dramatic intensity probability, and even truth, are sometimes sacrificed, we cannot deny. There is, perhaps, an absence of repose in Mr. Browning’s dramas; the interest is too passionately sustained; every thing is made too much a matter of life and death: even when the characters speak with most apparent calm, we see that deep feeling or wild passion are working underneath; there is nothing purely narrative, little purely demonstrative; the dramatic active element is almost invariably paramount. This is one of the reasons for which Mr. Browning is so difficult to understand. The very souls of his dramatis personæ are constantly palpitating before us; yet they express themselves so simply, with such an apparent absence of fuss, that we do not at once perceive the full import of their speeches: we regard them only from an external point of view, as poetry perhaps, without entering into the characters of those who speak, and then we must be necessarily disappointed. We have mentioned that general obscurity, which some people regard as necessarily fatal to Mr. Browning’s popularity to the end of [p. 358→] time, however great may be his merits. This obscurity arises, mainly, from an excess of reality. Mr. Browning does not write about people,—does not tell you why they think or feel so and so, as other poets do, but shows you the people themselves, thinking, feeling, acting: he brings the scene actually and immediately before you, not presenting it through the usual artificial medium: he rushes abruptly into the very heart of his subject without any exordium, and presupposes a certain knowledge of his theme on the reader’s part, which he cannot reasonably expect to find. Every where an introductory argument seems to be wanted, placing the reader at the right point of view; in the absence of which, this author’s highest beauties may at first be unintelligible, or apparently even absurd. To give a strong instance of what we mean:—the Tragedy of “The Return of the Druses” is founded on the superstition of the Druse people, that they shall only return to their home, Lebanon, when their former chief Hakeem, otherwise called the Khalif, who died on the verge of Mokattam’s mountain several centuries before, shall return, to place himself at their head, and lead them on to victory. A certain Druse chief, called Djabal, who has lived many years in Europe, and possessed himself of certain secrets of science, has resolved to pass himself off on the Druse people as their Hakeem, or Khalif, as the only possible means of rousing them from their disgraceful lethargy; and has announced his intention mysteriously “to exalt himself” on a certain day, that is, to resume his former shape of Hakeem. The play thus commences. A certain number of Druses enter the Prefect’s Hall,—as it afterwards appears, in his absence from the island,—and one of them thus exclaims (these are the opening words):—
The moon is carried off in purple fire;
Day breaks at last!—Break, Glory, with the day,
On Djabal’s dread incarnate mystery,
Now ready to assume its pristine shape
Of Hakeem!—As “the Khalif” vanish’d erst,
In what seem’d death to uninstructed eyes,
On red Mokattam’s verge;—our Founder’s flesh,
As he resumes our Founder’s function!
This may seem plain enough, when the clue has been given, but without it, in the first instance, it must be nearly unintelligible; yet this is one of Mr. Browning’s least dramatic speeches; it is one in which he is endeavouring to explain. The number of recondite facts crowded together constitute the difficulty,—not the hidden motive of the speech, as is more usually the case. However, many of these difficulties naturally [p. 359→] vanish on a second perusal: when the mind has once taken a bird’s-eye view of the whole, it can better appreciate the parts. We would, however, force on Mr. Browning’s attention the expediency of prefixing either arguments or prologues to his principal works, which should not themselves be dramatic, but simply preparatory, explanatory, demonstrative. We almost question, whether he could write them himself; but any one else who had studied his works could perform this office for him; and this would go far towards rendering his works accessible to the general reader, and himself consequently popular. So much must be admitted: the motives of Mr. Browning’s dramatis personæ are always clearly defined in their author’s mind; they never say a word at random: where we least see purpose, we shall be sure to find it, if we take the trouble to search. We may not always agree with the poet that such a motive is natural or becoming, but we shall always see, that, taking that motive for granted, the consequent expression of feeling is wonderfully natural and real; that the poet has done what he meant to do, whether that in itself be right or wrong. This is a very rare, perhaps the rarest, quality. How few, how very few men, in creating works of art, have a clear knowledge of their own intentions! How few dramatists, for instance, conceive and develop a character consistently! Almost all trust in a great degree to chance, and often write better than they know themselves; though generally, of course, much worse. Mr. Browning, on the contrary, realizes intensely whatever he conceives; he creates and commands his characters, he is not commanded by them. We believe, then, that as a real purpose will always eventually be discovered where the greatest apparent obscurity prevails, time must necessarily be favourable to the appreciation of Mr. Browning’s works. When they are universally acknowledged to be noble dramatic creations, (as they must eventually be,) men, who can, will study them for themselves, and, communicating their observations to others, will plane the way even for masses, so that the very “public” at last may wonder at its having found much difficulty in the matter. But a truce to these general observations. Pass we to the first work in these volumes, the dramatic poem “Paracelsus,” well worthy of a lengthy essay on itself alone.
It is difficult to express the object of this poem in a few words. Paracelsus (the Paracelsus) is a man who lives for Knowledge for its own sake, without regard to Love: after many years he is partially converted from this error, but his conversion is only partial; men treat him ill, and therefore he relapses into his old heresy under a worse form, and finally dies, acknowledging, that [p. 360→] he has lived too much for self, too little for his race. The beauty of much of the poetry in this work can scarcely be too highly commended. We must give a few samples. The two charming characters of Festus, the sympathizing and admiring friend of Paracelsus, and his bride Michal, would alone endear this work to us. In the first part, or act, entitled “Paracelsus aspires,” he is discovered in a garden at Wurzburg, passing the last evening with these friends, previous to his departure on the search for absolute truth and knowledge. Festus has encouraged his mystical aspirations; but is now afraid of his own work, and would dissuade Paracelsus from his ambitious design,—an endeavour in which Michal unites. Paracelsus thus sweetly and affectionately addresses them:—
You must forget
All fitful, strange, and moody waywardness,
Which e’er confused my better spirit, to dwell
Only on moments such as these, dear friends!
My heart no truer, but my words and ways
More true to it. As Michal, some months hence,
Will say, “This autumn was a pleasant time”
For some few sunny days, and overlook
Its bleak wind hankering after pining leaves.
Autumn would fain be sunny; I would look
Liker my nature’s truth; and both are frail,
And both beloved for all their frailty!
Festus, however, is not blinded by this fair speech; he recognizes the secret pride of his friend, and chides his ambitious longings:—
That look!
As if where’er you gazed there stood a star!
We cannot enter into the philosophy of the poem: this would lead us much further than we can now go. Festus’s main fear is that Paracelsus will not seek knowledge for the sake of God or of man. He says,
Presume not to serve God apart from such
Appointed channel, as He wills shall gather
Imperfect tributes,—for that sole obedience
Valued perchance.
And further on:—
How can that course be safe, which from the first
Produces carelessness to human love? [p. 361→]
And again Michal says (Aureole is Paracelsus’s first name)—
Stay with us, Aureole! Cast these hopes away,
And stay with us! An angel warns me too,
Man should be humble:—you are very proud:—
And God, dethroned, has doleful plagues for such!
Paracelsus responds grandly and proudly, in the full conviction of his mission (we quote here and there, not in any regular course):—
Be sure that God
Ne’er dooms to waste the strength He deigns impart!—
Ask the gier-eagle, why she stoops at once
Into the vast and unexplored abyss?
What full-grown power informs her from the first?
Why she not marvels, strenuously beating
The silent boundless regions of the sky?
His enthusiasm at last so carries away sweet Michal, that she exclaims,
Vex him no further, Festus! It is so.
Though subsequently, on Festus’s energetic remonstrances, she again retracts. Festus bids Paracelsus pursue the usual course to knowledge, study the writings of others, not seek only for himself: he responds—
Shall I still sit beside
Their dry wells, with a white lip and filmed eye,
While in the distance heaven is blue above
Mountains, where sleep the unsunn’d tarns?
Festus says very finely, after much more has passed, in continuation,—
But know this, you,—that ’tis no wish of mine,
You should abjure the lofty claims you make;
Although I can no longer seek, indeed,
To overlook the truth,—that there will be
A monstrous spectacle upon the earth,
Beneath the pleasant sun, among the trees;
A being, knowing not what love is. Hear me!
You are endow’d with faculties, which bear
Annex’d to them, as ’twere a dispensation,
To summon meaner spirits to do their will,
And gather round them at their need; inspiring
Such with a love themselves can never feel,
Passionless ’mid their passionate votaries.
I know not if you joy in this or no,
Or ever dream that common men can live [p. 362→]
On objects, you prize lightly, but which make
Their hearts’ sole treasure. The affections seem
Beauteous at most to you, which we must taste
Or die. And this strange quality accords—
I know not how—with you; sits well upon
That luminous brow,—though in another it scowls
An eating brand, a shame.
But our extracts are growing too frequent and too long. We must remember our appointed limits. We hurry to Paracelsus’s last words in this part; they are these:
Are there not, Festus,—are there not, dear Michal,—
Two points in the adventure of the Diver?
One, when a beggar, he prepares to plunge;
One, when a prince, he rises with his pearl.
Festus, I plunge!
Festus. I wait you when you rise!
In the second part, called “Paracelsus attains,” we are in Constantinople, at the house of a certain Greek conjuror, nine years afterwards. This conjuror professes the power of possessing everybody with the secret he may want to make his life complete,—everybody, that is, who first records in a certain book the exact amount of knowledge he has already attained to. The disappointed Paracelsus, who of course could not find for himself what God had revealed, though he had apparently not accepted that revelation, comes to this conjuror in a kind of mad despair; and here he does learn the one great want which has blasted all his efforts: it is brought home to him, that he only sought knowledge for its own sake, or that of pride in its possession; that his primary duty is to work for his fellow-men, to communicate what he has gained to them. He is taught all this by a certain mad poet Aprile, who has erred in a contrary direction, from excess of love, which has absorbed his active faculties, and prevented his turning them to any use. He has loved all art, for instance, too dearly to devote himself to any branch of it. Because he could not be all, he would be nothing. Much of the poetry in this part is exquisite, but we have no space for extracts from it. Paracelsus is really supposed to have discovered certain secrets, chiefly in medicine, which would be highly beneficial to humanity; amongst them, the circulation of the blood, and the sanguification of the heart. Mr. Browning says in his notes, “The title of Paracelsus to be considered the father of modern chemistry is indisputable,” and quotes very learned authorities in support of this view. However this may be, the correctness or incorrectness of the assertion does not concern us. The poet conceives it to be thus, and had every [p. 363→] right to do so. Paracelsus now, then, resolves to devote his services to his fellow-men. He becomes professor at Basil in Switzerland, and meets with devoted followers for a while; but his old original sin remains deep engrained; he makes no allowance for dulness and slowness; he is impatient to attain magnificent results; he becomes more and more convinced that man is unworthy of sharing his true knowledge,—which, after all, is so insufficient in his own eyes, because he has not all. Festus visits him here; and the third part consists of a long colloquy between them in the year 1526,—scene, a chamber in the house of Paracelsus. It is very fine, but necessarily very painful. The bitter discontent of Paracelsus, the trustful admiration of Festus, are each developed nobly. The passages of a domestic nature in which reference is made to Michal and her children are very touching. After Paracelsus has laid his heart open to his friend, and shown him his terrible disappointment and gnawing misery, Festus says beautifully,—resolved to trust still,—
These are the trials meet for such as you,
Nor must you hope exemption: to be mortal,
Is to be plied with trials manifold.
Look round! The obstacles, which kept the rest
Of men from your ambition, you have spurn’d:
Their fears, their doubts, the chains that bind them best,
Were flax before your resolute soul,—which nought
Avails to awe, save these delusions—bred
From its own strength, its selfsame strength, disguised,
Mocking itself. Be brave, dear Aureole! Since
The rabbit has his shade to frighten him,
The fawn his rustling bough, mortals their cares:
And higher natures yet—the power to laugh
At these entangling fantasies, as you
At trammels of a weaker intellect:—
Measure your mind’s height by the shade it casts!
I know you.
Paracelsus. And I know you, dearest Festus!
And how you love unworthily; and how
All admiration renders blind.
* * * * *
Festus. Nought blinds you less than admiration will:
Whether it be that all love renders wise
In its degree: * * *
* * * * *
I say, such love is never blind, but rather
Alive to every the minutest spot
Which mars its object, and which hate—supposed
So vigilant and searching—dreams not of. [p. 364→]
There is much more equally beautiful, but we refrain. We must quote, however, certain descriptions of morning, which have a quiet witchery about them, to us irresistibly charming, occurring towards the end of this scene. The first is,
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!
The second occurs a little later, in a speech of Paracelsus’s:
See, morn at length! The heavy darkness seems
Diluted; grey and clear without the stars:
The shrubs bestir and rouse themselves, as if
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.
We need not waste comments on those who do not appreciate such poetry. Finally, Festus leaves Paracelsus deeply moved, to return to Michal and his own quiet vicarage; making his friend promise, however, that he will call him to his side, if there should ever be a change for the better in his mood. In the next part, which plays two years later, Paracelsus “aspires again,” but with baser and still more selfish aims. He has been driven from the university in disgrace, and has resolved to give up all idea of loving or serving men. His first vagrant life in pursuit of knowledge is once more assumed, with the addition of certain evil stimulants; in other words, Paracelsus, despairing of a high and noble goal, has resolved to avail himself of all mean occasions for enjoyment, and regards even drinking as one of these. The greater portion of this part is occupied by another colloquy in a house at Colmar in Alsatia, betwixt Paracelsus and Festus, who has been sent for by his friend, and who has just lost his own wife Michal. It is naturally even more painful than the preceding colloquy, but it is powerfully conceived and executed. Terrible is the despair which makes Paracelsus say,
So sickness lends
An aid,—it being, I fear, the source of all
We boast of. Mind is nothing but disease,
And natural health is ignorance.
Nothing can be more exquisite than the pathos of the latter [p. 365→] part of the scene, in which Festus announces Michal’s death, and Paracelsus comments on it. We have no space to extract it as we should wish to do. Paracelsus then goes forth once more on his life’s journey, and he does at last attain, in the fifth part, within a cell of St. Sebastian’s Hospital at Salzburg, not only death, but a knowledge of his own life-long errors. Festus is still by his side; he has sought out his dying friend, and passed the long night watching in the cell. Paracelsus knows him not, his mind wanders; he is buried in a kind of living trance. At last, after many wild speeches, uttered by Paracelsus on his awaking from his trance, he grows calmer. “Cruel,” he says,
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,
Who care not for their presence, muse or sleep,—
And all at once they leave you, and you know them!
Is there not many a heart which could respond to this, with an exceeding bitter cry?—Further on, he says, still in his delirium, unconscious of his friend’s presence:—
Truly there needs another life to come!
If this be all—(I must tell Festus that,)
And other life await us not,—for one,
I say, ’tis a poor cheat, a stupid bungle,
A wretched failure. I, for one, protest
Against it, and I hurl it back with scorn!
After this he relapses into a fit of madness, believing that all men are scorning and spitting at him. At last he pauses, exhausted. Festus speaks:—
Have you no thought, no memory for me,
Aureole? I am so wretched:—my pure Michal
Is gone, and you alone are left to me;
And even you forget me. Take my hand—
Lean on me, thus.—Do you not know me, Aureole?
Paracelsus. Festus, my own friend, you are come at last?—
From this moment he never loses the possession of his senses. Festus predicts his future glory: he rejects all idea of this, but rises from his couch, to make a final revelation of his faith. We cannot scan its philosophy here: poetically, it is most beautiful; it predicts a future millennium of glory for mankind, it proclaims the duty of love—true love for man and God. It is not distinctly and dog- [p. 366→] matically Christian, as was Aprile’s noble speech; who, seeing in the moment of his death the errors of his past life, exclaimed:—
Man’s weakness is his glory; for the strength,
Which raises him to heaven and near God’s self,
Came spite of it: God’s strength his glory is;—(man’s)
For thence came with our weakness sympathy,
Which brought God down to earth, a man like us.
Nevertheless, the conclusion of “Paracelsus” is in many respects satisfactory, and the whole impression conveyed by the work is one of a very salutary nature. We see the utter futility of all attempts to attain to the knowledge of God, without revelation: we see that the lowliest Christian child may be wiser than the heathen sage. As a poem, “Paracelsus” is a very noble creation, not devoid here and there of a certain objectionable mysticism of thought and expression, but nevertheless worthy of the most attentive study.
“Pippa passes,” the next in order of these works, will not now engage much of our attention. It is a wild but beautiful little drama, (if we can so call it,) marred, however, by two or three unpleasant stains, which we cannot leave unnoticed. Its leading idea is charming. A little girl, Pippa, from the silk-mills at Asolo in the Trevisan, “passes” by certain individuals, pertaining to various degrees of life, far above her own, and by her simple songs, which she carols almost unconsciously, is made to control the entire existence of those whom she thus “passes.” The moral is, that God can and does effect the greatest ends by the simplest ministers. We have already referred to the two drawbacks, of which we have to complain in particular: the one is the virtual encouragement of regicide, which we trust to see removed from the next edition, being as unnatural as it is immoral: the other is a careless audacity in treating of licentiousness, which in our eyes is highly reprehensible, though it may, no doubt, have been exhibited with a moral intention, and though Mr. Browning may plead the authority of Shakspeare, Goethe, and other great men, in his favour. These things set on one side, we should have little to do but to admire; had not Mr. Browning most marvellously destroyed some of his finest passages by making certain alterations in them, for the purpose, we presume, of attaining greater clearness,—an end which has not been attained, though ease, grace, and nature have been sacrificed. We will give one instance. In the former edition, called “Bells and Pomegranates,” Mr. Browning had made Pippa say, talking of her own intention to imagine herself in the position of certain characters throughout the day:— [p. 367→]
Up the hill-side, through the morning!
“Love me, as I love!”—
I am Ottima, take warning
This is now changed to—
See! Up the hill-side yonder, through the morning,
Some one shall love me, as the world calls love;
I am no less than Ottima, take warning
which is obviously void of the original’s grace and nature. We might quote other, even worse, instances. The additions, too, are in almost all cases unnatural, if not positively offensive. We shall make one or two citations from the speeches of Luigi, the young Italian who means to kill the emperor of Austria, to save his country, and who ought to be converted from his purpose by Pippa’s song, but unfortunately is not, as the case now stands. He is talking to his mother about Italy’s woes and the trouble they occasion him, and he goes on:—
No, trouble’s a bad word: for, as I walk,
There’s springing and melody and giddiness:
And old quaint turns and passages of my youth,
Dreams long-forgotten, little in themselves,
Return to me, whatever may amuse me;
And earth seems in a truce with me, and heaven
Accords with me; all things suspend their strife;
The very cicalas laugh, “There goes he, and there!
Feast him—the time is short; he is on his way
For the world’s sake,—feast him this once, our friend!”
And in return for all this I can trip
Cheerfully up the scaffold-steps. I go
This evening, mother.
How admirably does this embody the happy, genial, impulsive southern nature! The exquisite propriety of the rhythm can scarcely escape observation. Every line is in this respect a study. Once more he says:—
Too much
Have I enjoy’d these fifteen years of mine,
To leave myself excuse for longer life
Was not life press’d down, running o’er with joy,
That I might finish with it ere my fellows,
Who sparelier feasted made a longer stay?—
I was put at the board-head, help’d to all
At first; I rise up happy and content.
God must be glad, one loves His world so much!
But we pause, from lack of space. What pity is it, that a [p. 368→] youth, who so much engages our sympathies, should be confirmed in sin by Pippa’s pious song!
We pass on to the next work, a tragedy, “King Victor and King Charles.” This is one of the finest dramatic illustrations of history with which we are acquainted, and in it Mr. Browning has been scrupulously true to his authorities. The idea of the piece is to demonstrate the superiority of moral excellence and kindness to cunning and worldly wisdom. King Victor Amadeus of Savoy, the first of that race who attained the regal crown, was a great diplomatist and a selfish tyrant. By plotting and counter-plotting he had at last contrived to get himself into an almost hopeless situation; for having entered into secret treaties for directly opposite purposes with two opposed powers, Spain and Austria, at the same time, and Spain and Austria having happened to compare books and so ascertain his treachery, they resolved to deprive him of his newly-acquired crown, and wipe Sardinia out of the map of Europe. In this extremity he conceived the following Jesuitical scheme. Charles, his son, being of a mild, frank, and ingenuous nature, had shared none of his father’s treacheries: so Victor thought he could go through the form of resigning his crown, get Charles to accept it, and leave him to settle the difficulties with foreign powers, intending all the while to return again in a year or two, and dispossess his son once more. This purpose he partly carried into effect. Charles by his honesty and candour really satisfied Spain and Austria, and saved the state; he further pacified his home subjects, who had been highly exasperated by the tyrannic policy of Victor. But Charles’s sense of duty prevented his resigning the sceptre, which he had sworn to keep for life, to hands so certain to misuse it; and Victor, unable to bully or wheedle his son out of the kingdom, intrigued with France, and entered into a conspiracy to bring a French army into the land. At this epoch, however, before he could carry this last scheme into execution, he died, and Charles remained in undisturbed possession of the crown. This union of a king with a foreign army against his own people, is what Voltaire denominated “a terrible event without consequences;” and from these simple elements Mr. Browning has produced a great dramatic work. It is composed, properly speaking, of two parts and four acts. The first division plays in 1730, when King Victor still reigns, at the period of his resignation of the crown: the second plays the year after, in 1731, under King Charles, when Victor returns to reassume, by fraud or force, his forfeit sovereignty. The principal characters, only four in number, (indeed these are absolutely the only speakers in the tragedy,) are Victor, Charles, D’Ormea, Victor’s minister, and subsequently Charles’s also, and Polyxena, [p. 369→] the wife of Charles; all these are admirably conceived and embodied. The self-distrust, but genuine worth and feeling, of Charles are touchingly delineated. His noble wife, who teaches him to esteem himself, and is throughout his mainstay, covering all his deficiencies, and breathing her own spirit of greatness into him, is one of the noblest female portraitures we ever met with. Admirable in their way, too, are Victor and D’Ormea. The scene betwixt the former on his return to Turin and his son is a perfect master-piece of its kind. It is difficult to give any extracts from such a work as this, which should give any due idea of its merits; it is so pre-eminently real and dramatic, that scarcely a word could be spared. It is not, indeed, devoid of faults. Probability is, we think, sometimes sacrificed to effect; and the reader not previously acquainted with the history on which the drama is founded, is not likely to understand for some time what King Victor and his minister D’Ormea are individually and conjointly driving at. We want a clue of some kind at the beginning which is not provided us. We will conclude with quoting a few lines from Victor’s half-remorseful soliloquy, when he returns to deprive his son of the crown he had so nobly earned; though we question whether the reader will be able to appreciate them apart from the context:—
’Faith,
This kind of step is pitiful—not due
To Charles, this stealing back—hither, because
He’s from his Capitol! Oh Victor! Victor!
But thus it is: The age of crafty men
Is loathsome: youth contrives to carry off
Dissimulation; we may intersperse
Extenuating passages of strength,
Ardour, vivacity, and wit, may turn
Even guile into a voluntary grace:
But one’s old age, when graces drop away,
And leave guile the pure staple of our lives,—
Ah, loathsome!
And how nobly is this confirmed by Charles’s subsequent speech to his father!—
Keep within your sphere, and mine;
It is God’s province we usurp on else.—
Here, blindfold through the maze of things we walk,
By a slight thread—of false, true,—right and wrong:
All else is rambling and presumption.
We pass to the next work in these volumes, a play, entitled “Colombe’s Birthday,” of a lighter and happier character; in which the question seems to be, in the Poet’s own words, “Is [p. 370→] Love or Vanity the best?” The plot is somewhat complicated. We will not attempt to unravel it here. Colombe, however, (so much we may say,) is presumed Duchess of Juliers and Cleves; but it turns out that she is barred by the Salic law, and her kinsman, Prince Berthold, takes possession; he, on his accession, makes some amends by proffering her his hand. She prefers, however, to resign royalty, and confer happiness on Valence, the Advocate of Cleves; the only man who stood by her in the hour of trial, when all her former courtiers shrank away. The tendencies of this work might appear democratic at first sight; but we question their being so in reality. When Colombe talks of the loss of her duchy as a trifle, Valence replies:—
Ill have I spoken, if you thence despise
Juliers. Though the lowest on true grounds
Be worth more than the highest rule on false,
Aspire to rule on the true grounds!
And again, where Valence speaks of the miseries of the manufacturers of Cleves, his townsmen, and inquires, wherefore they do not rise, arms in their hands, to redress their wrongs by brute force, he thus proceeds:—
There is a Vision in the heart of each,
Of justice, mercy, wisdom, tenderness
To wrong and pain, and knowledge of its cure;
And these embodied in a Woman’s Form,
That best transmits them, pure as first received,
From God above her to mankind below.
Our royal mistress, Queen Victoria, would scarcely disapprove of this description. It is impossible to enumerate the many, even the chief, points of excellence in this play. Grace is its prevailing characteristic; but that grace is accompanied by very striking power and dignity, displayed whenever there is occasion for them. A very remarkable and successfully depicted character is that of Prince Berthold, the noble-hearted man of the world; only a man of the world, and yet noble-hearted. We are at a loss again for fitting extracts, but will cull a few beauties here and there; though no procedure can be more unjust to Mr. Browning, who is a dramatist, not an English playwright; who creates a whole, and does not seek for prettynesses and gems and the order of passages which English critics almost invariably regard as the tests of dramatic power! It may be affirmed, indeed, with justice, that no civilized nation’s critics are so ignorant of the first principles of the dramatic art as those of our country. How this should be, with Shakspeare’s great example, it might seem difficult to conceive; but Shakspeare, with all his glories, [p. 371→] had, perhaps, too decided a predilection for the didactic; and it is precisely this one drawback to his otherwise matchless power which is regarded as his superlative excellence by our English critics. To resume: We will first cite a few lines spoken by Valence, who brings a petition from the starving people of Cleves to the Duchess, and is informed that it is her birthday, therefore, no time for business. Valence replies:
I know, that the Great,
For Pleasure born, should still be on the watch
To exclude Pleasure, when a Duty offers;
Even as the Lowly too, for Duty born,
May ever snatch a Pleasure if in reach:—
Both will have plenty of their birthright, Sir.
An example of the aptness and beauty of the epithets Mr. Browning employs may be discovered in these simple lines, addressed by the Duchess to Valence, when he appears as the spokesman of Cleves’ miseries; and she unsuspectingly says,
And you, Sir, are from Cleves?—How fresh in mind
The hour or two I pass’d at queenly Cleves!
She entertained me bravely; but the best
Of her good pageant seem’d its standers-by,
With insuppressive joy on every face.—
What says my ancient, famous, happy Cleves?
To which Valence responds:—
Take the truth, lady!—You are made for truth.
Prince Berthold’s half-remorseful doubts concerning the wisdom of his mere worldly career are graphically conveyed. His friend Melchior has been just rallying him on this head. Berthold soliloquizes:—
Say, this life,
I lead now, differs from the common life
Of other men, in mere degree, not kind,
Of joys and griefs,—still there is such degree:—
Mere largeness in a life is something, sure—
Enough to care about and struggle for
In this world. For this world, the size of things:
The sort of things, for that to come, no doubt!
Finely is Berthold afterwards described by Valence,—who thus speaks to Colombe:—
In that large eye there seem’d a latent pride,
To self-denial not incompetent;
But very like to hold itself dispensed
From such a grace. However, let us hope!—
He is a noble spirit in noble [p. 372→] form.
I wish, he less had bent that brow to smile,
As with the fancy how he could subject
Himself upon occasion to himself!—
From rudeness, violence, you rest secure:
But do not think your Duchy rescued yet!
The scene betwixt Valence and Colombe, at the end of the fourth act, is one of the most exquisite in any language: to be appreciated, it must be read from beginning to end, and then only in connexion with the rest of the play. We will only cite besides, Berthold’s speech to Colombe, when he demands her hand. She has asked whether he could wed her, if she did not yield her heart. He replies,—
When have I made pretension to your heart?
I give none. I shall keep your honour safe.
With mine, I trust you, as the sculptor trusts
Yon marble woman with the marble rose,
Loose on her hand, she never will let fall,
In graceful, slight, silent, security.
You will be proud of my world-wide career,
And I content in you the fair and good.
His last words, too, after Colombe has resigned the crown and plighted her faith to Valence, are very admirable; so admirable, that we must add them:—
Lady, well rewarded!—Sir, as well deserved!—
I could not imitate—I hardly envy—
I do admire you! All is for the best.—
Too costly a flower were you, I see it now,
To pluck and set upon my barren helm
To wither;—any garish plume will do.
We must leave “Colombe’s Birthday,” though we could find in our hearts to devote many more pages to this Play. It is likely to be an especial favourite with lady-readers, though the gravest men also may find much in it to command their admiration and respect. Perhaps its effects are here and there a little forced; but nothing is perfect, and “Colombe’s Birthday” as nearly approaches perfection, as any modern dramatic work we are acquainted with; even as Grillparzer’s master-pieces, which a little man like Carlyle has presumed to speak of as the productions of a playwright.
We have now arrived at the most pathetic, and in many respects, the most beautiful, but also the most painful perhaps, of all Mr. Browning’s dramas; we allude to the domestic tragedy of “A Blot in the ’Scutcheon.” It is not free, we fear, from morbid and even evil tendencies. The hero and heroine of the [p. 373→] piece, both supposed to be very young and noble in their characters, have “fallen, fallen, fallen, from their high estate:” the lover’s desire, (his name is Earl Mertoun,) is to make the only reparation in his power, and wed the lady. What is most objectionable, is, that there is scarcely supposed to have been any criminality, real innocence of heart and mind being the prevailing characteristic of either and both of the offenders. It is true, that they are most grievously punished; that after suffering all the pangs of remorse, they are doomed to an early death: still, the sympathy created for them may be dangerous in its effects, and the halo cast around them may mislead. Yet there is so much of moral, and even religious beauty in this drama, that we know not how to condemn it. The lovers already alluded to, Mildred and Earl Mertoun, are charmingly depicted; but Thorold, Lord Tresham, Mildred’s brother, is the real hero of the play, and in him perhaps the interest centres. He is the noblest of English noblemen: his only fault is too great pride. Guendolen, his cousin, thus describes him: she is speaking to Mildred:—
Thorold (a secret) is too proud by half,—
Nay, hear me out! With us he’s even gentler,
Than we are with our birds. Of this great House
The least Retainer, that e’er caught his glance,
Would die for him, real dying, no mere talk;
And in the world, the court, if men would cite
The perfect spirit of honour, Thorold’s name
Rises of its clear nature to their lips.
But he should take men’s homage, trust in it,
And care no more about what drew it down.
He has desert, and that, acknowledgment:
Is he content?
And this Thorold’s sister is the secretly fallen Mildred, whom he thus describes to Earl Mertoun, when the latter comes openly to sue for her hand:—
What’s to say,
May be said briefly. She has never known
A mother’s care: I stand for father too.
Her beauty is not strange to you, it seems:
You cannot know the good and tender heart,
Its girl’s trust, and its woman’s constancy;
How pure, yet passionate; how calm, yet kind;
How grave, yet joyous; how reserved, yet free
As light, where friends are,—how imbued with lore
The world most prizes; yet, the simplest, yet
The .... One might know I talk’d of Mildred;—thus
We brothers talk! [p. 374→]
His horror, when he learns her guilt, unconscious of its partner, (as he remains till he has wounded Mertoun to the death,) may be easily conceived. The scene in which this is developed, betwixt Mildred and Thorold, is one of the most pathetic we have ever read. He therein says, whilst yet afraid to come to the point, unwilling to believe the possibility of her guilt,—
Mildred—here’s a line—
(Don’t lean on me!—I’ll English it for you)
“Love conquers all things.”—What love conquers them?
What love should you esteem—best love?
Mildred. True love.
Tresham. I mean, and should have said, whose love is best
Of all that love, or that profess to love?
Mildred. The list’s so long—there’s father’s, mother’s, husband’s ....
Tresham. Mildred, I do believe, a brother’s love
For a sole sister must exceed them all!—
For see now, only see! there’s no alloy
Of earth, that creeps into the perfect’st gold
Of other loves, no gratitude to claim.
You never gave her life, not even aught
That keeps life, never tended her, instructed,
Enrich’d her; so your love can claim no right
O’er hers, save pure love’s claim: that’s what I call
Freedom from earthliness.—You’ll never hope
To be such friends, for instance, she and you,
As when you hunted cowslips in the woods,
Or play’d together in the meadow hay?
Oh, yes: with age respect comes, and your worth
Is felt; there’s growing sympathy of tastes,
There’s ripen’d friendship, there’s confirm’d esteem—
—Much head these make against the New-comer!
The startling apparition, the strange youth,—
Whom one half-hour’s conversing with,—or, say,
Mere gazing at,—shall change (beyond all change
This Ovid ever sang about), your soul:
.... Her soul, that is,—the sister’s soul!—With her
’Twas winter yesterday: now all is warmth,
The green leaf’s springing, and the turtle’s voice,
“Arise and come away!”—Come whither?—Far
Enough from the esteem, respect, and all
The brother’s somewhat insignificant
Array of rights!—All which he knows before,
Has calculated on so long ago,—
I think, such love, (apart from yours and mine,)
Contented with its little term of life,
Intending to retire betimes, aware
How soon the background must be place for it,— [p. 375→]
I think, am sure, a brother’s love exceeds
All the world’s loves in its unworldliness.
We shall tell no more of this sad tale, and cite no more passages from it, referring our readers to the original drama, where they may discover “through the troubled surface” as Tresham subsequently says,
A depth of purity immovable.
Guendolen is very gracefully depicted.
The next Tragedy, “The Return of the Druses,” is not one of our special favourites. Mr. Browning’s main defects, a want of clearness, and a tendency to sacrifice truth to effect, are very conspicuous in it. The hero Djabal, as we have already said, wishes to gain a noble end by base means, for which he is rightly punished. Our only sympathy throughout (with the exception of a slight regard for Khalil, Anael’s, the heroine’s, brother) is with Loys de Dreux, a Knight-Novice of the Hospitallers, duped by Djabal, and bent on saving the Druses, without the slightest suspicion of their intended conspiracy against his order. Nothing can be finer and more effective in its way than the scene in which he finally learns the truth from the traitor Djabal’s lips, and thus acts thereon:—
Loys. (springing at the khandjar (or dagger)
Djabal had thrown down, seizes him by the throat.)
Thus by his side am I!
Thus I resume my knighthood and its warfare,
Thus end thee, miscreant, in thy pride of place!—
Thus art thou caught! Without, thy dupes may cluster,
Friends aid thee, foes avoid thee,—“thou art Hakeem,”
How say they?—“God art thou!” But also here
Is the least, meanest, youngest, the Church calls
Her servant; and his single arm avails
To aid her as she lists: I rise, and thou
Art crush’d! Hordes of thy Druses flock without:
Here thou hast me, who represent the Cross,
Honour, and Faith ’gainst Hell, Mahmoud, and thee!
Die!
This is undoubtedly sufficiently spirited. We would not be misunderstood: there is much that is extremely beautiful in this Tragedy also, and it is only by comparison with Mr. Browning’s other creations that we are induced or enabled to disparage it. The stirring interest maintained throughout, the concentration of the action within a few hours, the various individualities so forcibly and dramatically sustained, are worthy of all praise. There is some beautiful poetry placed in the lips of Khalil and Anael. [p. 376→] The characters of the Order’s Prefect and the Nuncio, both specimens of thorough villany, are admirably conceived and embodied. On the other hand, the motives in various instances are not as clear as might be desired. Djabal is decidedly ambiguous: he does not seem to know himself whether he loves or not; and though this may be said to be a part of his character, it is certainly not comfortable. Anael’s motives, too, are throughout only indicated, and not sufficiently or clearly indicated; her intention of slaying the Prefect would never be guessed by the vast majority of readers. We do not like alterations in published works; but this play might certainly be rendered far superior to what it is.
We now come to a very great work, one of Mr. Browning’s greatest indeed, the “Tragedy,” or rather the dramatic Poem, of “Luria.” In this, Genius is shown in conflict with obstinate mediocrity which will not believe in it, which will persist in attributing all manner of unnatural motives to its every action, and which finally accomplishes its ruin. Another view of this piece would present to us the contrast betwixt Luria, the impulsive half-savage Moor, and the comparatively Northern Machiavelian prudent Florentines, betwixt impulse in fact and worldly wisdom. Regard it as we will, “Luria” is a great work, and deserving of far other notice than we can bestow upon it here. There are some strained effects in it, some striking improbabilities, and there is a final suicide (of which the poetic effect is great), which we cannot admire from a moral or religious point of view. We can only hope that “Luria” was not a Christian; for then the deed of ignorance might be forgiven. It is certain that this excuse would not have availed poor Thorold. To resume: One unnatural circumstance we may not pass without direct censure. Luria, it must be observed, is the General of the Florentine army against the Pisans; Braccio, his great common-sense worldly adversary, is the Commissary of the Republic in the camp. Now a certain Florentine lady, called Domizia, is also there: we are not at all informed for what expressed purpose. We learn, indeed, that Braccio has had her placed there to entrap Luria; and that her secret wish is to lead Luria to rebellion against Florence, which she hopes to destroy through him; but all this does not bring us a step nearer any avowed motive for her presence, which is indeed wholly wanting. This deficiency greatly injures the effect of the part she takes in the play, and tends to give an unreality to the whole. Here, too, an argument seems needful. At all events, no one, we should say, would clearly understand the work, on his first perusal of it. But we must not pause for further comments. Our readers will thank us more for [p. 377→] a few extracts. Luria’s character is admirably conveyed in a speech which he makes to Braccio and Domizia in the first act:—
I wonder, do you guess, why I delay,
Involuntarily, the final blow,
As long as possible?—Peace follows it!—
Florence at peace; and the calm studious heads
Come out again, the penetrating eyes:
As if a spell broke, all’s resumed; each art,
You boast, more vivid that it slept awhile!
’Gainst the glad heaven, o’er the white palace-front,
The interrupted scaffold climbs anew;
The walls are peopled by the painter’s brush;
The statue to its niche ascends to dwell:
The Present’s noise and trouble have retired,
And left the eternal Past to rule once more.—
You speak its speech and read its records plain;
Greece lives with you, each Roman breathes your friend;—
—But Luria,—where will then be Luria’s place?
The unaffected humility and candour of genius breathe from every line of this, and a similar spirit is sustained throughout. Braccio, however, chooses to believe this “childishness,” as he calls it, affected; he cannot conceive that such a leader should be so wanting in worldly wisdom; he suspects him of a secret design to turn Florence’s arms against her; and so, whilst he is winning her battles, Braccio sends such reports to the Senators as induce them to pass a secret sentence of death upon him. This Luria learns from Tiburzio, the Pisan General, who is ushered to his presence by Husain, a Moor, and Luria’s friend. We must not pass Husain without his meed of praise. In him is personified the true African instinct, whether of rage or love: he all but adores Luria as a God, and hates all the Florentines, against whom he warns him. He says:—
There stands a wall
’Twixt our expansive and explosive race
And these absorbing concentrating men.
But we must not keep Tiburzio waiting. We may return later to Husain.—The Pisan General comes. He remains alone with Luria, he proffers him the proof of Florentine treachery, and conjures him to open the intercepted missive, and act thereon, as he may feel inclined. Luria replies at last:—
And act on what I read? What act were fit?—
If the firm-fix’d foundation of my faith [p. 378→]
In Florence, which to me stands for mankind,
If that breaks up, and, disemprisoning
From the abyss.... Ah, friend, it cannot be!
You may be very sage yet—all the world
Having to fail, or your sagacity,
You do not wish to find yourself alone.
What would the world be worth? Whose love be sure?—
The world remains—you are deceived!
He refuses then to open the missive. Tiburzio expresses his admiration and goes. The following soliloquy of Luria’s is so grand, and so characteristic of our author, that we cannot find in our heart to omit or even to shorten it:—
My heart will have it, he speaks true! My blood
Beats close to this Tiburzio as a friend.—
If he had stept into my watch-tent, night
And the wild desert full of foes around,
I should have broke the bread and given the salt
Secure, and, when my hour of watch was done,
Taken my turn to sleep between his knees,
Safe in the untroubled brow and honest cheek.—
Oh, world, where all things pass, and nought abides!
Oh, life, the long mutation!—Is it so?
Is it with life, as with the body’s change?
Where, e’en tho’ better follow, good must pass;
Nor manhood’s strength can mate with boyhood’s grace,
Nor age’s wisdom in its turn find strength;
But silently the first gift dies away,
And though the new stays, never both at once!—
Life’s time of savage instinct’s o’er with me:
It fades and dies away, past trusting more;
As if to punish the ingratitude
With which I turn’d to grow in these new lights,
And learn’d to look with European eyes.—
Yet it is better, this cold certain way;
Where Braccio’s brow tells nothing, Puzzio’s mouth,
Domizia’s eyes reject the searcher;—yes:
For on their calm sagacity I lean,
Their sense of right, deliberate choice of good;
Sure, as they know my deeds, they deal with me.
Yes, that is better,—that is best of all!
Such faith stays when mere wild belief would go.
Yes,—when the desert creature’s heart, at fault
Amid the scattering tempest’s pillar’d sands,
Betrays its steps into the pathless drift,—
The calm instructed eye of man holds fast
By the sole bearing of the visible star, [p. 379→]
Sure, that when slow the whirling wreck subsides,
The boundaries, lost now, shall be found again,
The palm-trees and the pyramid over all.—
Yes; I trust Florence,—Pisa is deceived!
Alas, poor Luria, he is deceived. But we cannot directly pursue the narrative. He remains true to Florence; he fights and wins for her; then learns his intended doom. The adoring army is at his beck and call, and the faithful Husain urges him to vengeance. He says:—
There lie beneath thee thine own multitudes—
Sawest thou?
Luria. I saw.
Husain. Then, hold thy course, my king!—
The years return.—Let thy heart have its way!
And, again, further on:—
Oh, friend, oh, lord,—for me,
What am I?—I was silent at thy side,
That am a part of thee—It is thy hand,
Thy foot, that glows, when in the heart fresh blood
Boils up, thou heart of me!
And, finally,
Both armies against Florence! Take revenge!
Wide, deep,—to live upon in feeling now,
And after, in remembrance, year by year,
And, with the dear conviction, die at last!—
She lies now at thy pleasure:—pleasure have!”
Luria, however, resists this and all other temptations. His only vengeance on Florence is to destroy himself by poison, from love for her, lest she should incur the disgrace of his punishment:—before his death, his true greatness is acknowledged by one after the other of those Florentines who have been leagued against him: finally, even the worldly-wise Braccio bows down before the purity of Genius. But it is all too late—he dies!—One more passage we must cite from one of Luria’s later speeches:—
My own East!
How nearer God we were! He glows above
With scarce an intervention, presses close
And palpitatingly, His soul o’er ours!
We feel him, nor by painful reason know!
The everlasting minute of creation
Is felt there; now it is, as it was then:—
All changes, at His instantaneous will; [p. 380→]
Not by the operation of a law,
Whose maker is elsewhere at other work!
His soul is still engaged upon his world,
Man’s praise can forward it, man’s prayer suspend:
For is not God Almighty?
And now we pass on to the last of Mr. Browning’s longer works, socially and politically, perhaps, the most important of them all, entitled “The Soul’s Tragedy,” a wild species of Drama, the design and execution of which are thoroughly after our own heart. It is written for the purpose of flaying alive (if we may so express ourselves) certain morbid restless “byronisers” and troublesome democrats to be found in all countries in this our age. The hero, the representative of this class, called Chiappino, is a citizen of the Italian town Faenza, which is under papal domination. No matter, however, what the government may be, Chiappino is one of those who will always be found on the side of opposition (unless, indeed, they have secured the loaves and fishes for themselves); loud, noisy, turbulent, a mischief-maker by profession. Nevertheless, some good men are taken in by his high-sounding liberalism, and our Chiappino has a friend called Luitolfo, who is one of these. The Provost, who governs Faenza under the Pope, has not improperly banished this very odious fellow: he is in Luitolfo’s house, with Eulalia, the latter’s betrothed, whilst the honest, comparatively conservative friend, has gone to intercede for him with the Provost. He amuses himself in the mean time with abusing Luitolfo, whom he hates on account of his happy, genial nature, which contrasts with his own currish temperament. He derides what he calls his friend’s “wise passiveness,” and says most characteristically of himself:—
True, I thank God, I ever said “you sin,”
When a man did sin: if I could not say it,
I glared it at him; if I could not glare it,
I pray’d against him. Then, my part seem’d over.
God’s may begin yet: so it will, I trust.
Not contented with this, Chiappino gets up a little additional misery on the score of his being madly in love with Eulalia, though he has never mentioned it: oh, no! he loved too deeply for that. Talking was all very well for Luitolfo, with his “slight, free, loose, and incapacious soul.” The fellow proceeds a long time in this strain. He is interrupted by Luitolfo’s arrival, who, maddened by the Provost’s refusal to spare his worthless friend, had actually come to blows with him, and left him for dead: of course he is very remorseful for this deed. Chiappino brightens up and resolves to act the martyr. Luitolfo shall fly in his stead. [p. 381→] He will remain, and accept the penalty of this heroic deed. Luitolfo, half deadened by horror, goes. The mob are heard approaching. Chiappino’s vain-glorious heroism, which must be prating, is admirably conveyed:—
How the people tarry!
I can’t be silent … I must speak … or sing—
How natural to sing now!
To this twaddle Eulalia very finely responds:—
Hush, and pray!
We are to die; but even I perceive,
Tis not a very hard thing, so to die.
We cannot quote all her speech. Chiappino flashes forth again:—
If they would drag one to the market-place,
One might speak there!
“Ay, Lady Beatrice, you must still be talking.” Well, the mob arrives. Chiappino shouts instantly, “I killed the Provost.” The mob, instead of being furious, are in transports of delight: they hail with rapture the doer of this mighty deed; and we may be well assured Chiappino is not the man to disclaim their gratitude. Eulalia turns an inquiring glance upon him. He responds to her thought, and talks vaguely of confession on the morrow. That morrow never comes. We cannot pursue the narrative to its close. The diplomatic skill and deep craft of the Pope’s Legate, Ogniben, is admirably contrasted with Chiappino’s shallow selfishness. The Legate stays the revolution by offering to make Chiappino the new Provost, after a certain interval: all the while, his intention is to turn upon him when he has got him into his power. But your liberal bites at the bait. How the catastrophe is brought about, how Luitolfo is pardoned for his manliness in finally coming forward and owning his crime, and Chiappino is dismissed with quiet contempt, utterly crest-fallen, we cannot pause to explain. This heading is put above the work by its author, with quiet but exquisite irony: “A Soul’s Tragedy. Part first, being what was called the Poetry of Chiappino’s Life; and Part second, its Prose.” Further extracts from this work would be of little benefit, unless we discussed and exhibited its high merits at due length, and for this we have no space. We must therefore go forward, remarking only that the prose of the second part breathes some of the most bitter, but also the most salutary satire, with which we are at all acquainted.
We have now arrived at the last division of Mr. Browning’s literary labours,—labours, no doubt, of love,—his “Dramatic [p. 382→] Lyrics and Romances.” As has been already observed, they are so many monodramas, that is, directly dramatic utterances under special circumstances of so many imaginary speakers, in lyric forms; but there are a few exceptions to this rule. Thus the “Cavalier Tunes,” which head the series, are not strictly individual; though perhaps this can only be said with truth of the first of them, with its stirring refrain, (Kentish loyalists are singing):
Marching along, fifty score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.
Of course, these lyrics, or monodramas, or whatever we may call them, are replete with Mr. Browning’s usual earnestness and fiery vitality. They are extremely abrupt, and consequently, (speaking generally,) by no means easy to understand. The very first poem following the “Cavalier Tunes,” strangely enough entitled, “My Last Duchess: Ferrara,” and embodying Italian morbid jealousy, would no doubt be a perfect puzzle to most readers, without some clue to its meaning. The speaker is an Italian Duke, who is receiving the envoy of a neighbouring potentate, sent to offer him the hand of that potentate’s daughter in marriage. The Duke is supposed to lead the envoy through his picture gallery, to pause suddenly before the portrait of his late Duchess, slain by his jealousy, and, drawing back the veil from it, to break out thus, in a tone of assumed indifference:—
That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now.
Such is the colloquial style of the majority of Mr. Browning’s lyrics. The Italian’s jealousy is thus finely indicated:—
She had
A heart … how shall I say? .. too soon made glad, ..
Too easily impress’d:—she liked whate’er
She look’d on, and her looks went every where.—
Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the west,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her,—the white mule
She rode with round the terrace,—all and each
Would draw from her, alike, the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thank’d men,—good; but thank’d
Somehow, .. I know not how, .. as if she rank’d
My gift of a nine hundred years’ old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? * * *
* * * * * * [p. 383→]
Oh, Sir, she smiled no doubt,
Whene’er I pass’d her: but who pass’d without
Much the same smile? This grew!—I gave commands:—
Then all smiles stopp’d together!
There is a quiet and deadly earnestness in this, which cannot fail to strike those who duly apprehend it. But the theme is not a pleasant one. The next, with another odd heading enough (it requires an argument prefixed,) is sweet and touching, though also too abrupt as it stands. We cannot notice each of these romances in particular. The “Madhouse Cells” are remarkably powerful: the first embodies the musings of a mad predestinarian, and is very terrible; the second is truthful, passionate, and beautiful. All the world will be delighted with “the Pied Piper of Hamelin,” written for a child, and, for Browning, marvellously easy of comprehension. It is charming throughout; but extracts would convey no fitting idea of it, and therefore we give none. “How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix,” an adventure told by a horseman, is wonderfully spirited and graphic. Mr. Browning does not write about “the ride,” as another man would do; he does not even describe it: he gives us the very thing itself. We have the reality, not its image or its shadow. “Pictor Ignotus,” is finely conceived and executed. The idea is that of an Italian Painter of the 16th century, who might have been great as Raphael in the world’s esteem, if he had not shrunk alike from vulgar praise and censure, and preferred to remain unknown.
Wherefore I chose my portion.—If, at whiles,
My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint
These endless cloisters, and eternal aisles
With the same series, Virgin, Babe, and Saint,
With the same cold, calm, beautiful regard,—
At least, no merchant traffics in my heart;
The sanctuary’s gloom, at least, shall ward
Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart.
There is more, finer even than this, but from such perfect “wholes,” it is most difficult to extract. The segment of a circle gives but an imperfect notion of completeness. Next comes an extremely truthful soliloquy spoken by an Italian exile in England, which contains very great beauties, but is withal so simple, so natural, so intensely real, that to vulgar observation it might at first sight seem common place. “The Englishman in Italy,” we like less; but this, too has its merits, especially the description of the Festival:—
To-morrow’s the Feast
Of the Rosary’s Virgin, by no means [p. 384→]
Of Virgins the least—
As you’ll hear in the off-hand discourse,
Which (all nature, no art,)
The Dominican brother, these three weeks,
Was getting by heart.
Very spirited is the next song, “The Lost Leader,” commencing,—
Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat:—
And containing these fine lines, (despite their falsity, for if there ever was a literary aristocrat, Shakspeare was one,)—
We that had loved him so, follow’d him, honour’d him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye;
Learn’d his great language, caught his clear accents;
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakspeare was of us, Milton was for us;
Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they fight from their graves!
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves.
“The Flower’s Name” is a soft fanciful soliloquy, in lyric form, spoken by a lover, who recounts how his mistress visited his garden.
This flower she stopp’d at, finger on lip,
Stoop’d over, in doubt, as settling its claim,
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name.
What a name! Was it love, or praise?
Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake?
I must learn Spanish one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name’s sake.
Another admirable composition is “The Flight of the Duchess,” a tale, dramatically told by an old forester. Perhaps it is rather too lengthy in parts; at least, there is one unnecessary episode (very clever in itself) respecting gipsy trades. We cannot speak as favourably of the moral of this composition, for we do not like a wife’s being spirited away from her husband, however unworthy of her, even by her own gipsy race. Marriage is, in our eyes, an indissoluble tie. But Mr. Browning does not speak in his own person, and has seriously disclaimed in a certain note the opinions expressed by his lyric “dramatis personæ.” A strange wild legend, replete with mystic beauty, is “The Boy and the Angel.” We have no space to quote it. “Saul,” which is a long soliloquy spoken by the youthful David, has rare excel- [p. 385→] lencies, but is not yet completed, a Second Part having to follow. The strange fragment called “Time’s Revenges” is extremely powerful in its way. “The Glove,” the last in the collection, is a tale told by the French Poet, “Peter Ronsard,” or rather a new version of the old story—how a lady, to prove her own power and her lover’s faith, threw her glove among wild beasts and bade the lover fetch it. Our readers may remember how Schiller and Leigh Hunt have treated this theme. Mr. Browning has “reversed the medal,” and takes the lady’s part with great tact and cleverness. In truth, this poem is marked by a wonderful command of language and an overflow of biting humour. On the whole, these Lyrics and Romances are well worthy of their author; and that is saying much. They are unlike any thing else we are acquainted with; for Southey’s monodramas, very fine in their way, have another cast; and Tennyson’s dramatic lyrics, such as “Ulysses,” are more reflective and contemplative, though very noble also. That passion, that intensity, that power, which is the marked characteristic of Mr. Browning, is conspicuous throughout them. They are not altogether free from morbid tendencies and exaggerations,—witness “The Confessional,” and “The Tomb at St. Praxed’s,” though both of these have merit: they are sometimes painful; but they are always forcible, and in some instances graceful and pleasant also.—We have noticed the series very cursorily, and Mr. Browning is not a Poet who can be done justice to in a few words. He must be illustrated and elucidated with care. No author more requires interpreters to stand betwixt him and the public: and where, in the present dearth of taste or common sense in the critical world, when the English of a Carlyle is thought sublime, and the artificial and conventional are in almost all cases preferred to the truthful, are we to look for such interpreters? Mr. Browning must bide his time, secure of his own greatness, and of the world’s awaking sooner or later to a just appreciation of it. Even now a change is manifest; a new and complete edition of his works is called for, and proof is thereby afforded that the public is beginning to open its eyes.
We have said, on a former occasion, that Browning is most properly classed with Tennyson, and with Miss Barrett, now Mrs. Robert Browning and our poet’s wife. The first has less intensity, but perhaps more grace and finish; at all events his talent is mainly and primarily lyric, while Mr. Browning’s is almost exclusively dramatic. Mrs. Robert Browning possesses perhaps closer poetical affinities with her husband than with Tennyson, having displayed much of the same dramatic intensity. She is a very great poetess, probably the greatest this country [p. 386→] has possessed, and may yet achieve even nobler things than she has presented to us. These three, however, Tennyson and the Brownings (as we may now call them), possess in common a peculiar aristocratic grace and refinement, never perhaps exhibited in such an eminent degree, save by the ever matchless Shakspeare; and a certain deep pathos is also common to them, together with a general reality, of a kind which is almost new to poetry. They are not devoid of faults; and are addicted in some degree to the use of a marked phraseology of their own, which may be thought conventional. But, after all, we scarcely know how to blame this, since we believe it is natural to them.
[Archer Thompson Gurney]
Reviewed:
Poems (RB), London: Chapman & Hall, 1849.
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