R530716A. Poems (1859).
Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal, 16 July 1853, pp. 39–41.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 19, 398–400.
It has been customary, with what amount of correctness we will not stay to inquire, to speak of the “schools of the poets.” The expression has, perhaps, been more directly applied to modern English writers than to any others; and if we are to believe that, generally speaking, they can be classed into so many grand divisions, each presided over by a powerful influential mind, we must of necessity consider somewhat in the light of outlaws those whose works give no indication of submission to such control. One of these is Robert Browning, certainly among the most remarkable of living English poets, and to whom Walter Savage Landor—one whose compliments are rare—has paid the graceful tribute of admiration expressed in these lines:
Since Chaucer was alive and hale,
No man hath walked along our roads with step
More active, more inquiring eye, or tongue
More varied in discourse.
If Mr Browning is thus appreciated by one of the greatest of his contemporaries, he does not, however, enjoy the popularity which men of much less genius have acquired; nor is he even known to many of those who are really lovers of poetry.
Were this altogether the fault of the poet himself, we might almost infer that the world was nothing the worse for its ignorance of him. He is only partially to blame, however; for while some of his works are sufficiently obscure to deter even the most refined reader, and far too much so ever to become popular in any sense whatever, the greater part of them are really very beautiful, of a highly original character, and deserving of a very wide circulation. They are simple enough to be understood in everything that constitutes them sources of enjoyment—no ordinary recommendation, when we see how largely some in our day act upon Wordsworth’s contentment—“to enjoy the things which others understand.” They require no other faculty than that which the most ordinary reader brings to bear upon the perusal of our best known English writers; and if we could forget that Robert Browning had written anything but one or two fine dramatic poems, and a series of still finer lyrical ones, we should be wholly at a loss to understand why he is not as well known as any writer of our times. We cannot, however, shut our eyes to the fact, that he has taken great liberties with the public, and even with that portion of it who readily appreciate the most subtile and refined kind of poetry. The author of Paracelsus put forth strong claims on the attention of all who could perceive and enjoy the most delicate and beautiful expressions of poetic genius. That work was eminently calculated to awaken hopes of something very noble and powerful in the future; but when Mr Browning chose to address himself to a small—we should say, a very small circle, in his Sordello, rather than to fulfil the promise of his first essay, it was very natural that something like dissatisfaction should have been felt by his admirers. Subsequent writings deepened this dissatisfaction into an impression that the poet had abandoned altogether the intention of writing intelligibly, or of making himself heard, as the poet ought to be; and as the public is little disposed to give itself trouble about understanding poetry which it cannot feel, much that he has since written has been received with a certain degree of jealousy—certainly not with that frank admiration to which a large portion of it is entitled.
It has always been admitted by those whom, in the above sentence, we have dignified by the application of the term public, that Mr Browning is a writer of undoubted genius. Even in his most obscure productions, there have always been evidences of that; but the complaint is, that he has frequently marred the expressions of that genius by conceits and affected quaintnesses in the structure of his poems, not less than in the style and the language of them. Thus, in his dramas, he has chosen some of the most singular and meaningless titles; Pippa Passes is the name he gives to one, in which there are many passages of great power. Although this drama is strongly marked by dramatic force, its structure wholly unfits it for representation. Its title is taken from the circumstance of a little factory-girl passing the abodes of guilt and crime, of fierce passion and terrible remorse; yet, upon this slight basis, so to speak, Mr Browning has brought together an amount of vigorous characterisation, a deep knowledge of the human heart’s outgoings, and an exuberance of fancy not often to be met with in a single modern poem. The Soul’s Tragedy is another curious title to a work which the author does not profess even to call a dramatic poem; but which, amid much that is obscure, and a great deal that is not generally sought for in a poem—namely, deep and philosophic thought—contains many passages of beautiful poetry. Colombe’s Birthday, a play which, after having been considered unfit for the stage for several years, has recently been successfully performed, is more in keeping with the established rules of dramatic composition. It is a tale of love and romance—almost equal in these characteristics to the incident of the ballad which tells how “King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid.” There is a chivalrous spirit about, and at the same time a generous appreciation of, the nobility of nature, which gives it at once a pleasing and ennobling influence.
The Blot on the Scutcheon is another of Mr Browning’s dramatic works of the orthodox character. It has already been represented, but not successfully; for, as in the case of the other, the characters are drawn with delicacy rather than breadth of outline, and the subject is scarcely fitted to affect a miscellaneous audience. This tragedy abounds, too, with very beautiful poetry. There is one lyric in it—a song or serenade sung to the hapless heroine—which we have always admired for a combination of sweetness and quaintness, not unlike that which distinguishes some of the old Elizabethan lyrists, although the rhythm is a specimen of Mr Browning’s peculiar fancy for strange cadences.
Mr Browning has published two other tragedies—one entitled The Return of the Druses, and the other Luria. [p. 40→] The latter is perhaps his most powerful work of its class, and contains an amount of dramatic energy which none of his other compositions exhibit. We content ourselves, however, with a mere passing reference to these things; and taking it for granted that his early poem Paracelsus is better known to the reader of poetry than we could make it by a few short extracts, we turn to his lyrics and ballads, which seem to us better fitted than any of his more elaborate productions, to obtain for him an introduction to those who have not hitherto been acquainted with his writings. These, together with some of the dramas which we have alluded to, made their appearance originally in numbers—rather a novel way of publishing original poetry—under the quaint, and by no means intelligible title, of Bells and Pomegranates. If Mr Browning’s object in publishing these poems as he did was at all akin to the object of cheap publications generally, they must have been a very signal failure. Judging of them as they so appeared, we can scarcely think it possible that any ordinary reader who bought one number would be likely to complete the set. By the ordinary reader, we mean the man of average intelligence and taste; for we have no doubt that some to whom Mr Browning’s peculiar poetical numbers had their charm would appreciate their cheapness, and buy them fast enough. His worst faults—these are his obscurity, and his partiality for every kind of odd rhyme—are found combined with his finest qualities as a ballad-writer in the compositions now referred to. In one page, you will find a certain number of verses evidently strung together at random—so jagged and disjointed in their measure, or so obscure in their allusions, that it is impossible to read them through with anything like satisfaction; in the next page, however, and under some singular title, a really powerful line will strike you; and on turning over another page, you find a poem beautiful alike as a conception and as an artistic production—full of fire, and carrying you onward with the fine impetuosity of genius. A poem of considerable length, entitled The Flight of the Duchess, is a good example of this; but as no idea of it can be given by a short extract, we prefer quoting a few lines from a very noble lyric, entitled The Lost Leader:—
We shall march prospering—not through his presence;
Songs may inspirit us—not from his lyre;
Deeds will be done, while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.
Blot out his name, then—record one lost soul more:
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod—
One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels—
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life’s night begins; let him never come back to us!
There will be doubt, hesitation, and pain—
Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,
Aim at our heart ere we pierce through his own;
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait for us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first at the throne.
Mr Browning is perfectly justified, we conceive, in calling his ballads and lyrical pieces, Dramatic Romances, for there can be no question as to dramatic force being the leading characteristic of his poetry generally. Whether he assumes the dialogue form or not, the spirit of dramatic writing is almost always to be found in his compositions. There is little of the descriptive, properly so called, about them, for action seems to be the fundamental idea; and while the characters, whether in his plays or his lyrics, never go out of their way to give us an account of any anterior circumstance, they frequently furnish us with strokes of the most vivid description. These, however, are given strictly in connection with the immediate business on hand. We may illustrate this by extracting a few verses from one of his most vigorous poems, entitled How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix. It matters little what the news here referred to purported, the fine idea of rapidity given in the measure, and the broad outlines of a picture so boldly dashed out, are proofs of no ordinary artistic power. One of the couriers is understood to narrate the incidents of the perilous ride, and he does it with a rollicking freedom particularly characteristic.
I sprang to the stirrup, and Ioris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
“Good speed!” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
“Speed!” echoed the walls to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace—
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place.
I turned in my saddle, and made its girths tight;
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right;
Rebucked the check-strap, chained slacker the bit;
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lockeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Duffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mechlin church-steeple, we heard the half chime;
So Ioris broke silence with: “Yet there is time.”
At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last
With resolute shoulders each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland the spray.
The steeds of Dirck and Ioris break down, and Roland is left
To bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate.
Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall;
Shook off both my jackboots, let go belt and all;
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is, friends flocking round
As I sate with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news to Ghent.
Now, we think this poem is one of a strikingly original character. In fact, we do not remember to have seen anything in our language which so fully conveys the idea indicated in its title. The artistic consistency of the measure is perfect; and not even in Burger’s ballads do we find anything surpassing it in vigorous expression. Nor is this all; there is a fine truthful feeling pervading it, while the lines we have italicised stand out in their imaginative strength like actual pictures before the eye. In a poem, entitled Saul, still in an incomplete form, Mr Browning gives us more manifest proofs of his imaginative power. The verses profess to give David’s account of his visit to the king of Israel when the evil spirit was upon him; and the picture given of the monarch shuddering as the darkness passes from his soul at the sound of the shepherd’s harp, is a very forcible one.
But we must pass on, to give the reader some idea of the poet’s humour, which is of a particularly quaint and racy kind, expressed in oddities of rhyme, as well as in curious and out-of-the-way fancies. There is an excellent example of this in a ballad, entitled The Pied [p. 41→] Piper of Hamelin—a metrical version of an old German story, shewing how the town was freed from a plague of rats by the notes of a mysterious piper’s reed, and the disastrous consequences which ensued from the said musician being refused his promised recompense of a thousand guilders. After proclaiming to the nonplussed and terrified corporation his ability to rid the town of the living nuisance—
Into the street the piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled;
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling,
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling,
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats;
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats;
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers;
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins;
Cocking tails, and pricking whiskers;
Families by tens and dozens;
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—
Followed the piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished,
Save one who, stout as Julius Cæsar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he the manuscript had cherished)
To Ratland home his commentary,
Which was: “At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And a moving away of pickle-tub boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out: “O rats rejoice!
The world is grown one vast drysaltery;
So munch on, crunch on, take your nunchion,
Breakfast, dinner, supper, luncheon!”
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun, shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said: “Come, bore me!”
I found the Weser rolling o’er me.
The town is cleared, but the piper’s reward is denied him, and again his wondrous instrument is heard in the street; this time, however, with a very different result—for all the children of the ungrateful burghers follow the mystic musician into a gateway which suddenly opens in a hillside. All, did we say? No, not all: one little lame boy could not dance after the piper the whole of the way; and in after-years he says—and there is a beautiful touch of feeling in the passage:—
It’s dull in our town since my playmates left;
I can’t forget that I’m bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the piper also promised me:
For he led us, he said, to a glorious land,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles’ wings;
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped, and I stood still,
Left alone against my will—
To go on limping as before,
And never hear of that country more.
There may be some who deem a poem like this somewhat too childish to elicit anything but a certain amount of amusement at the writer’s freakish fancy. With such we will not stop to discuss the question, as to whether the art that can convey moral lessons and touches of genuine feeling in connection with ludicrous or marvellous incidents is to be considered childish, but will merely remark, that the superior wisdom which rejects The Pied Piper of Hamelin, must also require us to cast aside almost all those simple creations of genius which form so much of the literary treasures of England and Germany. There are other examples of Mr Browning’s peculiar humour which might be quoted—one of them, in particular, shewing us how he revenged himself on a pedantic author by dropping his learned treatise into the crevice of a plum-tree, and sticking a toadstool in his chapter six; but we have already given the reader enough to shew that his writings are worthy of being much better known than they have hitherto been, were they recommended by nothing more than their quaint originality. They have far higher recommendations, however, evincing, as they do, poetic genius of no common order. It ought not, we think, to be concluded, that because that genius has expressed itself in other than the ordinary forms of poetical composition, it is less likely to secure the attention of general readers. It has already been shewn, we hope, that some of Mr Browning’s best poetry is as simple as it is beautiful; and we have no hesitation in saying, that it will yet be better known, and that the obscurities, affectations, and whimsicalities will be pardoned for the sake of the true and sometimes lofty poetry his works contain.
We have taken no notice of Mr Browning’s latest work, Christmas-eve and Easter-day; for although it contains, in fuller measure, perhaps, than any of his other writings, those evidences of strong originality to which we have already referred, the subject is one of which we cannot properly give an outline. It is a metaphysical and essentially religious poem, though partaking to a very slight degree of the character of religious poetry generally. It is too full of close and subtile reasoning ever to be popular; for while it combines much that is striking in thought and imagery, with a high tone of devotional feeling, it has depths of spiritual experience into which the ordinary reader of poetry will scarcely be inclined to go.
Reviewed:
Poems (RB), London: Chapman & Hall, 1849.
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