R560700A. Men and Women.
The London Quarterly Review, July 1856, pp. 493–501.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 23, 375–378.
We presume that most readers of the present day, and our own among the number, have had the theory of poetry suffi- [p. 494→] ciently discussed before them. The subject has not been confined to separate essays on “Poetics;” for hardly is a single paper written to introduce some recent book of verses, but the critic launches into generalities of the most imposing kind, in which much that is true is very safely ventured on, and perhaps something that is new is rather modestly propounded. If there is no great harm in this practice, there is certainly a limit to its propriety and usefulness. An introduction of the kind referred to is not decisive of the author’s merits, even when it seems to bear most fairly on them; for so ample is the sphere and theory of poetry, and so great the ingenuity of our critical brethren, that a very partial statement may be invested with the air of a most complete one, and judgment given on the authority of minor canons, without suspicion raised of a larger and more equitable rule. For the purposes of justice, then, the practice is at least a doubtful, if not a dangerous, one. The scope for entertainment which it furnishes is more considerable; but at the same time nothing is so liable to degenerate into tediousness as any line of general remark, which necessarily involves so large an amount of repetitions and commonplaces. For these reasons, which both define and urge the claims of a due economy of time and space, we shall proceed at once to open our poetic budget.
The first author on our list tempts us to extend the depreciatory observations already made. With Mr. Browning before us we are strongly disposed to doubt the utility, not merely of prelusive canons, but of direct and special criticism. So far as the authors themselves are concerned, and especially those belonging to the minstrel tribe, it is likely that our office might cease without material loss or detriment. Poets of the highest stamp are their own severest censors; those of the second grade are commonly unalterable, the slaves of their own idiosyncrasy; while bards of the lowest order are too wilful to admit, or too feeble to profit by, either precept or reproof. Mr. Browning belongs to the second class, which is even more hopeless than the last. Mediocrity of poetic merit may be corrected by judicious criticism, and improved up to a certain point; but the native obliquity of genius is not to be reduced to a more perfect sphere. The defects of Mr. Browning’s poetry are as characteristic as its beauties: indeed, the former in some degree depend upon the latter, and by this time, at least, they are practically inseparable. We must then accept our author for what he is, and waste no time in fruitless lamentations or advice. The energy of highest genius works itself clear of all besetments, till both character and fame are “rounded as a star;” but no external influence is appreciable in this result. We think it very doubtful now, if the genius of Mr. Browning will issue from its nebulous retreat, and orb itself distinctly in our literary heaven: but certainly no [p. 495→] terrestrial power can operate upon him to that end. In his case, therefore, and in those of some others who also are more or less confirmed in their poetic character, we shall consult only the pleasure and improvement of our readers: we shall strictly observe and illustrate the phenomena as they arise before us, and make no reflections but such as fall directly from the mirror we hold up.
The earliest fruits of Mr. Browning’s muse—if we except the poem of “Sordello,” which the author appears to have repudiated, and which should not therefore be taken into account—were published, in series, under the symbolic name of “Bells and Pomegranates,” and consist of dramas and dramatic lyrics. His new poems differ very slightly in form, and still less in character, from these productions. The volumes entitled “Men and Women” consist entirely of lyrical monologues, about fifty in number. If the title of the first work was somewhat far-fetched and fantastical, that of the second is much too literal to be appropriate. There is music and perfume—recondite music and exotic perfume—in the one; but how limited and exceptional is the human nature of the other!
We have already intimated that Mr. Browning is so confirmed in his poetic ways, as to be far beyond the reach of salutary discipline. He may be held up as a warning, and in some few points commended as an example; but we have no idea that he is capable of profiting even by strictures which his own candid judgment may bow to and admit. His latest publication has satisfied our minds of this fact. The new poems of Mr. Browning are only so many new examples of his peculiar style,—a style still harsh, in spite of intimations of a hidden music, and still obscure, in spite of occasional gleams of happiest meaning. They show no improvement in the sense of genial growth, but only some advance of technic skill. They are effusions which have hardened in the mould of a definite and curious intellect,—not fruits which have ripened on the living vine of genius. It happens always in such cases that any eccentricity of style becomes more marked, and any defective vision more contracted; and it is strikingly so in the instance now before us, where the author’s mannerism is more prominent and gratuitous than ever. And in this respect the poetry of Mr. Browning is actually opposed to that of Mr. Tennyson. While the genius of the latter is mellowing year by year, the muse of the former becomes only more perverse. The spirit of poetry is an eminently plastic power,—the only certain agent of poetical expression; and in fostering this expansive spirit, which is to works of art what the vital power is in the organic world, Mr. Tennyson has caused his genius to effloresce so freely and spontaneously, that the crude husk has fallen more and more away,—his early faults of language have ceased insensibly, [p. 496→] and his verse has gradually become the pure transparent medium of his thoughts. Mr. Browning has not so rid himself of his besetting faults. We do not forget that the style of art he practises is wholly different, that his range and object are expressly limited. Very unequal are these two, in depth and compass, as well as in tone and colour. The one is daily getting farther out to sea, takes deeper soundings and fresh observations; while the other rocks idly in the same Italian bay, and levels his glass at the same few quaint and listless figures on the beach. But independently of this essential difference, we would point attention to the fact, that the inferior poet is also the inferior artist; that, while the expression of the one always finds entrance, and is felt within the soul, the other not seldom fails in his humble appeal to the understanding and æsthetic sense. It may be difficult—or, indeed, impossible—to give the full meaning of Mr. Tennyson’s language in any other terms; but this is only because true poetry has no equivalent; we are borne along with it notwithstanding,—it does not leave us where we were, but carries us whithersoever it will. But Mr. Browning is a lover of the picturesque, a student of men, and a sketcher of character and costume; and it behoves him to be at least so far literal and intelligible, that we may appreciate the object he draws from the same position which he occupies. Now, our charge is, that he is not thus literal and intelligible; and this brings us to the question which so many ask themselves,—Mr. Browning is acknowledged for so clever a man, that they are almost ashamed to ask their neighbours,—How is it that Mr. Browning’s poetry is so hard to read, so very difficult to understand?
The admirers of our author would probably tell us that he writes only for the cultivated few, and that poetry of that stamp is never obvious to the popular mind, or relished by the popular taste. If we reply, that this is not true of the most eminent, and point to Homer and Shakspeare, they will say, that they are content to see him in a lower seat, and significantly point to Milton and Gray. Yet the reference is rather plausible than just. Milton wrote two hundred years ago, when the English language was still unmoulded and unfixed; yet if the “Comus” or “L’Allegro” be not very widely appreciated, the reason is not to be found in its obscurity, to which charge, indeed, it is not strictly liable. Its elevation of thought, and delicacy of treatment, are remarkable; and these remove it from the sympathy and taste of vulgar readers; but its meanings are direct and clear. No doubt its classical allusions make some demand upon the reader’s previous knowledge; but without such knowledge it is sufficiently pleasing and intelligible even upon one perusal. But no such knowledge avails to the understanding of Mr. Browning’s muse, without repeated application and severest [p. 497→] study. Even an acquaintance with the localities and life of modern Italy may be added to his previous stock, and he shall still be in the dark as to the significance and drift of the author’s poem; he may still puzzle himself over “A Toccata of Galuppi’s,”—while the very title is enough to frighten or perplex the untravelled reader. We may here insert this composition, both as an example of the perverse obscurity we are now considering, and as embodying, at the same time, many of those occult but real merits which we have yet to speak of.
O, Galuppi! Baldassaro, this is very sad to find!
I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind;
But although I give you credit, ’t is with such a heavy mind!
Here you come with your old music, and here’s all the good it brings.
What! they lived once thus at Venice, where the merchants were the kings,
Where St. Mark’s is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?
Ay, because the sea’s the street there; and ’t is arch’d by—what you call—
Shylock’s bridge, with houses on it, where they kept the carnival!
I was never out of England—it’s as if I saw it all!
Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?
Balls and masks began at midnight, burning ever to mid-day;
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?
Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,—
On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed;
O’er the breast’s superb abundance where a man might base his head?
Well—and it was graceful of them—they’d break talk off, and afford,
She to bite her mask’s black velvet, he to finger on his sword,
While you sat and play’d Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?
What! those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh!
Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions,—“Must we die?”
Those commiserating sevenths—“Life might last! we can but try!”
“Were you happy?” “Yes.” “And are you still as happy?” “Yes; and you?”
“Then more kisses.” “Did I stop them when a million seem’d so few?”
Hark! the dominant’s persistence, till it must be answered to!
So an octave struck the answer. O, they praised you, I dare say!
“Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!
I can always leave off talking, when I hear a master play.”
Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one,
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,
Death came tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.
But when I sit down to reason,—think to take my stand nor swerve,
Till I triumph o’er a secret wrung from nature’s close reserve,
In you come with your cold music, till I creep through every nerve. [p. 498→]
Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking when a house was burn’d—
“Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earn’d!
The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be discern’d.
Yours, for instance, you know physics, something of geology,
Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;
Butterflies may dread extinction—you’ll not die, it cannot be!
As for Venice and its people, merely born to bloom and drop,
Here on earth they have their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop.
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
“Dust and ashes!” So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.
Dear, dead women, with such hair, too—what’s become of all the gold
Used to hang and sweep their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.
We have done our part to insure the reader’s appreciation of this poem by inserting it at length; and thus, while the whole is before him, he may also find time to accommodate his ear to the novel rhythm and abrupt transitions. Yet one perusal will hardly gratify the most attentive mind; and a person of only average poetic taste will have small inducement to venture on a second. It must be owned that the poem is sadly wanting in clearness and directness. Even those who are fain to admire because they are content to study it, and who fancy they discern and feel something of its fine impressive moral, are not thoroughly assured that they enter into the author’s spirit, or rightly estimate the sentiment and meaning of his verses. To some—and not a few—the poem will be writ in hieroglyphic symbols; and the fault is not wholly in themselves,—the poet’s style and language is unwarrantably broken and obscure. The fact is, that Mr. Browning is too proud for anything. He disdains to take a little pains to put the reader at a similar advantage with himself,—to give a preparatory statement which may help to make his subsequent effusion plain and logical. He scorns the good old style of beginning at the beginning. He starts from any point and speaks in any tense he pleases; is never simple or literal for a moment; leaves out (or out of sight) a link here and another there of that which forms the inevitable chain of truth, making a hint or a word supply its place; and, if you fail to comprehend the whole, is apparently satisfied that he knows better, and has the advantage of you there. He abandons himself to a train of vivid associations, and brings out some features of them with remarkable effect; but he gives you no clue whereby to follow him throughout. It may seem odd, to compare a man so reticent and clever with the weak and loquacious Mrs. Nickleby; but really his random style of address is not unlike that lady’s; and in respect to both, we rather plume ourselves upon the exercise of conjectural skill, than feel indebted to the speaker for a satisfactory and distinct relation. No doubt there is more real coherence in Mr. Browning’s language, but it is not ap- [p. 499→] parent,—it is for the student, and not the reader. We suppose, too, that while the one is artlessness itself, the other is supreme and cunning art. No matter, however, if these extremes meet; the effect in either case is impatience and fatigue.
It is this harshness, which of course is real, and this obscurity, which is chiefly superficial, that will always render Mr. Browning’s poetry unpopular, because they interfere with its easy and complete enjoyment. But we can readily believe that his small circle of admirers are very ardent in their admiration, and almost unmeasured in their praise. In the first place, we value an appreciation arrived at only after some expenditure of time and study. And then the ear, the mind, become gradually attuned to the new modes of thought and speech. But there is something more than this. Both the merits and defects of Mr. Browning’s poetry are such as belong to a peculiar school of art; and the masters in every school have the power of rousing the enthusiasm of kindred minds; they gather round them a band of attached disciples, and are followed by the plaudits of delighted connoisseurs. This is more seldom noticed in our poets than in the sister art of painting; and, indeed, the poems of Mr. Browning find an almost perfect analogy in the pictures of a certain modern school. Our author resembles the pre-Raffaelites both in choice of subject and in style of treatment. He has the same vivid and realizing touch, and the same love of exquisite detail. Like them he has a strong aversion to all that is conventional in the language of his art, and like them, also, is liable to be misapprehended and decried. His very fidelity to nature, expressed with so much novelty and boldness, incurs the charge of eccentricity and heresy. The traditions of his art are less to him than the impression of his own senses, and the skill of his own right hand. But, as a poet, he must count upon less general admiration than his brother artist. If even truth of colour is not fully estimated by the uneducated sense, and the pre-Raffaelite must first surprise before thoroughly convincing and delighting us, much more the independent use of language. We must know the right force of words before we feel them; and then only are we prepared to recognise the completer measures of poetic truth, which Coleridge has defined to be the best words in the best order. We say, then, of Mr. Browning, that although any reader may be warranted in saying what he is not,—a great poet; yet only an accomplished few are able to judge of his peculiar merits, and pronounce him what he is,—an original and graphic artist. He is fairly open to rebuke, and liable, besides, to general neglect; but no thoughtful person will despise either his talents or attainments.
The reader of his volumes will notice the large share of attention which Mr. Browning has bestowed on the pictures and painters of the Italian schools. They are all very characteristic [p. 500→] sketches; and as they are for the most part in our author’s better manner, we should have willingly transferred a specimen to our pages,—such as “Andrea del Sarto, called the Faultless Painter,”—but their length forbids. The same objection rests against our introduction to the reader of “Bishop Blougram’s Apology.” The verses so entitled embody the after-dinner talk of a dignitary of the Romish Church, who, for the edification of a sceptical companion, endeavours to show that a certain amount of faith is expedient to the wise, and that no larger measure is practicable in the conditions under which we live. He compares our life to a voyage, in which all our available space is a narrow “cabin,” whose limits exclude all but the most necessary and convenient articles. In short, this worthy Prelate advocates a most comfortable compromise between the rival claims of the gospel and the world. Utterly false as such casuistry must be, it is here most pleasantly and ably argued. But more to our judgment, if not to our taste, as well as more convenient for the purpose of extraction, is the following little poem, called “Transcendentalism: a Poem in Twelve Books.” It reads in some parts like our author’s own defence.
Stop playing, poet! may a brother speak?
’T is you speak; that’s your error! Song’s our art;
Whereas you please to speak these naked thoughts,
Instead of dressing them in sights and sounds:
—Fine thoughts, good thoughts, thoughts fit to treasure up!
But why such long prolusion and display,
Such turning and adjustment of the harp,
And taking it upon the breast at length,
Only to speak dry words across its strings?
Stark naked thought is in request enough—
Speak prose, and holloa it till Europe hears!
The six-foot Swiss tube, traced about with bark,
Which helps the hunter’s voice from Alp to Alp—
Exchange our harp for that—who hinders you?
—But here’s your fault: grown men want thought you think;—
Thought’s what they mean by verse, and seek in verse:
Boys seek for images in melody,
Men must have reason—so you aim at men.
Quite otherwise! Objects throng our youth, ’t is true;
We see and hear, and do not wonder much.
If you could tell us what they mean, indeed!
As Swedish Bœhme never cared for plants,
Until it happ’d, in walking in the fields,
He noticed all at once the plants could speak;
Many turn’d with loosen’d tongue to talk with him:
That day the daisy had an eye indeed,—
Colloquized with the cowslip on such themes!
We find them extant yet in Jacob’s prose.
But by the time youth steps a stage or two,
While reading prose in that tough book he wrote, [p. 501→]
(Collating and emendating the same,
And settling on the sense most to our mind,)
We shut the clasps, and find life’s summer past.
Then, who helps men, pray, to repair our loss?
Another Bœhme with a tougher book
And subtler meanings of what roses say—
Or some stout Mage like him of Halberstadt,
John, who made things Bœhme wrote thoughts about?
He with a look you! vents a brace of rhymes,
And in them breaks the sudden rose herself,
Over us, under, round us every side;
Nay, in and out the tables and the chairs,
And musty volumes,—Bœhme’s book and all,—
Buries us with a glory young once more,
Pouring heaven into this short house of life.
—So come, the harp back to your heart again!
You are a poem though your poem’s naught.
The best of all you did before, believe,
Was your own boy’s face over the fine chords
Bent, following the cherub at the top
That points to God with his pair’d half-moon wings.
We hardly know if these lines serve more to vindicate or to condemn the author’s practice. No doubt a few more readings would improve our insight; but our present impression is only faint, and so far not favourable to Mr. Browning’s own performance. He avoids the error, indeed, of giving us “stark naked thoughts;” but most honest men will find his verse as “tough” as Jacob Bœhme’s celestial prose. We leave the matter to occupy the reader’s leisurely consideration; and pass on to men of plainer speech.
[The article containing this review continues with notices of John Edmund Reade’s Men in Paradise and Walter Savage Landor’s Antony and Octavius; these we omit.]
[Thomas McNicoll]
Reviewed:
Men and Women (RB), London: Chapman & Hall, 1855.
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