R640700F. Dramatis Personæ.
The Spiritual Magazine, July 1864, pp. 310–317.
Listed in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 31, 343.
The press is quite alert and looking up again on the subject of Spiritualism, and is loud in the praises of Mr. Robert Browning’s latest effort in poetry, of which sixty-eight pages are taken up with a violent explosion of his feelings, under the title of “Mr. Sludge, the Medium.” It has not been often, nor from any great number of the critics that Mr. Browning has found hitherto any strong sympathy for his poetry, nor has he taken it much to heart that his readers and admirers were so few. It has rather fed his vanity the fuller, and has the more convinced him of his one idea that he was a poet before his time. He has been Forstered into this feeling by a few earnest friends of the press, who have never ceased to shew their friendship for the man, by writing up the poet, and assuring him that his metal had the true ring in it. He has never wavered in this belief himself, and he is so sensitive in his vanity, that if he could have doubted it he would have collapsed at once as poor Keats did, under an adverse review. His overweening vanity, however, aided by his few devoted friends, has saved him to us, and he is happy to add still to his posthumous fame by occasional essays of his genius. We can only sit, after vain attempts to follow his ideas, in wonderment at the awful vastness of the human mind, which can complacently give birth to such red hot words about something that we cannot understand, and of which we are rather glad than otherwise, that we are not the posterity that will have to decypher the meaning. A high priest of nature is he, ministering in the temple alone, [p. 311→] and on a pedestal which he, happy man, never feels to be unsteady beneath him. What a striking wonder is this faculty which some men have of self-satisfaction, and of living in an atmosphere which they fancy to be of serenest ether.
We knew him well years ago, when he was making his first soaring flights, and were almost frightened for him when the coarse critics dealt with his sensitive nature. Then it was, however, that he conquered them for ever by determining them to be fools, and wrapping himself in the mantle of posterity. This was his happiest hit of all, and to give him its full benefit, he only wanted the assistance of a few friends, who were in his eyes endued with the heaven-born quality of understanding him. Nothing after this could touch him more, or penetrate his armour; and the more the critics have raved at him, the more he has despised and contemned them with words more rancorous and violent than their own, for daring to criticise the prince of poets—the man who was before his age.
It is necessary to go through this little outline, in order to have some idea of the mind of the man who is just now condescending to give us the overflow of his genius on the subject of Spiritualism. None but one of such a nature, and only after he had received a special wound, could have got up the holy fire to such a pitch, as Mr. Browning warms himself by, in attacking Mr. Sludge the medium. What can poor Sludge have done to the poet, for beyond the rancour which he feels towards mankind in general, the poet must surely have some personal injury to resent? It is not quite easy to see that Mr. Home is intended to be the victim, but whether it be he or not, the press has at once taken it as meant for him, and has charged him upon the facts or fancies mentioned in the poem. An intimate friend too of Mr. Browning’s has been so far taken in by the statements, as to find it necessary to inquire if such scenes ever happened as are described, and Mr. Home has had to say in answer that the whole is mere invention. It would, therefore be better to take the bull by the horns at once, and to treat the poem as a violent, rancorous attack, upon Mr. Home and his private character, intending to lead or allow the public to believe that the scene depicted is taken from life, and that the poet has only dressed it up in verse according to his fancy, filling up the interspaces with the usual spasms which characterize Mr. Browning’s effusions.
Even poetry, where such personal allusions and charges are made, should preserve its basis of truth as the apple of its eye. The imaginative element should not be applied to facts, or the versifier degenerates into a slanderer. A kind friend of ours, when our children tell fibs, says they are only poets, but we think he mistakes the word. We have therefore thought it best to [p. 312→] reduce Mr. Browning’s poem, so far as his facts and narrative are concerned into plain prose, and thus to lay bare what was in his mind when he began to write. As to the rest of the poem there are some good things in it which we could see a glimmering of, and all these we are content to leave to that posterity which is the last refuge of the author, as patriotism is said to be the last refuge of the scoundrel.
To do this fairly, and to raise the issue between Mr. Browning and his probable victim, Mr. Home, we have very carefully gone through his sixty-eight pages, and we will afterwards give the key to the rancour and virulence which are observable throughout. It is not often that we can hope, from personal knowledge of both parties, to get to the very pith of the affair, and to shew the secret springs of action, while the poet for long years is nursing his wrath to keep it warm.
The poem, then, of “Mr. Sludge, the Medium,” opens with the heaven-born poet’s knuckles in the medium’s windpipe, consequent on his having just caught him cheating the poet by giving some bogus revelation from his mother. Mr. Sludge at once owns to the cheat, and, on the ground of its being his first offence, he begs him to remove his knuckles, and not to expose him as an impostor. He protests that it was the poet’s champagne that put the folly in his head. The poet, however, is relentless, and Mr. Sludge, not being able to rid himself of the knuckles, offers to tell him all about the tricks—he makes a clean breast of it, and confesses that the whole is imposture, and that he will change his trade and cheat no more.
Mr. Sludge commences by saying that it is the fault of the curious gentlefolk more than his. He hears them talk of ghosts, and breaks in with the words “I saw a ghost;” at once finds sympathy, and gets into their society. Once there, it is necessary to keep alive the means by which he mounted. He continues the fraud, satisfies one and then another, till he has many friends, and when a sceptic comes, they all set at him, till he, too, must succumb. At this comparatively early stage, while Sludge’s conscience is yet tender and he has some qualms, is it to be expected that he will spoil all his good fortune by confessing. Having made the first step, would you thus retrace it? No! You would go on deeper and deeper, like Sludge. It is too late—he must go on. Now he makes raps, shews stars, and succeeds in producing an audible voice. The spirits now are at his command, and his delighted friends crowd round him. As he receives them at his own house, as his guests, the poet asks how guests can be critical; but if one out of a dozen should say a word all the eleven pounce on him, and Sludge waves his hat in triumph. [p. 313→]
Visions no longer suffice and the friends want something external. It is but a step more. He jogs the table about and learns his other tricks and sleight-of-hand turns, shoves, and tilts the table, cracks his joints, manages his feet, works wires that twitch the curtains, plays the glove at the end of his slipper, puts out the lights, and then—every one is delighted and satisfied. There are sentences given by raps—a message from a dear child to its mother. Is that a time for the mother to be critical? Oh, no, poor thing; she is an easy dupe. It gives a test answer that it was six years old and rode a rocking-horse. How could Sludge have known these facts? Oh! he makes it his business to pick up these little particulars that your uncle was a tailor and thought to have married Briggs but missed him and hit you. Then with those who have been duped, how are they to be undeceived again? They won’t believe it was possible to cheat them, and say that even if Sludge admitted that he cheated them they wouldn’t believe him. They prefer to believe in a lie, and urge on poor Sludge to play the spirit medium for a livelihood, rather than to take him as he is and keep him fat. So he excuses himself, and says that he helps religion by his tricks, and lays the Atheist sprawling on his back, and props up St. Paul or Swedenborg at least. It is just the proper way to baulk the sceptics, and no use in being squeamish as to the means you use.
Another excuse which Sludge gives is, that beyond all this there is in human nature a real love of a lie which liars find ready made for the lies they make, as hand for glove, or tongue for sugar plum. It is for them he cheated when he could, rapped with his toe-joints, set sham hands at work, wrote down names weak in sympathetic ink, rubbed odic lights with ends of phosphor match, and all the rest.
The admitting of the supernatural element in the Bible, which comes to us from our mothers, prepares us, or some of us, to see instances of it still in the world, and to accept omens, prodigies, and special providences. If Sludge see Charles’s Wain at twelve to-night, it warns him to have his hair cut without a day’s delay; and he spies a providence in the fire’s going out, or the kettle’s boiling; he has presentiments, his dreams come true, and he itches at the elbow when at whist he ought to trump.
After all these his confessions are done, he is foolish enough to ask the poet to shake hands with him and finds it hard that he refuses. The poem closes with a hearty curse from Sludge upon the poet.
This is not much to get out of nearly seventy pages, but it pretends to describe a scene which so far as it relates to Mr. Home has no foundation in fact, and Mr. Browning has further made the story the vehicle of a distinct allegation that the [p. 314→] manifestations of Spiritualism are nothing but gross imposture from beginning to end, at all times and under all circumstances. This is what it comes to, and it is unfortunately only in accordance with the general turn of Mr. Browning’s mind to deny not only these things, but others related to them of much more importance to his own soul. There are many indeed who bear him sad company in this denial of all supernatural power and providence, and he is particularly unfortunate in this respect among his intimate friends; but it is almost painful, if he be a poet, either for us or for our posterity, that he should try to infect his readers with the disease which so maddens him. Especially, however, do we lament that the man who merged the name of Miss Barrett in that of Browning, should come forward now after her departure to deny what was the very soul and essence of one of the best and truest Englishwomen who have ever lived; and of the greatest poetess, it has been said, of this or any other age. It is a shocking libel on his wife and on her dearest beliefs. There are many coarse jesters, and hard men of science to whom it is allowed to deny all spiritual action in the affairs of men; but for the husband of Mrs. Barrett Browning it was not permitted to desecrate her memory and her sweet muse by this ribald nonsense.
With a man of his vanity, however, and that wounded, as will presently be seen, by Mr. Home, in years gone by, but not forgotten, everything must give way to his contemptuous rancour against the man, and against a spiritual world, the existence of which he looks down upon from his throne, as a personal affront to himself and to his poetic majesty.
This is, perhaps, not the place to say all that we should wish, to shew our sense of Mrs. Barrett Browning’s sweet character, and of that deepness and innocence of her soul which brought her at once and by sympathy into communion with the spiritual. This was the secret of her power, however, as a woman and as a poet. Every one loved her, for the love that was in her towards all, and which made an atmosphere about her that it was so enchanting and pleasant to dwell in. Happy was it for Mr. Browning to have the right to call her wife, for it gave him the best chance he could have in this world of becoming alive to the spiritual beauties of the vast inner world, which he still denied. But if he lost this golden opportunity, he gained in more earthly advantages, though again at the cost of increasing his vanity, for, after his marriage with Mrs. Barrett Browning, he became invested, as her husband, with much of the respect and admiration which her qualities willingly drew from the world, and his critics became more friendly still to him, out of their love to her. Even the griffins of the press could not find heart to [p. 315→] abuse the husband of so dear a friend. So everything we see has tended to blow him up still larger, and no one can tell yet what will be the end of it. Should he finally burst, The Examiner and others of his friends will have much to answer for.
As we wish to make this little story complete in itself, and not to have again to add to it, we will now give an exact account, for the truth of which we can vouch, of the only two interviews which Mr. Browning and Mr. Home ever had. It is given in the shape of a narrative by Mr. Home, and the reader will see how the wine turned to vinegar on the poet’s stomach, when his vanity was touched, first by the wrong direction of the poet’s crown and by being asked to leave the room, and next by being refused another séance when he asked for one: Tantæne animis cælestibus iræ?
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mr. home’s account.
“I have never seen Mr. Browning but twice. The first time was at the house of Mr. Rymer, at Ealing, at a séance there. Mr. Browning was then married to Mrs. Barrett Browning, whom I had known by repute, and through intimate mutual friends, for several years, and I thus became aware of her deep interest and belief in Spiritualism, which continued up to time of her death. Mr. and Mrs. Rymer and their family were present at the séance, which began by several of the ordinary manifestations. Mr. Browning was requested to investigate everything as it occurred, and he availed himself freely of the invitation. Several times during the evening he voluntarily and earnestly declared that anything like imposture was out of the question. Previously to the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Browning some of the children had been gathering flowers in the garden, and Miss Rymer and I had made a wreath of clematis. This wreath was laying on a table, at a little distance from that at which we were sitting. The wreath was afterwards put on the table at which we were sitting, but whether naturally or by spirit hands I do not remember. During the séance this wreath was raised from the table by supernatural power in the presence of us all, and whilst we were watching it, Mr. Browning, who was seated at the opposite side of the table, left his place and came and stood behind his wife, towards whom the wreath was being slowly carried, and upon whose head it was placed, in full sight of us all, and whilst he was standing close behind her. He expressed no disbelief; as, indeed, it was impossible for any one to have any of what was passing under his eyes, whilst Mrs. Browning was much moved, and she not only then but ever since expressed her entire belief and pleasure in what then occurred. It was the remark of all the Rymer [p. 316→] family, that Mr. Browning seemed much disappointed that the wreath was not put upon his own head instead of his wife’s, and that his placing himself in the way of where it was being carried, was for the purpose of giving it an opportunity of being placed upon his brow.
“Shortly after this a communication was made, requesting that all would leave the room, excepting Mr. Rymer and me, as something was to be told of an important matter private to Mr. Rymer. During Mr. Browning’s absence with the rest of the family, I was afterwards told by them that he seemed quite hurt at being sent out of the room, and said he was not aware that spirits could have secrets. Still he indicated no doubt of anything he had seen. On returning to the room he appeared to be very much out of temper, but I paid no attention to him, as Mrs. Browning was so kind and attentive to me. All that was done was in the presence of eight persons, besides Mr. and Mrs. Browning, all of whom are still living, and are ready to testify to the truth of every word here written if it should it be gainsayed by Mr. Browning.
“Two days afterwards Mr. Browning wrote to Mrs. Rymer requesting that he might be allowed another séance, and to bring with him his friend, Miss Helen Faucit. Mrs. Rymer replied that owing to my ill health, and her engagements, and the arrangements previous to our going to the seaside, it would not be possible to receive him again before we left town. A few days subsequently I came to town with Mrs. Rymer and her eldest son, to make some farewell calls, the first of which was to Mr. and Mrs. Browning. We were shown into the drawingroom, and he, advancing to meet us, shook hands with Mrs. Rymer; then, passing by me, shook hands with her son. As he was repassing me I held out my hand, when, with a tragic air, he threw his hand on his left shoulder, and stalked away. My attention was now drawn to Mrs. Browning, who was standing nearly in the centre of the room, and looked very pale and agitated. I approached and she placed both her hands in mine, and said, in a voice of emotion, ‘Oh, dear Mr. Home, do not, do not blame me. I am so sorry, but I am not to blame.’ I was wonder-struck, not knowing in the least what the curious scene meant—indeed, it would have been comical, but for the deep emotion from which Mrs. Browning was suffering. For a moment all was confusion, but at last we were seated, I scarce know how, when Mr. Browning began in an excited manner, saying, ‘Mrs. Rymer, I beg to inform you that I was exceedingly dissatisfied with everything I saw at your house the other night, and I should like to know why you refused to receive me again with my friend.’ I replied to this, ‘Mr. Browning, that was the [p. 317→] time and place for you to have made objections regarding the manifestations, and not now. I gave you every possible opportunity, and you availed yourself of it, and expressed yourself satisfied.’ He said, ‘I am not addressing myself to you, sir.’ I said, ‘No; but it is of me you are speaking, and it would only be fair and gentleman-like to allow me to reply.’ Mrs. Rymer said, ‘Mr. Home is quite right, and as regards not being able to receive you and your friend, we could not do so on account of our engagements.’ Mr. Browning’s face was pallid with rage, and his movements, as he swayed backwards and forwards on his chair, were like those of a maniac. At this moment I rose to leave the room, and, passing him, shook hands with Mrs. Browning, who was nearly ready to faint. As she shook hands with me she said, ‘Dear Mr. Home, I am not to blame. Oh, dear! oh, dear!’”
In conclusion we have only to say that, as this is a matter of fact and not of opinion, we shall be quite willing to give insertion to any reply, in prose, from Mr. Browning, if he will write it so as to be intelligible to the present generation of men who compose our readers, and we shall be all the more pleased that he should have this opportunity of explaining himself, as it is a pity he should be knocking his head against this hard subject, just at the time when his contemporaries of the first rank are one by one publicly declaring their full belief and knowledge of its truth.
[Robert Cooper]
Reviewed:
Dramatis Personæ (RB), London: Chapman & Hall, 1864.
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