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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:44:11 -0700 |
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diff --git a/14316-h/14316-h.htm b/14316-h/14316-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..57f99e8 --- /dev/null +++ b/14316-h/14316-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,15150 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta name="generator" content= +"HTML Tidy for Windows (vers 1st June 2004), see www.w3.org" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= +"text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poetry Of Robert Browning, by Stopford A. +Brooke.</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5, h6 { + text-align: center; +} + +hr { + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; +} + +hr.long { + width: 70%; +} + +hr.short { + width: 50% +} + +/* page numbers float in the margin */ +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: left; + font-style: normal; +} + +.indexterm { + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: 4em; + text-indent: -4em; + font-weight: bold; +} + +.indexentry { + margin-left: 6em; + text-indent: -4em; + margin-top: 0em; + margin-bottom: 0em; +} + +.indexentry2 { + margin-left: 8em; + text-indent: -4em; + margin-top: 0em; + margin-bottom: 0em; +} + +.footnote { + font-size: 0.9em; +} + +.display { + margin-left: 2em; + margin-right: 2em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; +} + +.figure { + padding: 1em; + margin: 0; + text-align: center; + font-size: 0.9em; +} + +/* poems */ + +.poem { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + text-align: left; +} + +.poem br { + display: none; +} + +.poem .stanza { + margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em; +} + +.poem span { + display: block; + margin: 0; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i2 { + display: block; + margin-left: 2em; +} + +.poem span.i4 { + display: block; + margin-left: 4em; +} + +.poem .caesura { + vertical-align: -200%; +} + +.poem p { + margin: 0; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +/* format indented lines as <p class=i2> or <p class=i4> */ +.poem p.i2 { + margin-left: 2em; +} + +.poem p.i4 { + margin-left: 4em; +} + +.poem p.i12 { + margin-left: 12em; +} + +div.centered {text-align: center;} +div.centered table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left; font-variant: small-caps;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14316 ***</div> + +<h1>THE POETRY<br /> +OF<br /> +ROBERT BROWNING</h1> +<h2>BY STOPFORD A. BROOKE</h2> +<h3>AUTHOR OF "TENNYSON: HIS ART AND RELATION TO MODERN LIFE"</h3> +<hr class='short' /> +<h3>LONDON</h3> +<h3>ISBISTER AND COMPANY LIMITED</h3> +<h3>1903</h3> +<hr class='short' /> +<h4>Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co. London & +Edinburgh</h4> +<h4><i>First Edition, September 1902</i><br /> +<i>Reprinted, October 1902</i><br /> +<i>Reprinted, January 1903</i></h4> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='CONTENTS' id="CONTENTS"></a> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<div class="centered"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of Contents"> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_I'>I.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>Browning And Tennyson</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_II'>II.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>The Treatment Of Nature</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_III'>III.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>The Treatment Of Nature</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_IV'>IV.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>Browning's Theory Of Human Life—Pauline And Paracelsus</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_V'>V.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>The Poet Of Art</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VI'>VI.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>Sordello</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VII'>VII.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>Browning And Sordello</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VIII'>VIII.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>The Dramas</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_IX'>IX.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>Poems Of The Passion Of Love</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_X'>X.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>The Passions Other Than Love</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_XI'>XI.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>Imaginative Representations</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_XII'>XII.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>Imaginative Representations—Renaissance</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_XIII'>XIII.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>Womanhood In Browning</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_XIV'>XIV.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>Womanhood In Browning—(The Dramatic Lyrics And Pompilia)</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_XV'>XV.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>Balaustion</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_XVI'>XVI.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>The Ring And The Book</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_XVII'>XVII.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>Later Poems</td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_XVIII'>XVIII.</a></td><td> </td><td align='left'>The Last Poems</td></tr></table> +</div> +<hr class='short' /> +<p><i>The publishers are indebted to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. +on behalf of the owner of the copyright for their permission to +make extracts from copyright poems for use in this volume</i></p> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page1' id="Page1"></a><span class='pagenum'>1</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_I' id="CHAPTER_I"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> +<h3><i>BROWNING AND TENNYSON</i></h3> +<p>Parnassus, Apollo's mount, has two peaks, and on these, for +sixty years, from 1830 to 1890,<a name='FNanchor_1_1' id= +"FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href='#Footnote_1_1'>[1]</a> two poets sat, +till their right to these lofty peaks became unchallenged. Beneath +them, during these years, on the lower knolls of the mount of song, +many new poets sang; with diverse instruments, on various subjects, +and in manifold ways. They had their listeners; the Muses were also +their visitants; but none of them ventured seriously to dispute the +royal summits where Browning and Tennyson sat, and smiled at one +another across the vale between.</p> +<p>Both began together; and the impulses which came to them from +the new and excited world which opened its fountains in and about +1832 continued to impel them till the close of their lives. While +the poetic world altered around them, while two generations of +poets made new schools of poetry, they remained, for the most part, +unaffected <a name='Page2' id="Page2"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>2</span>by these schools. There is nothing of Arnold and +Clough, of Swinburne, Rossetti or Morris, or of any of the others, +in Browning or Tennyson. There is nothing even of Mrs. Browning in +Browning. What changes took place in them were wrought, first, by +the natural growth of their own character; secondly, by the natural +development of their art-power; and thirdly, by the slow decaying +of that power. They were, in comparison with the rest, curiously +uninfluenced by the changes of the world around them. The main +themes, with which they began, they retained to the end. Their +methods, their instruments, their way of feeling into the world of +man and of nature, their relation to the doctrines of God and of +Man, did not, though on all these matters they held diverse views, +alter with the alteration of the world. But this is more true of +Browning than of Tennyson. The political and social events of those +years touched Tennyson, as we see from <i>Maud</i> and the +<i>Princess</i>, but his way of looking at them was not the way of +a contemporary. It might have been predicted from his previous +career and work. Then the new movements of Science and Criticism +which disturbed Clough and Arnold so deeply, also troubled +Tennyson, but not half so seriously. He staggered for a time under +the attack on his old conceptions, but he never yielded to it. He +was angry with himself for every doubt that beset him, and angry +with the Science and Criticism which disturbed the ancient ideas he +was determined not to change. Finally, he rested where he had been +when he wrote <i>In Memoriam</i>, nay more, where he had been when +he began to write.</p> +<p><a name='Page3' id="Page3"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>3</span>There were no such intervals in Browning's +thought. One could scarcely say from his poetry, except in a very +few places, that he was aware of the social changes of his time, or +of the scientific and critical movement which, while he lived, so +profoundly modified both theology and religion.<a name= +'FNanchor_2_2' id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href= +'#Footnote_2_2'>[2]</a> <i>Asolando</i>, in 1890, strikes the same +chords, but more feebly, which <i>Paracelsus</i> struck in +1835.</p> +<p>But though, in this lofty apartness and self-unity, Browning and +Tennyson may fairly be said to be at one, in themselves and in +their song they were different. There could scarcely be two +characters, two musics, two minds, two methods in art, two +imaginations, more distinct and contrasted than those which lodged +in these men—and the object of this introduction is to bring +out this contrast, with the purpose of placing in a clearer light +some of the peculiar elements in the poetry of Browning, and in his +position as a poet.</p> +<p>1. Their public fate was singularly different. In 1842 Tennyson, +with his two volumes of Collected Poems, made his position. The +<i>Princess</i>, in 1847, increased his reputation. In 1850, <i>In +Memoriam</i> <a name='Page4' id="Page4"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>4</span>raised him, it was said, above all the poets of +his time, and the book was appreciated, read and loved by the +greater part of the English-speaking world. The success and popular +fame which now followed were well deserved and wisely borne. They +have endured and will endure. A host of imitators, who caught his +music and his manner, filled the groves and ledges which led up to +the peak on which he lived. His side of Parnassus was thronged.</p> +<p>It was quite otherwise with his brother-poet. Only a few +clear-eyed persons cared to read <i>Paracelsus</i>, which appeared +in 1835. <i>Strafford</i>, Browning's first drama, had a little +more vogue; it was acted for a while. When <i>Sordello</i>, that +strange child of genius, was born in 1840, those who tried to read +its first pages declared they were incomprehensible. It seems that +critics in those days had either less intelligence than we have, or +were more impatient and less attentive, for not only +<i>Sordello</i> but even <i>In Memoriam</i> was said to be +exceedingly obscure.</p> +<p>Then, from 1841 to 1846, Browning published at intervals a +series of varied poems and dramas, under the title of <i>Bells and +Pomegranates</i>. These, one might imagine, would have grasped the +heart of any public which had a care for poetry. Among them were +such diverse poems as <i>Pippa Passes; A Blot in the 'Scutcheon; +Saul; The Pied Piper of Hamelin; My Last Duchess; Waring</i>. I +only mention a few (all different in note, subject and manner from +one another), in order to mark the variety and range of imaginative +power displayed in this wonderful set of little books. The <a name= +'Page5' id="Page5"></a><span class='pagenum'>5</span>Bells of +poetry's music, hung side by side with the golden Pomegranates of +thought, made the fringe of the robe of this high priest of song. +Rarely have imagination and intellect, ideal faith and the sense +which handles daily life, passion and quietude, the impulse and +self-mastery of an artist, the joy of nature and the fates of men, +grave tragedy and noble grotesque, been mingled together more +fully—bells for the pleasure and fruit for the food of +man.</p> +<p>Yet, on the whole, they fell dead on the public. A few, however, +loved them, and all the poems were collected in 1849. <i>In +Memoriam</i> and this Collected Edition of Browning issued almost +together; but with how different a fate and fame we see most +plainly in the fact that Browning can scarcely be said to have had +any imitators. The groves and ledges of his side of Apollo's +mountain were empty, save for a few enchanted listeners, who said: +"This is our music, and here we build our tent."</p> +<p>As the years went on, these readers increased in number, but +even when the volumes entitled <i>Men and Women</i> were published +in 1855, and the <i>Dramatis Personæ</i> in 1864, his +followers were but a little company. For all this neglect Browning +cared as a bird cares who sings for the love of singing, and who +never muses in himself whether the wood is full or not of +listeners. Being always a true artist, he could not stop versing +and playing; and not one grain of villain envy touched his happy +heart when he looked across the valley to Tennyson. He loved his +mistress Art, and his love made him always joyful in creating.</p> +<p><a name='Page6' id="Page6"></a><span class='pagenum'>6</span>At +last his time came, but it was not till nearly twenty years after +the Collected Poems of 1849 that <i>The Ring and the Book</i> +astonished the reading public so much by its intellectual <i>tour +de force</i> that it was felt to be unwise to ignore Browning any +longer. His past work was now discovered, read and praised. It was +not great success or worldwide fame that he attained, but it was +pleasant to him, and those who already loved his poems rejoiced +with him. Before he died he was widely read, never so much as +Tennyson, but far more than he had ever expected. It had become +clear to all the world that he sat on a rival height with Tennyson, +above the rest of his fellow-poets.</p> +<p>Their public fate, then, was very different. Tennyson had fifty +years of recognition, Browning barely ten. And to us who now know +Browning this seems a strange thing. Had he been one of the smaller +men, a modern specialist like Arnold or Rossetti, we could better +understand it. But Browning's work was not limited to any +particular or temporary phase of human nature. He set himself to +represent, as far as he could, all types of human nature; and, more +audacious still, types taken from many diverse ages, nations and +climates. He told us of times and folk as far apart as Caliban and +Cleon, as Karshish and Waring, as Balaustion and Fifine, as St. +John and Bishop Blougram. The range and the contrasts of his +subjects are equally great. And he did this work with a searching +analysis, a humorous keenness, a joyous boldness, and an opulent +imagination at once penetrative and passionate. When, then, we +realise this as we realise it now, we are the more astonished +<a name='Page7' id="Page7"></a><span class='pagenum'>7</span>that +appreciation of him lingered so long. Why did it not come at first, +and why did it come in the end?</p> +<p>The first answer to that question is a general one. During the +years between 1860 and 1890, and especially during the latter half +of these years, science and criticism were predominant. Their +determination to penetrate to the roots of things made a change in +the general direction of thought and feeling on the main subjects +of life. Analysis became dearer to men than synthesis, reasoning +than imagination. Doubtful questions were submitted to intellectual +decision alone. The Understanding, to its great surprise, was +employed on the investigation of the emotions, and even the artists +were drawn in this direction. They, too, began to dissect the human +heart. Poets and writers of fiction, students of human nature, were +keenly interested, not so much in our thoughts and feelings as in +exposing how and why we thought or felt in this or that fashion. In +such analysis they seemed to touch the primal sources of life. They +desired to dig about the tree of humanity and to describe all the +windings of its roots and fibres—not much caring whether +they withered the tree for a time—rather than to describe and +sing its outward beauty, its varied foliage, and its ruddy fruit. +And this liking to investigate the hidden inwardness of +motives—which many persons, weary of self-contemplation, +wisely prefer to keep hidden—ran through the practice of all +the arts. They became, on the whole, less emotional, more +intellectual. The close marriage between passion and thought, +without whose cohabitation no work <a name='Page8' id= +"Page8"></a><span class='pagenum'>8</span>of genius is born in the +arts, was dissolved; and the intellect of the artist often worked +by itself, and his emotion by itself. Some of the parthenogenetic +children of these divorced powers were curious products, freaks, +even monsters of literature, in which the dry, cynical, or +vivisecting temper had full play, or the naked, lustful, or cruel +exposure of the emotions in ugly, unnatural, or morbid forms was +glorified. They made an impudent claim to the name of Art, but they +were nothing better than disagreeable Science. But this was an +extreme deviation of the tendency. The main line it took was not so +detestable. It was towards the ruthless analysis of life, and of +the soul of man; a part, in fact, of the general scientific +movement. The outward forms of things charmed writers less than the +motives which led to their making. The description of the tangled +emotions and thoughts of the inner life, before any action took +place, was more pleasurable to the writer, and easier, than any +description of their final result in act. This was borne to a +wearisome extreme in fiction, and in these last days a comfortable +reaction from it has arisen. In poetry it did not last so long. +Morris carried us out of it. But long before it began, long before +its entrance into the arts, Browning, who on another side of his +genius delighted in the representation of action, anticipated in +poetry, and from the beginning of his career, twenty, even thirty +years before it became pronounced in literature, this tendency to +the intellectual analysis of human nature. When he began it, no one +cared for it; and <i>Paracelsus, Sordello</i> and the +soul-dissecting poems in <i>Bells and <a name='Page9' id= +"Page9"></a><span class='pagenum'>9</span>Pomegranates</i> fell on +an unheeding world. But Browning did not heed the unheeding of the +world. He had the courage of his aims in art, and while he +frequently shaped in his verse the vigorous movement of life, even +to its moments of fierce activity, he went on quietly, amid the +silence of the world, to paint also the slowly interwoven and +complex pattern of the inner life of men. And then, when the +tendency of which I speak had collared the interest of society, +society, with great and ludicrous amazement, found him out. "Here +is a man," it said, "who has been doing in poetry for the last +thirty years the very thing of which we are so fond, and who is +doing it with delightful and varied subtlety. We will read him +now." So Browning, anticipating by thirty years the drift of the +world, was not read at first; but, afterwards, the world having +reached him, he became a favoured poet.</p> +<p>However, fond as he was of metaphysical analysis, he did not +fall into the extremes into which other writers carried it, +<i>Paracelsus</i> is, indeed, entirely concerned with the inner +history of a soul, but <i>Sordello</i> combines with a similar +history a tale of political and warlike action in which men and +women, like Salinguerra and Palma, who live in outward work rather +than in inward thought, are described; while in poems like <i>Pippa +Passes</i> and some of the Dramas, emotion and thought, intimately +interwoven, are seen blazing, as it were, into a lightning of swift +deeds. Nor are other poems wanting, in which, not long analysis, +but short passion, fiery outbursts of thought, taking immediate +form, are represented with astonishing intensity.</p> +<p><a name='Page10' id="Page10"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>10</span>2. This second remarkable power of his touches +the transition which has begun to carry us, in the last few years, +from the subjective to the objective in art. The time came, and +quite lately, when art, weary of intellectual and minute +investigation, turned to realise, not the long inward life of a +soul with all its motives laid bare, but sudden moments of human +passion, swift and unoutlined impressions on the senses, the moody +aspects of things, flared-out concentrations of critical hours of +thought and feeling which years perhaps of action and emotion had +brought to the point of eruption. Impressionism was born in +painting, poetry, sculpture and music.</p> +<p>It was curious that, when we sought for a master who had done +this in the art of poetry, we found that Browning—who had in +long poems done the very opposite of impressionism—had also, +in a number of short poems, anticipated impressionist art by nearly +forty years. <i>Porphyria's Lover</i>, many a scene in <i>Sordello, +My Last Duchess, The Laboratory, Home Thoughts from Abroad</i>, are +only a few out of many. It is pleasant to think of the ultimate +appearance of Waring, flashed out for a moment on the sea, only to +disappear. In method, swiftness and colour, but done in verse, it +is an impressionist picture, as vivid in transient scenery as in +colour. He did the same sort of work in poems of nature, of human +life, of moments of passion, of states of the soul. That is another +reason why he was not read at first, and why he is read now. He was +impressionist long before Impressionism arrived. When it arrived he +was found out. And he stood alone, for Tennyson is <a name='Page11' +id="Page11"></a><span class='pagenum'>11</span>never impressionist, +and never could have been. Neither was Swinburne nor Arnold, Morris +nor Rossetti.</p> +<p>3. Again, in the leisured upper ranges of thought and emotion, +and in the extraordinary complexity of human life which arose, +first, out of the more intimate admixture of all classes in our +society; and secondly, out of the wider and more varied world-life +which increased means of travel and knowledge afforded to men, +Tennyson's smooth, melodious, simple development of art-subjects +did not represent the clashing complexity of human life, whether +inward in the passions, the intellect or the soul, or in the active +movement of the world. And the other poets were equally incapable +of representing this complexity of which the world became clearly +conscious. Arnold tried to express its beginnings, and failed, +because he tried to explain instead of representing them. He wrote +about them; he did not write them down. Nor did he really belong to +this novel, quick, variegated, involved world which was so pleased +with its own excitement and entanglement. He was the child of a +world which was then passing away, out of which life was fading, +which was tired like Obermann, and sought peace in reflective +solitudes. Sometimes he felt, as in <i>The New Age</i>, the +pleasure of the coming life of the world, but he was too weary to +share in it, and he claimed quiet. But chiefly he saw the +disturbance, the unregulated life; and, unable to realise that it +was the trouble and wildness of youth, he mistook it for the +trouble of decay. He painted it as such. But it was really young, +and out of it broke all kinds of experiments in social, <a name= +'Page12' id="Page12"></a><span class='pagenum'>12</span>religious, +philosophical and political thought, such as we have seen and read +of for the last thirty years. Art joined in the experiments of this +youthful time. It opened a new fountain and sent forth from it +another stream, to echo this attempting, clanging and complicated +society; and this stream did not flow like a full river, making +large or sweet melody, but like a mountain torrent thick with +rocks, the thunderous whirlpools of whose surface were white with +foam. Changing and sensational scenery haunted its lower banks +where it became dangerously navigable. Strange boats, filled with +outlandish figures, who played on unknown instruments, and sang of +deeds and passions remote from common life, sailed by on its stormy +waters. Few were the concords, many the discords, and some of the +discords were never resolved. But in one case at least—in the +case of Browning's poetry, and in very many cases in the art of +music—out of the discords emerged at last a full melody of +steady thought and controlled emotion as (to recapture my original +metaphor) the rude, interrupted music of the mountain stream +reaches full and concordant harmony when it flows in peace through +the meadows of the valley.</p> +<p>These complex and intercleaving conditions of thought and +passion into which society had grown Browning represented from +almost the beginning of his work. When society became conscious of +them—there it found him. And, amazed, it said, "Here is a man +who forty years ago lived in the midst of our present life and +wrote about it." They saw the wild, loud complexity of their world +expressed in his verse; and yet were dimly <a name='Page13' id= +"Page13"></a><span class='pagenum'>13</span>conscious, to their +consolation, that he was aware of a central peace where the noise +was quieted and the tangle unravelled.</p> +<p>For Browning not only represented this discordant, varied +hurly-burly of life, but also, out of all the discords which he +described, and which, when he chose, even his rhythms and +word-arrangements realised in sound, he drew a concordant melody at +last, and gave to a world, troubled with itself, the hope of a +great concent into which all the discords ran, and where they were +resolved. And this hope for the individual and the race was one of +the deepest elements in Browning's religion. It was also the hope +of Tennyson, but Tennyson was often uncertain of it, and bewailed +the uncertainty. Browning was certain of his hope, and for the most +part resolved his discords. Even when he did not resolve them, he +firmly believed that they would be resolved. This, his essential +difference from the other poets of the last fifty years, marks not +only his apartness from the self-ignorance of English society, and +the self-sceptical scepticism which arises from that +self-ignorance, but also how steadily assured was the foundation of +his spiritual life. In the midst of the shifting storms of doubt +and trouble, of mockery, contradiction, and assertion on religious +matters, he stood unremoved. Whatever men may think of his faith +and his certainties, they reveal the strength of his character, the +enduring courage of his soul, and the inspiring joyousness that, +born of his strength, characterised him to the last poem he wrote. +While the other poets were tossing on the sea of unresolved +Question, he rested, musing and creating, <a name='Page14' id= +"Page14"></a><span class='pagenum'>14</span>on a green island whose +rocks were rooted on the ocean-bed, and wondered, with the smiling +tolerance of his life-long charity, how his fellows were of so +little faith, and why the sceptics made so much noise. He would +have reversed the Psalmist's cry. He would have said, "Thou art not +cast down, O my soul; thou art not disquieted within me. Thou hast +hoped in God, who is the light of thy countenance, and thy +God."</p> +<p>At first the world, enamoured of its own complex discords, and +pleased, like boys in the street, with the alarms it made, only +cared for that part of Browning which represented the tangle and +the clash, and ignored his final melody. But of late it has begun, +tired of the restless clatter of intellectual atoms, to desire to +hear, if possible, the majestic harmonies in which the discords are +resolved. And at this point many at present and many more in the +future will find their poetic and religious satisfaction in +Browning. At the very end, then, of the nineteenth century, in a +movement which had only just begun, men said to themselves, +"Browning felt beforehand what we are beginning to hope for, and +wrote of it fifty, even sixty years ago. No one cared then for him, +but we care now."</p> +<p>Again, though he thus anticipated the movements of the world, he +did not, like the other poets, change his view about Nature, Man +and God. He conceived that view when he was young, and he did not +alter it. Hence, he did not follow or reflect from year to year the +opinions of his time on these great matters. When <i>Paracelsus</i> +was published in 1835 Browning had fully thought out, and in that +<a name='Page15' id="Page15"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>15</span>poem fully expressed, his theory of God's +relation to man, and of man's relation to the universe around him, +to his fellow men, and to the world beyond. It was a theory which +was original, if any theory can be so called. At least, its form, +as he expressed it, was clearly original. Roughly sketched in +<i>Pauline</i>, fully rounded in <i>Paracelsus</i>, it held and +satisfied his mind till the day of his death. But Tennyson had no +clear theory about Man or Nature or God when he began, nor was he +afterwards, save perhaps when he wrote the last stanzas of <i>In +Memoriam</i>, a fully satisfied citizen of the city that has +foundations. He believed in that city, but he could not always live +in it. He grew into this or that opinion about the relations of God +and man, and then grew out of it. He held now this, now that view +of nature, and of man in contact with nature. There was always +battle in his soul; although he won his brittle in the end, he had +sixty years of war. Browning was at peace, firm-fixed. It is true +the inward struggle of Tennyson enabled him to image from year to +year his own time better than Browning did. It is true this +struggle enabled him to have great variety in his art-work when it +was engaged with the emotions which belong to doubt and faith; but +it also made him unable to give to his readers that sense of things +which cannot be shaken, of faith in God and in humanity wholly +independent, in its depths, of storms on the surface of this mortal +life, which was one of Browning's noblest legacies to that +wavering, faithless, pessimistic, analysis-tormented world through +which we have fought our way, and out of which we are emerging.</p> +<p><a name='Page16' id="Page16"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>16</span>4. The danger in art, or for an artist, of so +settled a theory is that in expression it tends to monotony; and +sometimes, when we find almost every poem of Browning's running up +into his theory, we arrive at the borders of the Land of Weary-men. +But he seems to have been aware of this danger, and to have +conquered it. He meets it by the immense variety of the subjects he +chooses, and of the scenery in which he places them. I do not think +he ever repeats any one of his examples, though he always repeats +his theory. And the pleasant result is that we can either ignore +the theory if we like, or rejoice over its universal application, +or, beyond it altogether, be charmed and excited by the fresh +examples alone. And they are likely to charm, at least by variety, +for they are taken from all ages of history; from as many diverse +phases of human act, character and passion as there are poems which +concern them; from many periods of the arts; from most of the +countries of Europe, from France, Germany, Spain, Italy, (rarely +from England,) with their specialised types of race and of +landscape; and from almost every class of educated modern society. +Moreover, he had a guard within his own nature against the danger +of this monotony. It was the youthful freshness with which, even in +advanced age, he followed his rapid impulses to art-creation. No +one was a greater child than he in the quickness with which he +received a sudden call to poetry from passing events or scenes, and +in the eagerness with which he seized them as subjects. He took the +big subjects now and then which the world expects to be taken, and +treated them with <a name='Page17' id="Page17"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>17</span>elaborate thought and steadfast feeling, but he +was more often like the girl in his half-dramatic poem, whom the +transient occurrences and sights of the day touched into song. He +picked up his subjects as a man culls flowers in a mountain walk, +moved by an ever-recurring joy and fancy in them—a book on a +stall, a bust in an Italian garden, a face seen at the opera, the +market chatter of a Tuscan town, a story told by the roadside in +Brittany, a picture in some Accademia—so that, though the +ground-thought might incur the danger of dulness through +repetition, the joy of the artist so filled the illustration, and +his freshness of invention was so delighted with itself, that even +to the reader the theory seemed like a new star.</p> +<p>In this way he kept the use of having an unwavering basis of +thought which gave unity to his sixty years of work, and yet +avoided the peril of monotony. An immense diversity animated his +unity, filled it with gaiety and brightness, and secured +impulsiveness of fancy. This also differentiates him from Tennyson, +who often wanted freshness; who very rarely wrote on a sudden +impulse, but after long and careful thought; to whose seriousness +we cannot always climb with pleasure; who played so little with the +world. These defects in Tennyson had the excellences which belong +to them in art, just as these excellences in Browning had, in art, +their own defects. We should be grateful for the excellences, and +not trouble ourselves about the defects. However, neither the +excellences nor the defects concern us in the present discussion. +It is the contrast between the two men on which we dwell.</p> +<p><a name='Page18' id="Page18"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>18</span>5. The next point of contrast, which will +further illustrate why Browning was not read of old but is now +read, has to do with historical criticism. There arose, some time +ago, as part of the scientific and critical movement of the last +forty years, a desire to know and record accurately the early life +of peoples, pastoral, agricultural and in towns, and the beginning +of their arts and knowledges; and not only their origins, but the +whole history of their development. A close, critical investigation +was made of the origins of each people; accurate knowledge, derived +from contemporary documents, of their life, laws, customs and +language was attained; the facts of their history were separated +from their mythical and legendary elements; the dress, the looks of +men, the climate of the time, the physical aspects of their +country—all the skeleton of things was fitted together, bone +to bone. And for a good while this merely critical school held the +field. It did admirable and necessary work.</p> +<p>But when it was done, art claimed its place in this work. The +desire sprang up among historians to conceive all this history in +the imagination, to shape vividly its scenery, to animate and +individualise its men and women, to paint the life of the human +soul in it, to clothe it in flesh and blood, to make its feet move +and its eyes flash—but to do all these things within the +limits of the accurate knowledge which historical criticism had +defined. "Let us saturate ourselves," said the historians, "with +clear knowledge of the needful facts, and then, without violation +of our knowledge, imagine the human life, the landscape, the +thinking and <a name='Page19' id="Page19"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>19</span>feeling of a primæval man, of his early +religion, of his passions; of Athens when the Persian came, of Rome +when the Republic was passing into the Empire, of a Provincial in +Spain or Britain, of a German town in the woods by the river. Let +us see in imagination as well as in knowledge an English settlement +on the Welsh border, an Italian mediæval town when its art +was being born, a Jewish village when Christ wandered into its +streets, a musician or a painter's life at a time when Greek art +was decaying, or when a new impulse like the Renaissance or the +French Revolution came upon the world." When that effort of the +historians had established itself, and we have seen it from +blossoming to fruitage, people began to wonder that no poet had +ever tried to do this kind of work. It seemed eminently fitted for +a poet's hand, full of subjects alluring to the penetrative +imagination. It needed, of course, some scholarship, for it +demanded accuracy in its grasp of the main ideas of the time to be +represented; but that being given, immense opportunities remained +for pictures of human life, full of colour, thought and passions; +for subtle and brilliant representations of the eternal desires and +thinkings of human nature as they were governed by the special +circumstances of the time in which the poem was placed; and for the +concentration into a single poem, gathered round one person, of the +ideas whose new arrival formed a crisis in the history of art.</p> +<p>Men looked for this in Tennyson and did not find it. His Greek +and mediæval poems were modernised. Their imaginative work +was uncritical. <a name='Page20' id="Page20"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>20</span>But when the historians and the critics of art +and of religious movements happened at last to look into Browning, +they discovered, to their delight and wonder, that he had been +doing, with a curious knowledge, this kind of work for many years. +He had anticipated the results of that movement of the imagination +in historical work which did not exist when he began to write; he +had worked that mine, and the discovery of this made another host +of people readers of his poetry.</p> +<p>We need scarcely give examples of this. <i>Sordello</i>, in 1840 +(long before the effort of which we speak began), was such a +poem—the history of a specialised soul, with all its scenery +and history vividly mediæval. Think of the <i>Spanish +Cloister, The Laboratory, A Grammarian's Funeral</i>, the <i>Bishop +orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church</i>, poems, each of which +paints an historical period or a vivid piece of its life. Think of +<i>The Ring and the Book</i>, with all the world of Rome painted to +the life, and all the soul of the time!</p> +<p>The same kind of work was done for phases and periods of the +arts from Greek times to the Renaissance, I may even say, from the +Renaissance to the present day. <i>Balaustion's Prologue</i> +concentrates the passage of dramatic poetry from Sophocles to +Euripides. <i>Aristophanes' Apology</i> realises the wild licence +in which art and freedom died in Athens—their greatness in +their ruin—and the passionate sorrow of those who loved what +had been so beautiful. <i>Cleon</i> takes us into a later time when +men had ceased to be original, and life and art had become darkened +by the pain of the soul. We pass on to two different periods of the +Renais<a name='Page21' id="Page21"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>21</span>sance in <i>Fra Lippo Lippi</i> and in <i>Andrea +del Sarto</i>, and are carried further through the centuries of art +when we read <i>Abt Vogler</i> and <i>A Toccata of Galuppi's</i>. +Each of these poems is a concentrated, accurate piece of +art-history, with the addition to it of the human soul.</p> +<p>Periods and phases of religious history are equally realised. +<i>Caliban upon Setebos</i> begins the record—that +philosophic savage who makes his God out of himself. Then follows +study after study, from <i>A Death in the Desert</i> to <i>Bishop +Blougram's Apology</i>. Some carry us from early Christianity +through the mediæval faith; others lead us through the +Paganism of the Renaissance and strange shows of Judaism to +Browning's own conception of religion in the present day contrasted +with those of the popular religion in <i>Christmas-Day and +Easter-Day</i>.</p> +<p>Never, in poetry, was the desire of the historical critic for +accuracy of fact and portraiture, combined with vivid presentation +of life, so fully satisfied. No wonder Browning was not read of +old; but it is no wonder, when the new History was made, when he +was once found out, that he passed from a few to a multitude of +readers.</p> +<p>6. Another contrast appears at the very beginning of their +career. Tennyson, in his two earliest books in 1830 and 1833, +though clearly original in some poems, had clinging round his +singing robes some of the rags of the past. He wrote partly in the +weak and sentimental strain of the poets between 1822 and 1832. +Browning, on the contrary, sprang at once into an original poetic +life of his own. <i>Pauline</i> was unfinished, irregular in form, +harsh, abrupt, and overloaded, but it was <a name='Page22' id= +"Page22"></a><span class='pagenum'>22</span>also entirely fresh and +distinct. The influence of Shelley echoes in it, but much more in +admiration than in imitation of him. The matter, the spirit of the +poem were his own, and the verse-movement was his own. Had Browning +been an imitator, the first thing he would have imitated would have +been the sweet and rippling movement of Shelley's melodies. But the +form of his verse, such as it was, arose directly out of his own +nature and was as original as his matter. Tennyson grew into +originality, Browning leaped into it; born, not of other poets, but +of his own will. He begat himself. It had been better for his art, +so far as technical excellence is concerned, had he studied and +imitated at first the previous masters. But he did not; and his +dominant individuality, whole in itself and creating its own +powers, separates him at the very beginning from Tennyson.</p> +<p>7. Tennyson became fully original, but he always admitted, and +sometimes encouraged in himself, a certain vein of conventionality. +He kept the opinions of the past in the matter of caste. He clung +to certain political and social maxims, and could not see beyond +them. He sometimes expressed them as if they were freshly +discovered truths or direct emanations from the Deity of England. +He belonged to a certain type of English society, and he rarely got +out of it in his poetry. He inhabited a certain Park of morals, and +he had no sympathy with any self-ethical life beyond its palings. +What had been, what was proper and recognised, somewhat enslaved in +Tennyson that distinctiveness and freedom of personality which is +of so much importance in poetry, and <a name='Page23' id= +"Page23"></a><span class='pagenum'>23</span>which, had it had more +liberty in Tennyson, would have made him a still greater poet than +he was.</p> +<p>Browning, on the other hand—much more a person in society +than Tennyson, much more a man of the world, and obeying in society +its social conventions more than Tennyson—never allowed this +to touch his poems. As the artist, he was quite free from the +opinions, maxims, and class conventions of the past or the present. +His poetry belongs to no special type of society, to no special +nationality, to no separate creed or church, to no settled standard +of social morality. What his own thought and emotion urged him to +say, he said with an absolute carelessness of what the world would +say. And in this freedom he preceded and prophesied the reaction of +the last years of the nineteenth century against the tyranny of +maxims and conventions in society, in morals, and in religion. That +reaction has in many ways been carried beyond the proper limits of +what is just and beautiful. But these excesses had to be, and the +world is beginning to avoid them. What remains is the blessing of +life set free, not altogether from the use of conventions, but from +their tyranny and oppression, and lifted to a higher level, where +the test of what is right and fitting in act, and just in thought, +is not the opinion of society, but that Law of Love which gives us +full liberty to develop our own nature and lead our own life in the +way we think best independent of all conventions, provided we do +not injure the life of others, or violate any of the great moral +and spiritual truths by obedience to which the progress of mankind +is promoted and secured. Into that high and free region of thought +<a name='Page24' id="Page24"></a><span class='pagenum'>24</span>and +action Browning brought us long ago. Tennyson did not, save at +intervals when the poet over-rode the man. This differentiates the +men. But it also tells us why Browning was not read fifty years +ago, when social conventions were tyrannous and respectability a +despot, and why he has been read for the last fifteen years and is +read now.</p> +<p>8. There is another contrast between these poets. It is quite +clear that Tennyson was a distinctively English poet and a +patriotic poet; at times too much of a patriot to judge tolerantly, +or to write fairly, about other countries. He had, at least, a +touch of national contempts, even of national hatreds. His position +towards France was much that of the British sailor of Nelson's +time. His position towards Ireland was that of the bishop, who has +been a schoolmaster, to the naughty curate who has a will of his +own. His position towards Scotland was that of one who was aware +that it had a geographical existence, and that a regiment in the +English army which had a genius for fighting was drawn from its +Highlands. He condescends to write a poem at Edinburgh, but then +Edinburgh was of English origin and name. Even with that help he +cannot be patient of the place. The poem is a recollection of an +Italian journey, and he forgets in memories of the +South—though surely Edinburgh might have awakened some +romantic associations—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>the clouded Forth,</p> +<p>The gloom which saddens Heaven and Earth,</p> +<p class='i2'>The bitter East, the misty summer</p> +<p>And gray metropolis of the North.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Edinburgh is English in origin, but Tennyson did not feel +England beyond the Border. There the <a name='Page25' id= +"Page25"></a><span class='pagenum'>25</span>Celt intruded, and he +looked askance upon the Celt. The Celtic spirit smiled, and took +its vengeance on him in its own way. It imposed on him, as his +chief subject, a Celtic tale and a Celtic hero; and though he did +his best to de-celticise the story, the vengeance lasts, for the +more he did this the more he injured his work. However, being +always a noble artist, he made a good fight for his insularity, and +the expression of it harmonised with the pride of England in +herself, alike with that which is just and noble in it, and with +that which is neither the one nor the other.</p> +<p>Then, too, his scenery (with some exceptions, and those +invented) was of his own land, and chiefly of the places where he +lived. It was quite excellent, but it was limited. But, within the +limit of England, it was steeped in the love of England; and so +sweet and full is this love, and so lovely are its results in song, +that every Englishman has, for this reason if for no other, a deep +and just affection for Tennyson. Nevertheless, in that point also +his poetry was insular. A fault in the poet, not in the poetry. +Perhaps, from this passionate concentration, the poetry was all the +lovelier.</p> +<p>Again, when Tennyson took a great gest of war as his subject, he +took it exclusively from the history of his own land. No one would +know from his writings that high deeds of sacrifice in battle had +been done by other nations. He knew of them, but he did not care to +write about them. Nor can we trace in his work any care for +national struggles or national life beyond this island—except +in a few sonnets and short pieces concerning Poland and +Montenegro—an isolation of interests which cannot <a name= +'Page26' id="Page26"></a><span class='pagenum'>26</span>be imputed +to any other great poet of the first part of the nineteenth +century, excepting Keats, who had no British or foreign interests. +Keats had no country save the country of Beauty.</p> +<p>At all these points Browning differed from Tennyson. He never +displayed a special patriotism. On the contrary, he is more Italian +than English, and he is more quick to see and sympathise with the +national characteristics of Spain or France or Germany, than he is +with those of England. No insular feeling prevented him from being +just to foreigners, or from having a keen pleasure in writing about +them. <i>Strafford</i> is the only play he wrote on an English +subject, and it is rather a study of a character which might find +its place in any aristocracy than of an English character. Even Pym +and Hampden fail to be truly English, and it would have been +difficult for any one but Browning to take their eminent English +elements out of them. <i>Paracelsus</i> and <i>Sordello</i> belong +to Germany and Italy, and there are scarcely three poems in the +whole of the seven numbers of the <i>Bells and Pomegranates</i> +which even refer to England. Italy is there, and chiefly Italy. In +<i>De Gustibus</i> he contrasts himself with his friend who loves +England:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,</p> +<p class='i2'>(If our loves remain)</p> +<p class='i2'>In an English lane</p> +<p>By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<hr class='short' /></div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>What I love best in all the world</p> +<p>Is a castle, precipice-encurled,</p> +<p>In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>"Look for me, old fellow of mine, if I get out of the <a name= +'Page27' id="Page27"></a><span class='pagenum'>27</span>grave, in a +seaside house in South Italy," and he describes the place and folk +he loves, and ends:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Open my heart and you will see</p> +<p>Graved inside of it, "Italy."</p> +<p>Such lovers old are I and she:</p> +<p>So it always was, so shall ever be!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>It is a poem written out of his very heart.</p> +<p>And then, the scenery? It is not of our country at all. It is of +many lands, but, above all, it is vividly Italian. There is no more +minute and subtly-felt description of the scenery of a piece of +village country between the mountains and the sea, with all its +life, than in the poem called <i>The Englishman in Italy</i>. The +very title is an outline of Browning's position in this matter. We +find this English poet in France, in Syria, in Greece, in Spain, +but not in England. We find Rome, Florence, Venice, Mantua, Verona, +and forgotten towns among the Apennines painted with happy love in +verse, but not an English town nor an English village. The flowers, +the hills, the ways of the streams, the talk of the woods, the +doings of the sea and the clouds in tempest and in peace, the +aspects of the sky at noon, at sunrise and sunset, are all foreign, +not English. The one little poem which is of English landscape is +written by him in Italy (in a momentary weariness with his daily +adoration), and under a green impulse. Delightful as it is, he +would not have remained faithful to it for a day. Every one knows +it, but that we may realise how quick he was to remember and to +touch a corner of early Spring in England, on a soft and windy +day—for all the blossoms are scattered—I quote it here. +It is well to read his sole contribution <a name='Page28' id= +"Page28"></a><span class='pagenum'>28</span>(except in +<i>Pauline</i> and a few scattered illustrations) to the scenery of +his own country:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i4'>Oh, to be in England</p> +<p class='i4'>Now that April's there,</p> +<p class='i2'>And whoever wakes in England</p> +<p class='i2'>Sees, some morning, unaware,</p> +<p>That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf</p> +<p>Round the elm-tree hole are in tiny leaf,</p> +<p>While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough</p> +<p class='i6'>In England—now!</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>And after April, when May follows,</p> +<p>And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!</p> +<p>Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge</p> +<p>Leans to the field and scatters on the clover</p> +<p>Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—</p> +<p>That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,</p> +<p>Lest you should think he never could recapture</p> +<p>The first fine careless rapture!</p> +<p>And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,</p> +<p>All will be gay, when noontide wakes anew</p> +<p>The buttercups, the little children's dower;</p> +<p>—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>So it runs; but it is only a momentary memory; and he knew, when +he had done it, and to his great comfort, that he was far away from +England. But when Tennyson writes of Italy—as, for instance, +in <i>Mariana in the South</i>—how apart he is! How great is +his joy when he gets back to England!</p> +<p>Then, again, when Browning was touched by the impulse to write +about a great deed in war, he does not choose, like Tennyson, +English subjects. The <i>Cavalier Tunes</i> have no importance as +patriot songs. They are mere experiments. The poem, <i>How They +brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix</i>, has twice their +vigour. His most intense war-incident is taken from the history of +the French wars under Napoleon. The most ringing and swiftest poem +of <a name='Page29' id="Page29"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>29</span>personal dash and daring—and at sea, as if +he was tired of England's mistress-ship of the waves—a poem +one may set side by side with the fight of <i>The Revenge</i>, is +<i>Hervé Riel</i>. It is a tale of a Breton sailor saving +the French fleet from the English, with the sailor's mockery of +England embedded in it; and Browning sent the hundred pounds he got +for it to the French, after the siege of Paris.</p> +<p>It was not that he did not honour his country, but that, as an +artist, he loved more the foreign lands; and that in his deepest +life he belonged less to England than to the world of man. The +great deeds of England did not prevent him from feeling, with as +much keenness as Tennyson felt those of England, the great deeds of +France and Italy. National self-sacrifice in critical hours, +splendid courage in love and war, belonged, he thought, to all +peoples. Perhaps he felt, with Tennyson's insularity dominating his +ears, that it was as well to put the other side. I think he might +have done a little more for England. There is only one poem, out of +all his huge production, which recognises the great deeds of our +Empire in war; and this did not come of a life-long feeling, such +as he had for Italy, but from a sudden impulse which arose in him, +as sailing by, he saw Trafalgar and Gibraltar, glorified and +incarnadined by a battle-sunset:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;</p> +<p>Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;</p> +<p>Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;</p> +<p>In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and +gray;</p> +<a name='Page30' id="Page30"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>30</p> +<p>"Here and here did England help me: how can I help +England?"—say.</p> +<p>Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and +pray,</p> +<p>While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>It is a little thing, and when it leaves the sunset it is poor. +And there is twice the fervour of its sunset in the description of +the sunrise at Asolo in <i>Pippa Passes</i>.</p> +<p>Again, there is scarcely a trace in his work of any vital +interest in the changes of thought and feeling in England during +the sixty years of his life, such as appear everywhere in Tennyson. +No one would know from his poetry (at least until the very end of +his life, when he wrote <i>Francis Furini</i>) that the science of +life and its origins had been revolutionised in the midst of his +career, or, save in <i>A Death in the Desert</i>, that the whole +aspect of theology had been altered, or that the democratic +movement had taken so many new forms. He showed to these English +struggles neither attraction nor repulsion. They scarcely existed +for him—transient elements of the world, merely national, not +universal. Nor did the literature or art of his own country engage +him half so much as the literature and art of Italy. He loved both. +Few were better acquainted with English poetry, or reverenced it +more; but he loved it, not because it was English, but of that +world of imagination which has no special country. He cared also +for English art, but he gave all his personal love to the art of +Italy. Nor does he write, as Tennyson loved to do, of the daily +life of the English farmer, squire, miller and sailor, and of +English sweet-<a name='Page31' id="Page31"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>31</span>hearting, nor of the English park and brook and +village-green and their indwellers, but of the work-girl at Asolo, +and the Spanish monk in his garden, and the Arab riding through the +desert, and of the Duchess and her servant flying through the +mountains of Moldavia, and of the poor painters at Fano and +Florence, and of the threadbare poet at Valladolid, and of the +peasant-girl who fed the Tuscan outlaw, and of the poor grammarian +who died somewhere in Germany (as I think Browning meant it), and +of the Jews at Rome, and of the girl at Pornic with the gold hair +and the peasant's hand, and of a hundred others, none of whom are +English. All his common life, all his love-making, sorrow and joy +among the poor, are outside this country, with perhaps two +exceptions; and neither of these has the English note which sounds +so soft and clear in Tennyson. This is curious enough, and it is +probably one of the reasons why English people for a long time +would have so little to do with him. All the same, he was himself +woven of England even more than of Italy. The English elements in +his character and work are more than the Italian. His intellect was +English, and had the English faults as well as the English +excellences. His optimism was English; his steadfast fighting +quality, his unyielding energy, his directness, his desire to get +to the root of things, were English. His religion was the excellent +English compromise or rather balance of dogma, practice and +spirituality which laymen make for their own life. His bold sense +of personal freedom was English. His constancy to his theories, +whether of faith or art, was English; his roughness of form was +positively early Teutonic.</p> +<p><a name='Page32' id="Page32"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>32</span>Then his wit, his <i>esprit</i>,<a name= +'FNanchor_3_3' id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href= +'#Footnote_3_3'>[3]</a> his capacity for induing he skin and the +soul of other persons at remote times of history; his amazing +inventiveness and the ease of it, at which point he beats Tennyson +out of the field; his play, so high fantastical, with his subjects, +and the way in which the pleasure he took in this play overmastered +his literary self-control; his fantastic games with metre and with +rhyme, his want of reverence for the rules of his art; his general +lawlessness, belong to one side, but to one side only, of the +Celtic nature. But the ardour of the man, the pathos of his passion +and the passion of his pathos, his impulse towards the infinite and +the constant rush he made into its indefinite realms; the special +set of his imagination towards the fulfillment of perfection in +Love; his vision of Nature as in colour, rather than in light and +shade; his love of beauty and the kind of beauty that he loved; his +extraordinary delight in all kinds of art as the passionate shaping +of part of the unapproachable Beauty—these were all old +Italian.</p> +<p><a name='Page33' id="Page33"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>33</span>Then I do not know whether Browning had any +Jewish blood in his body by descent, but he certainly had Jewish +elements in his intellect, spirit and character. His sense of an +ever-victorious Righteousness at the centre of the universe, whom +one might always trust and be untroubled, was Jewish, but he +carried it forward with the New Testament and made the +Righteousness identical with absolute Love. Yet, even in this, the +Old Testament elements were more plainly seen than is usual among +Christians. The appearance of Christ as all-conquering love in +<i>Easter-Day</i> and the scenery which surrounds him are such as +Ezekiel might have conceived and written. Then his intellectual +subtlety, the metaphysical minuteness of his arguments, his +fondness for parenthesis, the way in which he pursued the absolute +while he loaded it with a host of relatives, and conceived the +universal through a multitude of particulars, the love he had for +remote and unexpected analogies, the craft with which his intellect +persuaded him that he could insert into his poems thoughts, +illustrations, legends, and twisted knots of reasoning which a fine +artistic sense would have omitted, were all as Jewish as the +Talmud. There was also a Jewish quality in his natural description, +in the way he invented diverse phrases to express different aspects +of the same phenomenon, a thing for which the Jews were famous; and +in the way in which he peopled what he described with animal life +of all kinds, another remarkable habit of the Jewish poets. +Moreover, his pleasure in intense colour, in splashes and blots of +scarlet and crimson and deep blue and glowing green; in precious +stones for the sake of their colour—sapphire, ruby, emerald, +<a name='Page34' id="Page34"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>34</span>chrysolite, pearl, onyx, chalcedony (he does not +care for the diamond); in the flame of gold, in the crimson of +blood, is Jewish. So also is his love of music, of music especially +as bringing us nearest to what is ineffable in God, of music with +human aspiration in its heart and sounding in its phrases. It was +this Jewish element in Browning, in all its many forms, which +caused him to feel with and to write so much about the Jews in his +poetry. The two poems in which he most fully enshrines his view of +human life, as it may be in the thought of God and as it ought to +be conceived by us, are both in the mouth of Jews, of <i>Rabbi Ben +Ezra</i> and <i>Jochanan Hakkadosh</i>. In <i>Filippo +Baldinucci</i> the Jew has the best of the battle; his courtesy, +intelligence and physical power are contrasted with the coarseness, +feeble brains and body of the Christians. In <i>Holy-Cross Day</i>, +the Jew, forced to listen to a Christian sermon, begins with coarse +and angry mockery, but passes into solemn thought and dignified +phrase. No English poet, save perhaps Shakespeare, whose exquisite +sympathy could not leave even Shylock unpitied, has spoken of the +Jew with compassion, knowledge and admiration, till Browning wrote +of him. The Jew lay deep in Browning. He was a complex creature; +and who would understand or rather feel him rightly, must be able +to feel something of the nature of all these races in himself. But +Tennyson was not complex. He was English and only English.</p> +<p>But to return from this digression. Browning does not stand +alone among the poets in the apartness from his own land of which I +have written. Byron is partly with him. Where Byron differs from +<a name='Page35' id="Page35"></a><span class='pagenum'>35</span>him +is, first, in this—that Byron had no poetic love for any +special country as Browning had for Italy; and, secondly, that his +country was, alas, himself, until at the end, sick of his +self-patriotism, he gave himself to Greece. Keats, on the other +hand, had no country except, as I have said, the country of +Loveliness. Wordsworth, Coleridge and Shelley were not exclusively +English. Shelley belonged partly to Italy, but chiefly to that +future of mankind in which separate nationalities and divided +patriotisms are absorbed. Wordsworth and Coleridge, in their early +days, were patriots of humanity; they actually for a time abjured +their country. Even in his later days Wordsworth's sympathies reach +far beyond England. But none of these were so distinctively English +as Tennyson, and none of them were so outside of England as +Browning. Interesting as it is, the <i>completeness</i> of this +isolation from England was a misfortune, not a strength, in his +poetry.</p> +<p>There is another thing to say in this connection. The expansion +of the interests of the English poets beyond England was due in +Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, and partly in Byron, to the great +tidal-wave of feeling for man as man, which, rising long before the +French Revolution, was lifted into twice its height and dashed on +the shore of the world with overwhelming volume, by the earthquake +in France of 1789. Special national sentiments were drowned in its +waters. Patriotism was the duty of man, not to any one nation but +to the whole of humanity, conceived of as the only nation.</p> +<p>In 1832 there was little left of that influence in England among +the educated classes, and Tennyson's <a name='Page36' id= +"Page36"></a><span class='pagenum'>36</span>insular patriotism +represented their feeling for many years, and partly represents it +now. But the ideas of the Revolution were at the same time taking a +wiser and more practical form among the English democracy than they +even had at their first outburst in France, and this emerged, on +one side of it, in the idea of internationalism. It grew among the +propertied classes from the greater facilities of travel, from the +wide extension of commercial, and especially of literary, +intercommunication. Literature, even more than commerce, diminishes +the oppositions and increases the amalgamation of nations. On her +lofty plane nations breathe an air in which their quarrels die. The +same idea grew up of itself among the working classes, not only in +England, but in Germany, Italy, France, America. They began, and +have continued, to lose their old belief in distinct and warring +nationalities. To denationalise the nations into one nation +only—the nation of mankind—is too vast an idea to grow +quickly, but in all classes, and perhaps most in the working class, +there are an increasing number of thinking men who say to the +varied nations, "We are all one; our interests, duties, rights, +nature and aims are one." And, for my part, I believe that in the +full development of that conception the progress of mankind is most +deeply concerned, and will be best secured.</p> +<p>Now, when all these classes in England, brought to much the same +point by different paths, seek for a poetry which is international +rather than national, and which recognises no special country as +its own, they do not find it in Tennyson, but they do find Browning +writing, and quite naturally, as if he belonged to other peoples as +much as to his own, even more than <a name='Page37' id= +"Page37"></a><span class='pagenum'>37</span>to his own. And they +also find that he had been doing this for many years before their +own international interests had been awakened. That, then, +differentiates him completely from Tennyson, and is another reason +why he was not read in the past but is read in the present.</p> +<p>9. Again, with regard to politics and social questions, Tennyson +made us know what his general politics were, and he has always +pleased or displeased men by his political position. The British +Constitution appears throughout his work seated like Zeus on +Olympus, with all the world awaiting its nod. Then, also, social +problems raise their storm-awakening heads in his poetry: the +Woman's Question; War; Competition; the State of the Poor; +Education; a State without Religion; the Marriage Question; where +Freedom lies; and others. These are brought by Tennyson, though +tentatively, into the palace of poetry and given rooms in it.</p> +<p>At both these points Browning differed from Tennyson. He was not +the politician, not the sociologist, only the poet. No trace of the +British Constitution is to be found in his poetry; no one could +tell from it that he had any social views or politics at all. Sixty +years in close contact with this country and its movements, and not +a line about them!</p> +<p>He records the politics of the place and people of whom or of +which he is for the moment writing, but he takes no side. We know +what they thought at Rome or among the Druses of these matters, but +we do not know what Browning thought. The art-representation, the +<i>Vorstellung</i> of the thing, is all; the personal view of the +poet is nothing. It is the <a name='Page38' id= +"Page38"></a><span class='pagenum'>38</span>same in social matters. +What he says as a poet concerning the ideas which should rule the +temper of the soul and human life in relation to our fellow men may +be applied to our social questions, and usefully; but Browning is +not on that plane. There are no poems directly applied to them. +This means that he kept himself outside the realm of political and +social discussions and in the realm of those high emotions and +ideas out of which imagination in lonely creation draws her work to +light. With steady purpose he refused to make his poetry the +servant of the transient, of the changing elements of the world. He +avoided the contemporary. For this high reserve we and the future +of art will owe him gratitude.</p> +<p>On the contrast between the theology we find in Tennyson and +Browning, and on the contrast between their ethical positions, it +will be wiser not to speak in this introduction. These two +contrasts would lead me too far afield, and they have little or +nothing to do with poetry. Moreover, Browning's theology and +ethics, as they are called, have been discussed at wearying length +for the last ten years, and especially by persons who use his +poetry to illustrate from it their own systems of theology, +philosophy and ethics.</p> +<p>10. I will pass, therefore, to another contrast—the +contrast between them as Artists.</p> +<p>A great number of persons who write about the poets think, when +they have said the sort of things I have been saying, that they +have said either enough, or the most important things. The things +are, indeed, useful to say; they enable us to realise the poet and +his character, and the elements of <a name='Page39' id= +"Page39"></a><span class='pagenum'>39</span>which his poetry is +made. They place him in a clear relation to his time; they +distinguish him from other poets, and, taken all together, they +throw light upon his work. But they are not half enough, nor are +they the most important. They leave out the essence of the whole +matter; they leave out the poetry. They illuminate the surface of +his poetry, but they do not penetrate into his interpretation, by +means of his special art, and under the influence of high emotion, +of the beautiful and sublime Matter of thought and feeling which +arises out of Nature and Human Nature, the two great subjects of +song; which Matter the poets represent in a form so noble and so +lovely in itself that, when it is received into a heart prepared +for it, it kindles in the receiver a love of beauty and sublimity +similar to that which the poet felt before he formed, and while he +formed, his poem. Such a receiver, reading the poem, makes the +poem, with an individual difference, in himself. And this is the +main thing; the eternal, not the temporary thing.</p> +<p>Almost all I have already discussed with regard to Tennyson and +Browning belongs to the temporary; and the varying judgments which +their public have formed of them, chiefly based on their appeal to +the tendencies of the time, do not at all predict what the final +judgment on these men as poets is likely to be. That will depend, +not on feelings which belong to the temporary elements of the +passing day, but on how far the eternal and unchanging elements of +art appear in their work. The things which fitted the poetry of +Tennyson to the years between 1840 and 1870 have already <a name= +'Page40' id="Page40"></a><span class='pagenum'>40</span>passed +away; the things which, as I have explained, fitted the poetry of +Browning to the tendencies of the years after 1870 will also +disappear, and are already disappearing. Indeed, the excessive +transiency of nearly all the interests of cultivated society during +the last ten years is that in them which most deeply impresses any +man who sits somewhat apart from them. And, at any rate, none of +these merely contemporary elements, which often seem to men the +most important, will count a hundred years hence in the estimate of +the poetry either of Tennyson or Browning. They will be of +historical interest, and no more. Matters in their poetry, now the +subjects of warm discussion among their critics, will be laid aside +as materials for judgment; and justly, for they are of quite +impermanent value.</p> +<p>Whenever, then, we try to judge them as poets, we must do our +best to discharge these temporary things, and consider their poetry +as it will seem a hundred years hence to men who will think +seriously and feel sensitively, even passionately, towards great +and noble Matter of imaginative thought and emotion concerning +human life and the natural world, and towards lovely creation of +such matter into Form. Their judgment will be made apart from the +natural prejudices that arise from contemporary movements. They +will not be wiser in their judgment of their own poets than we are +about ours, but they will be wiser in their judgment of our poets, +because, though they will have their own prejudices, they will not +have ours. Moreover, the long, growing, and incessantly corrected +judgment of those best fitted to feel what is most beautiful in +shaping and <a name='Page41' id="Page41"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>41</span>most enduring in thought and feeling penetrated +and made infinite by imagination, will, by that time, have +separated the permanent from the impermanent in the work of +Browning and Tennyson.</p> +<p>That judgment will partly depend on the answers, slowly, as it +were unconsciously, given by the world to two questions. First, how +far does their poetry represent truly and passionately what is +natural and most widely felt in loving human nature, whether +terrible or joyful, simple or complex, tragic or humorous? +Secondly, how far is the representation beautiful and noble in +form, and true to the laws of their art. That poetry which is +nearest to the most natural, the most universal elements of human +life when they are suffused with love—in some at least of its +various moods—and at the same time the most beautiful in +form, is the best. It wins most affection from mankind, for it is +about noble matters of thought which the greater number of men and +women desire to contemplate, and about noble matters of passion +which the greater number love and therefore enjoy. This poetry +lasts from generation to generation, is independent of differences +made by climate, by caste, by nationality, by religion, by +politics, by knowledge, custom, tradition or morals. These +universal, natural elements of human nature are, in all their +infinite variety and striving, beloved by men, of undying interest +in action, and of immortal pleasure in thought. The nearer a poet +is to them, especially to what is lovable, and therefore beautiful +in them, the greater and the more enduring is his work. It follows +that this greater work will also be simple, that is, easy to feel +with <a name='Page42' id="Page42"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>42</span>the heart though it may be difficult to grasp by +the intelligence. Were it not simple in feeling, the general answer +of mankind to the call of love, in all its forms, for sympathy +would be unheard. And if it be simple in feeling, it does not much +matter if the deep waters of its thought are difficult for the +understanding to fathom.</p> +<p>It would be ridiculous to dogmatise on a matter which can only +be fully answered a century hence, but this much is plain. Of these +two poets, taking into consideration the whole of their work, +Tennyson is the closest to human nature in its noble, common and +loving forms, as Browning is the closest to what is complex, subtle +and uncommon in human nature. The representation both of the simple +and of the complex is a good thing, and both poets have their place +and honour. But the representation of the complex is plainly the +more limited in range of influence, and appeals to a special class +of minds rather than to mankind at large. There are some, indeed, +who think that the appeal to the few, to thinkers alone or +high-wrought specialists in various forms of culture, marks out the +greater poet. It is the tendency of literary castes to think that +specialised work is the greatest. "This man," they say, "is our +poet, not the mob's. He stands apart, and his apartness marks his +greatness." These are amusing persons, who practically say, "We +alone understand him, therefore he is great."</p> +<p>Yet a phrase like "apartness makes greatness," when justly +applied to a poet, marks, not his superiority of rank, but his +inferiority. It relegates him at once to a lower place. The +greatest poets are loved by all, and understood by all who think +<a name='Page43' id="Page43"></a><span class='pagenum'>43</span>and +feel naturally. Homer was loved by Pericles and by the +sausage-seller. Vergil was read with joy by Mæcenas and +Augustus, and by the vine-dressers of Mantua. Dante drew after him +the greatest minds in Italy, and yet is sung to-day by the +shepherds and peasants of the hill-villages of Tuscany. Shakespeare +pleases the most selected spirits of the world and the galleries of +the strolling theatres.</p> +<p>And though Tennyson and Browning are far below these mightier +poets, yet when we apply to them this rule, drawn from what we know +to be true of the greatest, Tennyson answers its demand more +closely than Browning. The highest work which poetry can do is to +glorify what is most natural and simple in the whole of loving +human nature, and to show the excelling beauty, not so much of the +stranger and wilder doings of the natural world, but of its +everyday doings and their common changes. In doing these two things +with simplicity, passion and beauty is the finest work of the arts, +the eternal youth, the illimitable material of poetry, and it will +endure while humanity endures in this world, and in that which is +to come. Among all our cultivated love of the uncommon, the remote, +the subtle, the involved, the metaphysical and the +terrible—the representation of which things has its due +place, even its necessity—it is well to think of that quiet +truth, and to keep it as a first principle in the judgment of the +arts. Indeed, the recovery of the natural, simple and universal +ways of acting and feeling in men and women who love as the finest +subjects of the arts has always regenerated them whenever, in +<a name='Page44' id="Page44"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>44</span>pursuit of the unnatural, the complicated, the +analytic, and the sensational, they have fallen into decay.</p> +<p>Browning did not like this view, being conscious that his poetry +did not answer its demand. Not only in early but also in later +poems, he pictured his critics stating it, and his picture is +scornful enough. There is an entertaining sketch of Naddo, the +Philistine critic, in the second book of <i>Sordello</i>; and the +view I speak of is expressed by him among a huddle of +criticisms—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>"Would you have your songs endure?</p> +<p>Build on the human heart!—why, to be sure</p> +<p>Yours is one sort of heart.—But I mean theirs,</p> +<p>Ours, every one's, the healthy heart one cares</p> +<p>To build on! Central peace, mother of strength,</p> +<p>That's father of...."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is good fooling, and Naddo is an ass. Nevertheless, though +Naddo makes nonsense of the truth, he was right in the main, and +Browning as well as Sordello suffered when they forgot or ignored +that truth. And, of course, Browning did not forget or ignore it in +more than half his work. Even in <i>Sordello</i> he tells us how he +gave himself up to recording with pity and love the doings of the +universal soul. He strove to paint the whole. It was a bold +ambition. Few have fulfilled it so well. None, since Shakespeare, +have had a wider range. His portraiture of life was so much more +varied than that of Tennyson, so much more extensive and detailed, +that on this side he excels Tennyson; but such portraiture is not +necessarily poetic, and when it is fond of the complex, it is +always in danger of tending to prose. And <a name='Page45' id= +"Page45"></a><span class='pagenum'>45</span>Browning, picturing +human life, deviated too much into the delineation of its more +obscure and complex forms. It was in his nature to do and love this +kind of work; and indeed it has to be done, if human life is to be +painted fully. Only, it is not to be done too much, if one desires +to be always the poet. For the representation of the complex and +obscure is chiefly done by the analysing understanding, and its +work and pleasure in it lures the poet away from art. He loses the +poetic turn of the thing of which he writes, and what he produces +is not better than rhythmical prose. Again and again Browning fell +into that misfortune; and it is a strange problem how a man, who +was in one part of his nature a great poet, could, under the sway +of another, cease to be a poet. At this point his inferiority to +Tennyson as a poet is plain. Tennyson scarcely ever wrote a line +which was not unmistakably poetry, while Browning could write pages +which were unmistakably not poetry.</p> +<p>I do not mean, in saying all this, that Browning did not appeal +to that which is deepest and universal in nature and human nature, +but only that he did not appeal to it as much as Tennyson. Browning +is often simple, lovely and universal. And when he speaks out of +that emotional imagination wherein is the hiding of a poet's power, +and which is the legitimate sovereign of his intellectual work, he +will win and keep the delight and love of the centuries to come. By +work of this type he will be finally judged and finally endure; +and, even now, every one who loves great poetry knows what these +master-poems are. As to the others, the merely subtle, analytic +poems in <a name='Page46' id="Page46"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>46</span>which intellect, not imagination, is supreme, +especially those into which he drifted in his later life when the +ardour of his poetic youth glowed less warmly—they will +always appeal to a certain class of persons who would like to +persuade themselves that they like poetry but to whom its book is +sealed; and who, in finding out what Browning means, imagine to +their great surprise that they find out that they care for poetry. +What they really care for is their own cleverness in discovering +riddles, and they are as far away from poetry as Sirius is from the +Sun.</p> +<p>There are, however, many true lovers of poetry who are +enthusiastic about these poems. And parts of them deserve this +enthusiasm, for they have been conceived and made in a wild +borderland between analysis and imagination. They occupy a place +apart, a backwater in the noble stream of English poetry, filled +with strange plants; and the final judgment of Browning's rank as +an artist will not depend on them but on the earlier poems, which, +being more "simple, sensuous and passionate," are nearer to the +common love and life of man. When, then, we apply this test, the +difference of rank between him and Tennyson is not great, but it is +plain. Yet comparison, on this point, is difficult. Both drew +mankind. Tennyson is closer to that which is most universal in the +human heart, Browning to the vast variety within it; and men in the +future will find their poetic wants best satisfied by reading the +work of both these poets. Let us say then that in this matter they +are equal. Each has done a different part of that portraiture of +human nature which is the chief work of a poet.</p> +<p><a name='Page47' id="Page47"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>47</span>But this is not the only test we may apply to +these men as poets. The second question which tries the endurance +and greatness of poetic work is this: "How far is any poet's +representation of what is true and loving in itself lovely?" Their +stuff may be equally good. Is their form equally good? Is it as +beautiful as an artist, whose first duty is to be true to beauty as +the shape of love and truth, ought to make it? The judgment of the +future will also be formed on that ground, and inevitably.</p> +<p>What we call form in poetry may be said to consist of, or to +depend on, three things: (1) on a noble style; (2) on a harmonious +composition, varied but at unity; (3) on a clear, sweet melody of +lawful movement in verse. These are not everything in poetry, but +they are the half of its whole. The other half is that the +"matter"—that is, the deep substance of amalgamated Thought +and Emotion—should be great, vital and fair. But both halves +are necessary, and when the half which regards form is weak or +unbeautiful, the judgment of the future drops the poems which are +faulty in form out of memory, just as it drops out of its +affections poems which are excellent in form, but of ignoble, +unimpassioned, feeble or thoughtless matter. There was, for +example, a whole set of poets towards the end of the Elizabethan +period who were close and weighty thinkers, whose poetry is full of +intellectual surprises and difficulties, who were capable of +subtlety of expression and even of lovely turns and phantasies of +feeling; whom students read to-day, but whom the poetical world +does not read at all. And the reason is that their style, their +melody, and <a name='Page48' id="Page48"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>48</span>their composition do not match in excellence +their matter. Their stuff is good, their form is bad. The judgment +of the future gives them no high rank. They do not answer well to +the test of which I speak.</p> +<p>I do not mean to apply that analogy altogether, only partly, to +Browning. He rises far above these poets in style, composition and +melody, but he skirts their faults. And if we are asked to compare +him to Tennyson, he is inferior to Tennyson at all these points of +Form.</p> +<p>(1) His composition was rarely sufficiently careful. It was +broken up, overcrowded; minor objects of thought or feeling are +made too remarkable for the whole; there is far too little of +poetical perspective; the variety of the poem does not always grow +out of the subject itself, but out of the external play of +Browning's mind upon things remotely connected with the subject; +too many side-issues are introduced; everything he imagined is cast +upon the canvas, too little is laid aside, so that the poems run to +a length which weakens instead of strengthening the main +impression. A number of the poems have, that is, the faults of a +composer whose fancy runs away with him, who does not ride it as a +master; and in whom therefore, for a time, imagination has gone to +sleep. Moreover, only too often, they have those faults of +composition which naturally belong to a poet when he writes as if +intellect rather than passion were the ultimate umpire of the work +of his art. Of course, there are many exceptions; and the study of +those exceptions, as exceptions, would make an interesting essay. +On the other hand, Tennyson's <a name='Page49' id= +"Page49"></a><span class='pagenum'>49</span>composition was for the +most part excellent, and always careful.</p> +<p>(2) Then as to style. Browning had a style of his own, wholly +devoid of imitation, perfectly individual, and this is one of the +marks of a good artist. It was the outcome of his poetic character, +and represented it. At this point his style is more interesting +than Tennyson's. Tennyson's style was often too much worked, too +consciously subjected to the rules of his art, too worn down to +smoothness of texture. Moreover, the natural surprises of an +unchartered individuality do not sufficiently appear in it +(Tennyson repressed the fantastic), though the whole weight of his +character does magnificently appear. But if Tennyson was too +conscious of his style—a great misfortune especially in +passionate song—Browning did not take any deliberate pains +with his style, and that is a greater misfortune. His freedom ran +into undue licence; and he seems to be over-conscious, even proud, +of his fantastical way of writing. His individuality runs riot in +his style. He paid little attention to the well-established rules +of his art, in a revulsion, perhaps, from any imitation of the +great models. He had not enough reverence for his art, and little +for the public. He flung his diction at our heads and said: "This +is myself; take it or leave it."</p> +<p>None of the greater artists of the world have ever done this. +They have not cared for what the world said, but they have cared +for their art. There are certain limits to individual +capriciousness in style, long since laid down, as it were, by +Beauty herself; which, transgressed, lessen, injure or lose beauty; +and Browning continually transgressed those limits.</p> +<p><a name='Page50' id="Page50"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>50</span>Again, clearness is one of the first elements in +style, and on poetry attaining clearness, depends, in great +measure, its enduringness in the future. So far as clearness +carries him, Tennyson's poetry is sure to last. So far as +Browning's obscurity goes, his poetry will not last like +Tennyson's. It is all very well for his students to say that he is +not obscure; he is. Nor is it by any exceptional depth of thought +or by any specially profound analysis of the soul that Browning is +obscure. It is by his style. By that he makes what is easy +difficult. The reader does not get at what he means as he gets at +what Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare mean. Dante and Shakespeare are +often difficult through the depth and difficulty of their matter; +they are not difficult, except Shakespeare when he was learning his +art, by obscurity or carelessness of style. But Browning is +difficult not by his thoughts, but by his expression of them. A +poet has no right to be so indifferent, so careless of clearness in +his art, I might almost say, so lazy. Browning is negligent to a +fault, almost to impertinence. The great poets put the right words +in the right places, and Tennyson is with them in that. Browning +continually puts his words into the wrong places. He leaves out +words necessary for the easy understanding of the passage, and for +no reason except his fancy. He leaves his sentences half-finished +and his meaning half-expressed. He begins a sentence, and having +begun it, three or four thoughts connected with it slide into his +mind, and instead of putting them aside or using them in another +place, he jerks them into the middle of his sentence in a series of +parentheses, and then inserts the end of the original sentence, or +does not insert it at all. <a name='Page51' id= +"Page51"></a><span class='pagenum'>51</span>This is irritating +except to folk who like discovery of the twisted rather than +poetry; and it is quite needless. It is worse than needless, for it +lowers the charm and the dignity of the poetry.</p> +<p>Yet, there is something to say on the other side. It is said, +and with a certain justice, that "the style is the man. Strip his +style away, and where is the man? Where is the real Browning if we +get him to change a way of writing in which he naturally shaped his +thought?" Well, no one would ask him to impose on himself a style +which did not fit his nature. That would be fatal. When he has +sometimes tried to do so, as in a few of the dramas, we scarcely +recognise our poet, and we lose half of his intellectual and poetic +charm. Just as Carlyle when he wrote away from his natural style, +as in the life of Sterling and Schiller, is not the great writer he +is elsewhere, so was it with Browning. Were we savage satirists, +blinded by our savagery, we might then say both of Browning and +Carlyle that half their power lay in their fantastic, rocky style. +We should be quite wrong. Their style was the exact clothing of +their thought. They wrote exactly as they thought; and when they +put their thought into other clothing, when they doctored their +style, they did not represent what they really thought. No sensible +person then would have asked Browning to change his style, but +would have asked him not to exaggerate it into its defects. It is +plain he could have kept it within bounds. He has done so +frequently. But as frequently he has allowed it to leap about as +wildly as a young colt. He should have submitted it to the +<i>manège</i>, and ridden it then where he pleased. A +<a name='Page52' id="Page52"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>52</span>very little trouble on his part, a very little +sacrifice of his unbridled fancifulness, would have spared us a +great deal of unnecessary trouble, and made his poetry better and +more enduring.</p> +<p>Another excuse may be made for his faults of style. It may be +said that in one sense the faults are excellences. When a poet has +to represent excessively subtle phases of thought and feeling, with +a crowd of side-thoughts and side-feelings intruding on them; when +he has to describe the excessive oddities, the curious turns of +human emotion in strange inward conditions or outward circumstances +or when he has to deal with rugged or even savage characters under +the sway of the passions; he cannot, we are told, do it otherwise +than Browning did it, and, instead of being lazy, he used these +quips and cranks of style deliberately.</p> +<p>The excuse has something in it. But, all the same, an artist +should have managed it otherwise. Shakespeare was far more subtle +in thought than Browning, and he had to deal with every kind of +strange circumstance and characters; but his composition and his +style illuminate the characters, order the circumstances, and +render clear, as, for example, in the Sonnets, the subtleties of +his thought. A great artist, by his comprehensive grasp of the main +issue of his work, even in a short lyric or a small picture, and by +his luminous representation of it, suggests, without direct +expression of them, all the strange psychology, and the play of +character in the situations. And such an artist does this excellent +thing by his noble composition, and by his lofty, clear, and +melodious style. The excuse is, then, of some weight, but it +<a name='Page53' id="Page53"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>53</span>does not relieve Browning of the charge. Had he +been a greater artist, he would have been a greater master of the +right way of saying things and a greater pleasurer of the future. +Had he taken more pains with his style, but without losing its +individual elements, he might have had as high a poetic place as +Tennyson in the judgment of posterity.</p> +<p>(3) In one thing more—in this matter of form—the +beauty of poetry lies. It is in sweetness of melody and its charm; +in exquisite fitness of its music to its thought and its emotion; +in lawful change of harmony making enchanting variety to the ear; +in the obedience of the melodies to the laws of the different kinds +of poetry; and in the lovely conduct of the harmonies, through all +their changes, to that finished close which throws back its own +beauty on all that has preceded it. This part of the loveliness of +form in poetry, along with composition and style—for without +these and without noble matter of thought poetry is nothing but +pleasant noise—secures also the continuous delight of men and +the approving judgment of the future; and in this also Tennyson, +who gave to it the steady work of a lifetime, stands above his +brother-poet. Browning was far too careless of his melody. He +frequently sacrificed it, and needlessly, to his thought. He may +have imagined that he strengthened the thing he thought by breaking +the melody. He did not, he injured it. He injured the melody also +by casting into the middle of it, like stones into a clear water, +rough parenthetic sounds to suit his parenthetic phrases. He breaks +it sometimes into two with violent clanging words, with discords +which he <a name='Page54' id="Page54"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>54</span>does not resolve, but forgets. And in the +pleasure he took in quaint oddities of sound, in jarring tricks +with his metre, in fantastic and difficult arrangements of rhyme, +in scientific displays of double rhymes, he, only too often, +immolates melody on the altar of his own cleverness.</p> +<p>A great many of the poems in which the natural loveliness of +melody is thus sacrificed or maimed will last, on account of the +closely-woven work of the intellect in them, and on account of +their vivid presentation of the travail of the soul; that is, they +will last for qualities which might belong to prose; but they will +not last as poetry. And other poems, in which the melody is only +interrupted here and there, will lose a great deal of the +continuity of pleasure they would have given to man had they been +more careful to obey those laws of fine melody which Tennyson never +disobeys.</p> +<p>It is fortunate that neither of these injuries can be attributed +to the whole of his work; and I am equally far from saying that his +faults of style and composition belong to all his poetry.</p> +<p>There are a number of poems the melody of which is beautiful, in +which, if there are discords, they are resolved into a happy +concord at their close. There are others the melody of which is so +strange, brilliant, and capturing that their sound is never +forgotten. There are others the subtle, minor harmonies of which +belong to and represent remote pathetic phases of human passion, +and they, too, are heard by us in lonely hours of pitiful feeling, +and enchant the ear and heart. And these will endure for the noble +pleasure of man.</p> +<p>There are also poems the style of which is fitted <a name= +'Page55' id="Page55"></a><span class='pagenum'>55</span>most +happily to the subject, like the Letter of Karshish to his Friend, +in which Browning has been so seized by his subject, and yet has so +mastered it, that he has forgotten to intercalate his own fancies; +and in which, if the style is broken, it is broken in full harmony +with the situation, and in obedience to the unity of impression he +desired to make. There are others, like <i>Abt Vogler</i>, in which +the style is extraordinarily noble, clear, and uplifted; and there +are long passages in the more important poems, like +<i>Paracelsus</i>, where the joy and glory of the thought and +passion of Browning inform the verse with dignity, and make its +march stately with solemn and beautiful music. Where the style and +melody are thus fine the composition is also good. The parts, in +their variety, belong to one another and to the unity of the whole. +Style, melody and composition are always in the closest relation. +And this nobleness of composition, style, and melody is chiefly +found in those poems of his which have to do with the great matter +of poetry—the representation of the universal and simple +passions of human nature with their attendant and necessary +thoughts. And there, in that part of his work, not in that other +part for which he is unduly praised, and which belongs to the +over-subtilised and over-intellectual time in which our +self-conscious culture now is striving to resist its decay, and to +prove that its disease is health, is the lasting power of +Browning.</p> +<p>And then, beyond all these matters of form, there is the poet +himself, alone among his fellows in his unique and individual +power, who has fastened himself into our hearts, added a new world +<a name='Page56' id="Page56"></a><span class='pagenum'>56</span>to +our perceptions, developed our lives and enlarged our interests. +And there are the separate and distinguished excellences of his +work—the virtues which have no defects, the virtues, too, of +his defects, all the new wonders of his realm—the many +originalities which have justly earned for him that high and lonely +seat on Parnassus on which his noble Shadow sits to-day, +unchallenged in our time save by that other Shadow with whom, in +reverence and love, we have been perhaps too bold to contrast +him.</p> +<p><a name='Page57' id="Page57"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>57</span>FOOTNOTES:</p> +<div class='footnote'> +<p><a name='Footnote_1_1' id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href= +'#FNanchor_1_1'>[1]</a> I state it roughly. The <i>Poems of Two +Brothers</i> appeared in 1826, Tennyson's first single volume in +1830, his second in 1833, his last in 1892. Browning's first poem +was issued in 1833, his last in 1890. <i>Paracelsus</i>, in which +his genius clearly disclosed itself, was published in 1835, while +Tennyson, seven years later, proved his mastership in the two +volumes of 1842.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote'> +<p><a name='Footnote_2_2' id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href= +'#FNanchor_2_2'>[2]</a> <i>A Death in the Desert</i> touches on the +doubts which, when it was written, had gathered from historical +criticism round the subject matter of the Gospels, but the +prophetic answer of St. John is not critical. It is Browning's +personal reply to the critics, and is based on his own religious +philosophy. The critical part of the argument is left untouched, +and the answer is given from the poet's plane. It is the same when +in the <i>Parleyings with Certain People</i> Furini is made to +embody Browning's belief in a personal God in contradistinction +with the mere evolutionist. He does not argue the points. He places +one doctrine over against the other and bids the reader choose. +Moreover, he claims his view as his own alone. He seeks to impose +it on no one.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote'> +<p><a name='Footnote_3_3' id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href= +'#FNanchor_3_3'>[3]</a> Much has been said of the humour of +Browning. But it is rather wit than humour which we perceive. The +gentle pathos which belongs to humour, the pitiful turn of the +humourist upon himself, his smile at his own follies and those of +mankind, the half light, like that of evening, in which humour +dwells, are wanting in Browning. It is true he has the charity of +humour, though not its pathetic power. But, all the same, he is too +keen, too brilliant, too fierce at times for a humourist. The light +in which we see the foolish, fantastic, amusing or contemptible +things of life is too bright for humour. He is a Wit—with +charity—not a humourist. As for Tennyson, save in his +Lincolnshire poems and <i>Will Waterproof's Soliloquy</i>, he was +strangely devoid either of humour or of wit.</p> +</div> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='CHAPTER_II' id="CHAPTER_II"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> +<h3><i>THE TREATMENT OF NATURE</i></h3> +<p>It is a difficult task to explain or analyse the treatment of +Nature by Browning. It is easy enough to point out his remarkable +love of her colour, his vivid painting of brief landscapes, his +minute observation, his flashing way of description, his feeling +for the breadth and freshness of Nature, his love of flowers and +animals, and the way he has of hitting and emphasising the central +point or light of a landscape. This is easy work, but it is not so +easy to capture and define the way in which his soul, when he was +alone, felt with regard to the heavens, and the earth and all that +therein is. Others, like Wordsworth, have stated this plainly: +Browning has nowhere defined his way. What his intellect held the +Natural World to be, in itself; what it meant for man; the relation +in which it stood to God and God to it—these things are +partly plain. They have their attraction for us. It is always +interesting to know what an imaginative genius thinks about such +matters. But it is only a biographical or a half-scientific +interest. But what we want to discover is how Browning, as a poet, +felt the world of Nature. We have to try and catch the unconscious +attitude of his soul when the <a name='Page58' id= +"Page58"></a><span class='pagenum'>58</span>Universe was at work +around him, and he was for the time its centre—and this is +the real difficulty.</p> +<p>Sometimes we imagine we have caught and fixed this elusive +thing, but we finally give up the quest. The best we can do is to +try to find the two or three general thoughts, the most frequently +recurring emotions Browning had when Nature at sundry hours and in +diverse manners displayed before him her beauty, splendour and +fire, and seemed to ask his worship; or again, when she stood apart +from him, with the mocking smile she often wears, and whispered in +his ear, "Thou shall pursue me always, but never find my secret, +never grasp my streaming hair." And both these experiences are to +be found in Browning. Nature and he are sometimes at one, and +sometimes at two; but seldom the first, and generally the +second.</p> +<p>The natural world Tennyson describes is for the greater part of +it a reflection of man, or used to heighten man's feeling, or to +illustrate his action, or sentimentalised by memorial associations +of humanity, or, finally, invented as a background for a human +subject, and with a distinct direction towards that subject. +Browning, with a few exceptions, does the exact opposite. His +natural world is not made by our thought, nor does it reflect our +passions. His illustrations, drawn from it, of our actions, break +down at certain points, as if the illustrating material were alien +from our nature. Nature, it is true, he thinks, leads up to man, +and therefore has elements in her which are dim prophecies and +prognostics of us; but she is only connected with us as the road is +with the goal it reaches in the end. She exists independently of +<a name='Page59' id="Page59"></a><span class='pagenum'>59</span>us, +but yet she exists to suggest to us what we may become, to awaken +in us dim longings and desires, to surprise us into confession of +our inadequacy, to startle us with perceptions of an infinitude we +do not possess as yet but may possess; to make us feel our +ignorance, weakness, want of finish; and by partly exhibiting the +variety, knowledge, love, power and finish of God, to urge us +forward in humble pursuit to the infinite in him. The day Browning +climbs Mont Salève, at the beginning of his poem <i>La +Saisiaz</i>, after a description of his climb in which he notes a +host of minute quaintnesses in rock and flower, and especially +little flares of colour, all of them unsentimentalised, he suddenly +stands on the mountain-top, and is smitten with the glory of the +view. What does he see? Himself in Nature? or Nature herself, like +a living being? Not at all. He sees what he thinks Nature is there +to teach us—not herself, but what is beyond herself. "I was +stationed," he cries, deliberately making this point, "face to face +with—Nature?—rather with Infinitude." We are not in +Nature: a part of God aspiring to the whole is there, but not the +all of God. And Nature shows forth her glory, not to keep us with +herself, but to send us on to her Source, of whom the universe is +but a shred.</p> +<p>The universe of what we call matter in all its forms, which is +the definition of Nature as I speak of it here, is one form to +Browning of the creative joy of God: we are another form of the +same joy. Nor does Browning conceive, as Wordsworth conceived, of +any pre-established harmony between us and the natural world, so +that Humanity and Nature <a name='Page60' id= +"Page60"></a><span class='pagenum'>60</span>can easily converse and +live together; so that we can express our thoughts and emotions in +terms of Nature; or so that Nature can have, as it were, a human +soul. This is not Browning's conception. If he had such a +conception he would frequently use in his descriptions what Ruskin +calls the "pathetic fallacy," the use of which is excessively +common in Tennyson. I can scarcely recall more than a very few +instances of this in all the poetry of Browning. Even where it +seems to occur, where Nature is spoken of in human terms, it does +not really occur. Take this passage from <i>James Lee's +Wife</i>:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth,</p> +<p class='i2'>This autumn morning! How he sets his bones</p> +<p>To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet</p> +<p>For the ripple to run over in its mirth;</p> +<p class='i2'>Listening the while, where on the heap of stones</p> +<p>The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The smile, the mirth, the listening, might be said to impute +humanity to Nature: but the Earth and the Sea are plainly quite +distinct from us. These are great giant creatures who are not +ourselves: Titans who live with one another and not with us; and +the terms of our humanity are used to make us aware of their +separate existence from us, not of their being images only of our +mind.</p> +<p>Another passage will illustrate the same habit of Browning's +mind with nature. He describes, for the purpose of his general +thought, in <i>Fifine at the Fair</i>, the course of a stormy +sunset. The clouds, the sun, the night, act like men, and are +written of in terms of humanity. But this is only to explain +matters to us; the mighty creatures themselves <a name='Page61' id= +"Page61"></a><span class='pagenum'>61</span>have nothing to do with +us. They live their own vast, indifferent life; and we see, like +spectators, what they are doing, and do not understand what we see. +The sunset seems to him the last act of an ever-recurring drama, in +which the clouds barricade the Sun against his rest, and he plays +with their opposition like the huge giant he is; till Night, with +her terrific mace, angry with them for preventing the Sun from +repose, repose which will make her Queen of the world, beats them +into ruin. This is the passage:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>For as on edifice of cloud i' the grey and green</p> +<p>Of evening,—built about some glory of the west,</p> +<p>To barricade the sun's departure,—manifest,</p> +<p>He plays, pre-eminently gold, gilds vapour, crag and crest</p> +<p>Which bend in rapt suspense above the act and deed</p> +<p>They cluster round and keep their very own, nor heed</p> +<p>The world at watch; while we, breathlessly at the base</p> +<p>O' the castellated bulk, note momently the mace</p> +<p>Of night fall here, fall there, bring change with every +blow,</p> +<p>Alike to sharpened shaft and broadened portico</p> +<p>I' the structure; heights and depths, beneath the leaden +stress</p> +<p>Crumble and melt and mix together, coalesce,</p> +<p>Reform, but sadder still, subdued yet more and more</p> +<p>By every fresh defeat, till wearied eyes need pore</p> +<p>No longer on the dull impoverished decadence</p> +<p>Of all that pomp of pile in towering evidence</p> +<p>So lately.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p><i>Fifine, cvi</i>.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>It is plain that Browning separates us altogether from the +elemental life of these gigantic beings. And what is true of these +passages is true, with one or two exceptions, of all the natural +descriptions of Browning in which the pathetic fallacy seems to be +used by him. I need not say how extraordinarily apart this method +of his is from that of Tennyson. Then Tennyson, like +Coleridge—only Tennyson <a name='Page62' id= +"Page62"></a><span class='pagenum'>62</span>is as vague and +wavering in this belief as Coleridge is firm and clear in +it—sometimes speaks as if Nature did not exist at all apart +from our thought:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Her life the eddying of our living soul—</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>a possible, even a probable explanation. But it is not +Browning's view. There is a celebrated passage in <i>Paracelsus</i> +which is quite inconsistent with it. All Nature, from the +beginning, is made to issue forth from the joy God has in making, +in embodying his thought in form; and when one form has been made +and rejoiced in, in making another still more lovely on the +foundation of the last. So, joy after joy, the world was built, +till, in the life of all he has made, God sees his ancient rapture +of movement and power, and feels his delight renewed. I will not +quote it here, but only mark that we and the "eddying of our living +soul" have nothing to do with the making of this Nature. It is not +even the thoughts of God in us. God and Nature are alone, and were +alone together countless years before we were born. But man was the +close of all. Nature was built up, through every stage, that man +might know himself to be its close—its seal—but not it. +It is a separate, unhuman form of God. Existing thus apart, it does +a certain work on us, impressing us from without. The God in it +speaks to the God in us. It may sometimes be said to be interested +in us, but not like a man in a man. He even goes so far as to +impute to Nature, but rarely, such an interest in us; but in +reality he rather thinks that we, being Nature's end, have at such +times touched for a moment some of those elements in her which have +come down to <a name='Page63' id="Page63"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>63</span>us—elements apart from the soul. And +Browning takes care, even when he represents Nature as suddenly at +one with us, to keep up the separateness. The interest spoken of is +not a human interest, nor resembles it. It is like the interest +Ariel takes in Prospero and Miranda—an elemental interest, +that of a creature whose nature knows its radical difference from +human nature. If Nature sees us in sorrow or in joy, she knows, in +these few passages of Browning's poetry, or seems to know, that we +mourn or rejoice, and if she could feel with us she would; but she +cannot quite do so. Like Ariel, she would be grieved with the grief +of Gonzalo, were her affections human. She has then a wild, +unhuman, unmoral, unspiritual interest in us, like a being who has +an elemental life, but no soul. But sometimes she is made to go +farther, and has the same kind of interest in us which Oberon has +in the loves of Helena and Hermia. When we are loving, and on the +verge of such untroubled joy as Nature has always in her being, +then she seems able, in Browning's poetry, actually to work for us, +and help us into the fulness of our joy. In his poem, <i>By the +Fireside</i>, he tells how he and the woman he loved were brought +to know their love. It is a passage full of his peculiar view of +Nature. The place where the two lovers stay their footsteps on the +hill knows all about them. "It is silent and aware." But it is +apart from them also:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i2'>It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes,</p> +<p>But that is its own affair.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And its silence also is its own. Those who linger there think +that the place longs to speak; its bosom <a name='Page64' id= +"Page64"></a><span class='pagenum'>64</span>seems to heave with all +it knows; but the desire is its own, not ours transferred to it. +But when the two lovers were there, Nature, of her own accord, made +up a spell for them and troubled them into speech:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>A moment after, and hands unseen</p> +<p class='i2'>Were hanging the night around us fast;</p> +<p>But we knew that a bar was broken between</p> +<p class='i2'>Life and life: we were mixed at last</p> +<p>In spite of the mortal screen.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>The forests had done it; there they stood;</p> +<p class='i2'>We caught for a moment the powers at play:</p> +<p>They had mingled us so, for once and good,</p> +<p class='i2'>Their work was done—we might go or stay,</p> +<p>They relapsed to their ancient mood.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Not one of the poets of this century would have thought in that +fashion concerning Nature. Only for a second, man happened to be in +harmony with the Powers at play in Nature. They took the two lovers +up for a moment, made them one, and dropped them. "They relapsed to +their ancient mood." The line is a whole lesson in Browning's view +of Nature. But this special interest in us is rare, for we are +seldom in the blessed mood of unselfconscious joy and love. When we +are, on the other hand, self-conscious, or in doubt, or out of +harmony with love and joy, or anxious for the transient things of +the world—Nature, unsympathetic wholly, mocks and plays with +us like a faun. When Sordello climbs the ravine, thinking of +himself as Apollo, the wood, "proud of its observer," a mocking +phrase, "tried surprises on him, stratagems and games."</p> +<p>Or, our life is too small for her greatness. When <a name= +'Page65' id="Page65"></a><span class='pagenum'>65</span>we are +unworthy our high lineage, noisy or mean, then we</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>quail before a quiet sky</p> +<p>Or sea, too little for their quietude.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>That is a phrase which might fall in with Wordsworth's theory of +Nature, but this which follows from <i>The Englishman in Italy</i>, +is only Browning's. The man has climbed to the top of Calvano,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i4'>And God's own profound</p> +<p>Was above me, and round me the mountains,</p> +<p class='i4'>And under, the sea,</p> +<p>And within me, my heart to bear witness</p> +<p class='i4'>What was and shall be.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>He is worthy of the glorious sight; full of eternal thoughts. +Wordsworth would then have made the soul of Nature sympathise with +his soul. But Browning makes Nature manifest her apartness from the +man. The mountains know nothing of his soul: they amuse themselves +with him; they are even half angry with him for his +intrusion—a foreigner who dares an entrance into their +untrespassed world. Tennyson could not have thought that way. It is +true the mountains are alive in the poet's thought, but not with +the poet's life: nor does he touch them with his sentiment.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement</p> +<p class='i6'>Still moving with you;</p> +<p>For, ever some new head and heart of them</p> +<p class='i6'>Thrusts into view</p> +<p>To observe the intruder; you see it</p> +<p class='i6'>If quickly you turn</p> +<p>And, before they escape you surprise them.</p> +<p class='i4'>They grudge you should learn</p> +<p>How the soft plains they look on, lean over</p> +<p class='i4'>And love (they pretend)—</p> +<p class='i6'>Cower beneath them.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page66' id="Page66"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>66</span>Total apartness from us! Nature mocking, +surprising us; watching us from a distance, even pleased to see us +going to our destruction. We may remember how the hills look grimly +on Childe Roland when he comes to the tower. The very sunset comes +back to see him die:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>before it left,</p> +<p>The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:</p> +<p>The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,</p> +<p>Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay.—</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Then, as if they loved to see the death of their quarry, cried, +without one touch of sympathy:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>"Now stab and end the creature—to the heft!"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And once, so divided from our life is her life, she pities her +own case and refuses our pity. Man cannot help her. The starved, +ignoble country in <i>Childe Roland,</i> one of the finest pieces +of description in Browning, wicked, waste and leprous land, makes +Nature herself sick with peevish wrath. "I cannot help my case," +she cries. "Nothing but the Judgment's fire can cure the +place."</p> +<p>On the whole, then, for these instances might be supported by +many more, Nature is alive in Browning, but she is not humanised at +all, nor at all at one with us. Tennyson does not make her alive, +but he does humanise her. The other poets of the century do make +her alive, but they harmonise her in one way or another with us. +Browning is distinct from them all in keeping her quite divided +from man.</p> +<p>But then he has observed that Nature is expressed in terms of +man, and he naturally, for this conflicts with his general view, +desires to explain this. He <a name='Page67' id= +"Page67"></a><span class='pagenum'>67</span>does explain it in a +passage in <i>Paracelsus</i>. Man once descried, imprints for +ever</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>His presence on all lifeless things; the winds</p> +<p>Are henceforth voices, wailing or a shout,</p> +<p>A querulous mutter or a quick gay laugh,</p> +<p>Never a senseless gust now man is born.</p> +<p>The herded pines commune and have deep thoughts</p> +<p>A secret they assemble to discuss</p> +<p>When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare</p> +<p>Like grates of hell: the peerless cup afloat</p> +<p>Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph</p> +<p>Swims bearing high above her head: no bird</p> +<p>Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above</p> +<p>That let light in upon the gloomy woods,</p> +<p>A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top,</p> +<p>Arch with small puckered mouth and mocking eye.</p> +<p>The morn has enterprise, deep quiet droops</p> +<p>With evening, triumph takes the sunset hour.</p> +<p>Voluptuous transport ripens with the corn</p> +<p>Beneath a warm moon like a happy face:</p> +<p>—And this to fill us with regard for Man.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>He does not say, as the other poets do, that the pines really +commune, or that the morn has enterprise, or that nymphs and satyrs +live in the woods, but that this <i>seems</i> to be, because man, +as the crown of the natural world, throws back his soul and his +soul's life on all the grades of inferior life which preceded him. +It is Browning's contradiction of any one who thinks that the +pathetic fallacy exists in his poetry.</p> +<p>Nature has then a life of her own, her own joys and sorrows, or +rather, only joy. Browning, indeed, with his intensity of +imagination and his ineradicable desire of life, was not the man to +conceive Nature as dead, as having no conscious being of any kind. +He did not impute a personality like ours to Nature, but he saw joy +and rapture and <a name='Page68' id="Page68"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>68</span>play, even love, moving in everything; and +sometimes headded to this delight she has in herself—and just +because the creature was not human—a touch of elemental +unmoral malice, a tricksome sportiveness like that of Puck in +<i>Midsummer Night's Dream</i>. The life, then, of Nature had no +relation of its own to our life; but we had some relation to it +because we were conscious that we were its close and its +completion.</p> +<p>It follows from this idea of Browning's that he was capable of +describing Nature as she is, without adding any deceiving mist of +human sentiment to his descriptions; and of describing her as +accurately and as vividly as Tennyson, even more vividly, because +of his extraordinary eye for colour. And Nature, so described, is +of great interest in Browning's poetry.</p> +<p>But, then, in any description of Nature, we desire the entrance +into such description of some human feeling so that it may be a +more complete theme for poetry. Browning does this in a different +way from Tennyson, who gives human feelings and thoughts to Nature, +or steeps it in human memories. Browning catches Nature up into +himself, and the human element is not in Nature but in him, in what +<i>he</i> thinks and feels, in all that Nature, quite apart from +him, awakens in him. Sometimes he even goes so far as to toss +Nature aside altogether, as unworthy to be thought of in comparison +with humanity. That joy in Nature herself, for her own sake, which +was so distinguishing a mark of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, +Byron and Keats, is rarely, if ever, found in Browning. This places +him apart. What he loved was man; and <a name='Page69' id= +"Page69"></a><span class='pagenum'>69</span>save at those times of +which I have spoken, when he conceives Nature as the life and play +and wrath and fancy of huge elemental powers like gods and +goddesses, he uses her as a background only for human life. She is +of little importance unless man be present, and then she is no more +than the scenery in a drama. Take the first two verses of <i>A +Lovers' Quarrel</i>,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Oh, what a dawn of day!</p> +<p>How the March sun feels like May!</p> +<p class='i2'>All is blue again</p> +<p class='i2'>After last night's rain,</p> +<p>And the South dries the hawthorn-spray.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>That is well done—he has liked what he saw. But what is it +all, he thinks; what do I care about it? And he ends the verse:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i2'>Only, my Love's away!</p> +<p>I'd as lief that the blue were grey.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Then take the next verse:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Runnels, which rillets swell.</p> +<p>Must be dancing down the dell,</p> +<p class='i2'>With a foaming head</p> +<p class='i2'>On the beryl bed</p> +<p>Paven smooth as a hermit's cell.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>It is excellent description, but it is only scenery for the real +passion in Browning's mind.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i2'>Each with a tale to tell—</p> +<p>Could my Love but attend as well.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><i>By the Fireside</i> illustrates the same point. No +description can be better, more close, more observed, than of the +whole walk over the hill; but it is mere scenery for the lovers. +The real passion lies in their hearts.</p> +<p><a name='Page70' id="Page70"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>70</span>We have then direct description of Nature; +direct description of man sometimes as influenced by Nature; +sometimes Nature used as the scenery of human passion; but no +intermingling of them both. Each is for ever distinct. The only +thing that unites them in idea, and in the end, is that both have +proceeded from the creative joy of God.</p> +<p>Of course this way of thinking permits of the things of Nature +being used to illustrate the doings, thinkings and character of +man; and in none of his poems is such illustration better used than +in <i>Sordello</i>. There is a famous passage, in itself a noble +description of the opulent generativeness of a warm land like +Italy, in which he compares the rich, poetic soul of Sordello to +such a land, and the lovely line in it,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>And still more labyrinthine buds the rose,</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>holds in its symbolism the whole essence of a great artist's +nature. I quote the passage. It describes Sordello, and it could +not better describe Italy:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Sordello foremost in the regal class</p> +<p>Nature has broadly severed from the mass</p> +<p>Of men, and framed for pleasure, as she frames</p> +<p>Some happy lands, that have luxurious names,</p> +<p>For loose fertility; a footfall there</p> +<p>Suffices to upturn to the warm air</p> +<p>Half-germinating spices; mere decay</p> +<p>Produces richer life; and day by day</p> +<p>New pollen on the lily-petal grows,</p> +<p>And still more labyrinthine buds the rose.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>That compares to the character of a whole country the character +of a whole type of humanity. I take another of such comparisons, +and it is as <a name='Page71' id="Page71"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>71</span>minute as this is broad, and done with as great +skill and charm. Sordello is full of poetic fancies, touched and +glimmering with the dew of youth, and he has woven them around the +old castle where he lives. Browning compares the young man's +imaginative play to the airy and audacious labour of the spider. +He, that is, Sordello,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>O'er-festooning every interval,</p> +<p>As the adventurous spider, making light</p> +<p>Of distance, shoots her threads from depth to height,</p> +<p>From barbican to battlement: so flung</p> +<p>Fantasies forth and in their centre swung</p> +<p>Our architect,—the breezy morning fresh</p> +<p>Above, and merry,—all his waving mesh</p> +<p>Laughing with lucid dew-drops rainbow-edged.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>It could not be better done. The description might stand alone, +but better than it is the image it gives of the joy, fancifulness +and creativeness of a young poet, making his web of thoughts and +imaginations, swinging in their centre like the spider; all of them +subtle as the spider's threads, obeying every passing wind of +impulse, and gemmed with the dew and sunlight of youth.</p> +<p>Again, in <i>A Bean-stripe: also Apple-Eating</i>, Ferishtah is +asked—Is life a good or bad thing, white or black? "Good," +says Ferishtah, "if one keeps moving. I only move. When I stop, I +may stop in a black place or a white. But everything around me is +motionless as regards me, and is nothing more than stuff which +tests my power of throwing light and colour on them as I move. It +is I who make life good or bad, black or white. I am like the moon +going through vapour"—and this is the illustration:</p> +<a name='Page72' id="Page72"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>72</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>Mark the flying orb</p> +<p>Think'st thou the halo, painted still afresh</p> +<p>At each new cloud-fleece pierced and passaged through</p> +<p>This was and is and will be evermore</p> +<p>Coloured in permanence? The glory swims</p> +<p>Girdling the glory-giver, swallowed straight</p> +<p>By night's abysmal gloom, unglorified</p> +<p>Behind as erst before the advancer: gloom?</p> +<p>Faced by the onward-faring, see, succeeds</p> +<p>From the abandoned heaven a next surprise.</p> +<p>And where's the gloom now?—silver-smitten straight,</p> +<p>One glow and variegation! So, with me,</p> +<p>Who move and make,—myself,—the black, the white.</p> +<p>The good, the bad, of life's environment.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Fine as these illustrations are, intimate and minute, they are +only a few out of a multitude of those comparisons which in +Browning image what is in man from that which is within +Nature—hints, prognostics, prophecies, as he would call them, +of humanity, but not human.</p> +<p>There is, however, one human passion which Browning conceives as +existing in Nature—the passion of joy. But it is a different +joy from ours. It is not dashed by any sorrow, and it is very +rarely that we are so freed from pain or from self-contemplation as +to be able to enter even for a brief hour into the rapture of +Nature. That rapture, in Browning's thought, was derived from the +creative thought of God exercising itself with delight in the +incessant making of Nature. And its manifestation was life, that +joyful rush of life in all things into fuller and fuller being. No +poet felt this ecstasy of mere living in Nature more deeply than +Browning. His own rapture (the word is not too strong) in it +appears again and again in his poetry, and when it does, Browning +is not a man sympathising from <a name='Page73' id= +"Page73"></a><span class='pagenum'>73</span>without with Nature. He +is then a part of Nature herself, a living piece of the great +organism, having his own rejoicing life in the mightier life which +includes him; and feeling, with the rest, the abounding pleasure of +continuous life reaching upwards through growth to higher forms of +being, swifter powers of living. I might give many examples, but +one will suffice, and it is the more important because it belongs +not to his ardent youth, but to his mature manhood. It is part of +the song of Thamyris in <i>Aristophanes' Apology</i>. Thamyris, +going to meet the Muses in rivalry, sings as he walks in the +splendid morning the song of the rapture of the life of Earth, and +is himself part of the rejoicing movement.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Thamuris, marching, laughed "Each flake of foam"</p> +<p>(As sparklingly the ripple raced him by)</p> +<p>"Mocks slower clouds adrift in the blue dome!"</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>For Autumn was the season; red the sky</p> +<p>Held morn's conclusive signet of the sun</p> +<p>To break the mists up, bid them blaze and die.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Morn had the mastery as, one by one</p> +<p>All pomps produced themselves along the tract</p> +<p>From earth's far ending to near heaven begun.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Was there a ravaged tree? it laughed compact</p> +<p>With gold, a leaf-ball crisp, high brandished now,</p> +<p>Tempting to onset frost which late attacked.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Was there a wizened shrub, a starveling bough,</p> +<p>A fleecy thistle filched from by the wind,</p> +<p>A weed, Pan's trampling hoof would disallow?</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Each, with a glory and a rapture twined</p> +<p>About it, joined the rush of air and light</p> +<p>And force: the world was of one joyous mind.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page74' id="Page74"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>74</p> +<p>Say not the birds flew! they forebore their right—</p> +<p>Swam, revelling onward in the roll of things.</p> +<p>Say not the beasts' mirth bounded! that was flight—</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>How could the creatures leap, no lift of wings?</p> +<p>Such earth's community of purpose, such</p> +<p>The ease of earth's fulfilled imaginings,—</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>So did the near and far appear to touch</p> +<p>I' the moment's transport,—that an interchange</p> +<p>Of function, far with near, seemed scarce too much;</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>And had the rooted plant aspired to range</p> +<p>With the snake's licence, while the insect yearned</p> +<p>To glow fixed as the flower, it were not strange—</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>No more than if the fluttery tree-top turned</p> +<p>To actual music, sang itself aloft;</p> +<p>Or if the wind, impassioned chantress, earned</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>The right to soar embodied in some soft</p> +<p>Fine form all fit for cloud companionship,</p> +<p>And, blissful, once touch beauty chased so oft.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Thamuris, marching, let no fancy slip</p> +<p>Born of the fiery transport; lyre and song</p> +<p>Were his, to smite with hand and launch from lip—</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The next thing to touch on is his drawing of landscape, not now +of separate pieces of Nature, but of the whole view of a land seen +under a certain aspect of the heavens. All the poets ought to be +able to do this well, and I drew attention to the brief, condensed, +yet fan-opening fashion in which Tennyson has done it. Sometimes +the poets describe what they see before them, or have seen; drawing +directly from Nature. Sometimes they invent a wide or varied +landscape as a background for a human subject, and arrange and tone +it for that purpose. Shelley did this with great stateliness and +subtlety. Browning does not do it, except, <a name='Page75' id= +"Page75"></a><span class='pagenum'>75</span>perhaps, in +<i>Christmas-Eve</i>, when he prepares the night for the appearance +of Christ. Nevertheless, even in <i>Christmas-Eve</i>, the +description of the lunar rainbow is of a thing he has seen, of a +not-invented thing, and it is as clear, vivid and natural as it can +be; only it is heightened and thrilled through by the expectancy +and the thrill in Browning's soul which the reader feels and which +the poet, through his emotion, makes the reader comprehend. But +there is no suggestion that any of this feeling exists in Nature. +The rainbow has no consciousness of the vision to come or of the +passion in the poet (as it would have had in Wordsworth), and +therefore is painted with an accuracy undimmed by any transference +to Nature of the soul of the poet.</p> +<p>I quote the piece; it is a noble specimen of his landscape +work:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>But lo, what think you? suddenly</p> +<p>The rain and the wind ceased, and the sky</p> +<p>Received at once the full fruition</p> +<p>Of the moon's consummate apparition.</p> +<p>The black cloud barricade was riven,</p> +<p>Ruined beneath her feet, and driven</p> +<p>Deep in the West; while, bare and breathless,</p> +<p class='i2'>North and South and East lay ready</p> +<p>For a glorious thing that, dauntless, deathless,</p> +<p class='i2'>Sprang across them and stood steady.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>'Twas a moon-rainbow, vast and perfect,</p> +<p>From heaven to heaven extending, perfect</p> +<p>As the mother-moon's self, full in face.</p> +<p>It rose, distinctly at the base</p> +<p class='i2'>With its severe proper colours chorded</p> +<p>Which still, in the rising, were compressed,</p> +<p>Until at last they coalesced,</p> +<p class='i2'>And supreme the spectral creature lorded</p> +<a name='Page76' id="Page76"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>76</p> +<p>In a triumph of whitest white,—</p> +<p>Above which intervened the night.</p> +<p>But above night too, like only the next,</p> +<p class='i2'>The second of a wondrous sequence,</p> +<p class='i2'>Reaching in rare and rarer frequence,</p> +<p>Till the heaven of heavens were circumflexed,</p> +<p>Another rainbow rose, a mightier,</p> +<p>Fainter, flushier and flightier,—</p> +<p>Rapture dying along its verge.</p> +<p>Oh, whose foot shall I see emerge,</p> +<p>Whose, from the straining topmost dark,</p> +<p>On to the key-stone of that arc?</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is only a piece of sky, though I have called it landscape +work. But then the sky is frequently treated alone by Browning; and +is always present in power over his landscapes—it, and the +winds in it. This is natural enough for one who lived so much in +Italy, where the scenery of the sky is more superb than that of the +earth—so various, noble and surprising that when Nature plays +there, as a poet, her tragedy and comedy, one scarcely takes the +trouble of considering the earth.</p> +<p>However, we find an abundance of true landscapes in Browning. +They are, with a few exceptions, Italian; and they have that +grandeur and breadth, that intensity given by blazing colour, that +peculiar tint either of labyrinthine or of tragic sentiment which +belong to Italy. I select a few of them:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>The morn when first it thunders in March</p> +<p class='i2'>The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say;</p> +<p>As I leaned and looked over the aloed arch</p> +<p class='i2'>Of the villa gate this warm March day,</p> +<p>No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled</p> +<p class='i2'>In the valley beneath where, white and wide</p> +<p>Washed by the morning water-gold,</p> +<p class='i2'>Florence lay out on the mountain side</p> +<a name='Page77' id="Page77"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>77</p> +<p>River and bridge and street and square</p> +<p class='i2'>Lay mine, as much at my beck and call,</p> +<p>Through the live translucent bath of air,</p> +<p class='i2'>As the sights in a magic crystal ball.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Here is the Roman Campagna and its very sentiment:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>The champaign with its endless fleece</p> +<p class='i2'>Of feathery grasses everywhere!</p> +<p>Silence and passion, joy and peace,</p> +<p class='i2'>An everlasting wash of air—</p> +<p>Rome's ghost since her decease.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And this might be in the same place:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,</p> +<p class='i2'>Miles and miles</p> +<p>On the solitary pastures where our sheep</p> +<p class='i2'>Half-asleep</p> +<p>Tinkle homeward through the twilight—</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is a crimson sunset over dark and distant woods in +autumn:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>That autumn eve was stilled:</p> +<p>A last remains of sunset dimly burned</p> +<p>O'er the far forests, like a torch-flame turned</p> +<p>By the wind back upon its bearer's hand</p> +<p>In one long flare of crimson; as a brand</p> +<p>The woods beneath lay black. A single eye</p> +<p>From all Verona cared for the soft sky.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And if we desire a sunrise, there is the triumphant beginning of +<i>Pippa Passes</i>—a glorious outburst of light, colour and +splendour, impassioned and rushing, the very upsoaring of Apollo's +head behind his furious steeds. It begins with one word, like a +single stroke on the gong of Nature: it continues till the whole of +the overarching vault, and the world below, in vast disclosure, is +flooded with an ocean of gold.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page78' id="Page78"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>78</p> +<p class='i2'>Day!</p> +<p class='i2'>Faster and more fast,</p> +<p class='i2'>O'er night's brim, day boils at last;</p> +<p class='i2'>Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim</p> +<p class='i2'>Where spurting and suppressed it lay.</p> +<p class='i2'>For not a froth-flake touched the rim</p> +<p class='i2'>Of yonder gap in the solid gray</p> +<p class='i2'>Of the eastern cloud, an hour away;</p> +<p class='i2'>But forth one wavelet, then another, curled.</p> +<p class='i2'>Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed,</p> +<p class='i2'>Rose, reddened, and its seething breast</p> +<p>Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is chiefly of the sky, but the description in that +gipsy-hearted poem, <i>The Flight of the Duchess</i>, brings before +us, at great length, league after league of wide-spreading +landscape. It is, first, of the great wild country, cornfield, +vineyards, sheep-ranges, open chase, till we arrive at last at the +mountains; and climbing up among their pines, dip down into a yet +vaster and wilder country, a red, drear, burnt-up plain, over which +we are carried for miles:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Till at the last, for a bounding belt,</p> +<p>Comes the salt sand hoar of the great sea-shore.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Or we may read the <i>Grammarian's Funeral</i>, where we leave +the city walls and climb the peak on whose topmost ledge he is to +be buried. As we ascend the landscape widens; we see it expanding +in the verse. Moreover, with a wonderful power, Browning makes us +feel the air grow keener, fresher, brighter, more soundless and +lonelier. That, too, is given by the verse; it is a triumph in +Nature-poetry.</p> +<p>Nor is he less effective in narrow landscape, in the description +of small shut-in spaces of <a name='Page79' id= +"Page79"></a><span class='pagenum'>79</span>Nature. There is the +garden at the beginning of <i>Paracelsus</i>; the ravine, step by +step, in <i>Pauline</i>; the sea-beach, and its little cabinet +landscapes, in <i>James Lee's Wife</i>; the exquisite pictures of +the path over the Col di Colma in <i>By the Fireside</i>—for +though the whole of the landscape is given, yet each verse almost +might stand as a small picture by itself. It is one of Browning's +favourite ways of description, to walk slowly through the +landscape, describing step by step those parts of it which strike +him, and leaving to us to combine the parts into the whole. But +<i>his</i> way of combination is to touch the last thing he +describes with human love, and to throw back this atmosphere of +feeling over all the pictures he has made. The verses I quote do +this.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Oh moment, one and infinite!</p> +<p class='i2'>The water slips o'er stock and stone;</p> +<p>The West is tender, hardly bright;</p> +<p class='i2'>How grey at once is the evening grown—</p> +<p>One star, its chrysolite!</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>We two stood there with never a third,</p> +<p class='i2'>But each by each, as each knew well:</p> +<p>The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,</p> +<p class='i2'>The lights and the shades made up a spell</p> +<p>Till the trouble grew and stirred.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Oh, the little more, and how much it is!</p> +<p class='i2'>And the little less, and what worlds away!</p> +<p>How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,</p> +<p class='i2'>Or a breath suspend the blood's best play,</p> +<p>And life be a proof of this!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>There are many such miniatures of Nature in Browning's poetry. +Sometimes, however, the pictures are larger and nobler, when the +natural thing described is in itself charged with power, terror or +<a name='Page80' id="Page80"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>80</span>dignity. I give one instance of this, where the +fierce Italian thunderstorm is enhanced by being the messenger of +God's vengeance on guilt. It is from <i>Pippa Passes</i>. The +heaven's pillars are over-bowed with heat. The black-blue canopy +descends close on Ottima and Sebald.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Buried in woods we lay, you recollect;</p> +<p>Swift ran the searching tempest overhead;</p> +<p>And ever and anon some bright white shaft</p> +<p>Burned thro' the pine-tree roof, here burned and there,</p> +<p>As if God's messenger thro' the close wood-screen</p> +<p>Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture,</p> +<p>Feeling for guilty thee and me; then broke</p> +<p>The thunder like a whole sea overhead—</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>That is as splendid as the thing itself.</p> +<p>Again, no one can help observing in all these quotations the +extraordinary love of colour, a love Tennyson has in far fainter +measure, but which Browning seems to possess more than any other +English poet. Only Sir Walter Scott approaches him in this. Scott, +knowing the Highlands, knew dark magnificence of colour. But +Browning's love of colour arose from his having lived so long in +Italy, where the light is so pure, clear, and brilliant that colour +is more intense, and at dawn and sunset more deep, delicate, and +various than it is in our land. Sometimes, as Ruskin says, "it is +not colour, it is conflagration"; but wherever it is, in the bell +of a flower, on the edge of a cloud, on the back of a lizard, on +the veins of a lichen, it strikes in Browning's verse at our eyes, +and he only, in English poetry, has joy enough in it to be its full +interpreter.</p> +<p>He sees the wild tulip blow out its great red <a name='Page81' +id="Page81"></a><span class='pagenum'>81</span>bell; he sees the +thin clear bubble of blood at its tip; he sees the spike of gold +which burns deep in the bluebell's womb; the corals that, like +lamps, disperse thick red flame through the dusk green universe of +the ocean; the lakes which, when the morn breaks,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Blaze like a wyvern flying round the sun;</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>the woodland brake whose withered fern Dawn feeds with gold; the +moon carried oft at sunrise in purple fire; the larch-blooms crisp +and pink; the sanguine heart of the pomegranate; the filberts +russet-sheathed and velvet-capped; the poppies crimson to +blackness; the red fans of the butterfly falling on the rock like a +drop of fire from a brandished torch; the star-fish, rose-jacynth +to the finger-tips; and a hundred other passionate seizures of +colour. And, for the last of these colour remembrances, in quieter +tints—almost in black and white—I quote this lovely +verse from <i>James Lee's Wife</i>:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>The swallow has set her six young on the rail,</p> +<p class='i2'>And looks seaward:</p> +<p>The water's in stripes like a snake, olive pale</p> +<p class='i2'>To the leeward,—</p> +<p>On the weather-side, black, spotted white with the wind.</p> +<p class='i2'>"Good fortune departs, and disaster's +behind"—</p> +<p>Hark, the wind with its wants and its infinite wail!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>So, not only do we possess all these landscapes but we possess +them in colour. They are painted as well as drawn. It is his love +of colour which made at least half of the impulse that drove him at +times into Impressionism. Good drawing is little to the +impressionist painters. It is the sudden glow, splash or flicker of +colour that moves them, <a name='Page82' id= +"Page82"></a><span class='pagenum'>82</span>which makes on them the +swift, the momentary impression they wish to record.</p> +<p>And colour acted on Browning in the same way. I said he had been +impressionist, when he liked, for forty years before Impressionism +was born in modern art. He was so, because from the beginning he +saw things in colour, more than in light and shade. It is well +worth a reader's while to search him for colour-impressions. I take +one, for example, with the black horse flung in at the end exactly +in the way an artist would do it who loved a flash of black life +midst of a dead expanse of gold and green:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Fancy the Pampas' sheen!</p> +<p>Miles and miles of gold and green</p> +<p class='i2'>Where the sunflowers blow</p> +<p class='i2'>In a solid glow,</p> +<p>And—to break now and then the screen—</p> +<p class='i2'>Black neck and eyeballs keen,</p> +<p>Up a wild horse leaps between!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Having, then, this extraordinary power of sight, needing no +carefulness of observation or study, but capable of catching and +holding without trouble all that his eye rested or glanced upon, it +is no wonder that sometimes it amused him to put into verse the +doings of a whole day: the work done in it by men of all classes +and the natural objects that encompassed them; not cataloguing them +dryly, but shooting through them, like rays of light, either his +own fancies and thoughts, or the fancies and thoughts of some +typical character whom he invented. This he has done specially in +two poems: <i>The Englishman in Italy</i>, where the vast shell of +the Sorrento plain, its sea and mountains, and all the doings of +the <a name='Page83' id="Page83"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>83</span>peasantry, are detailed with the most intimate +delight and truth. The second of these poems is <i>Up at a +Villa—Down in the City</i>, where a farm of the Casentino +with its surroundings is contrasted with the street-life of +Florence; and both are described through the delightful character +whom he invents to see them. These poems are astonishing pieces of +intimate, joyful observation of scenery.</p> +<p>Again, there is no poet whose love of animals is greater than +Browning's, and none who has so frequently, so carefully, so +vividly described them. It is amazing, as we go through his work, +to realise the largeness of his range in this matter, from the +river-horse to the lizard, from the eagle to the wren, from the +loud singing bee to the filmy insect in the sunshine. I give a few +examples. Mortal man could not see a lynx more clearly than +Karshish—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear;</p> +<p>Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And the very soul of the Eagle is in this question—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Ask the geier-eagle why she stoops at once</p> +<p>Into the vast and unexplored abyss,</p> +<p>What full-grown power informs her from the first,</p> +<p>Why she not marvels, strenuously beating</p> +<p>The silent boundless regions of the sky!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>He has watched the heavy-winged osprey in its haunts, fain to +fly,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>but forced the earth his couch to make</p> +<p>Far inland, till his friend the tempest wake,</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>on whose fiercer wings he can flap his own into activity.</p> +<p>In <i>Caliban upon Setebos</i>, as would naturally be the +<a name='Page84' id="Page84"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>84</span>case, animal life is everywhere; and how close +to truth, how keenly observed it is, how the right points for +description are chosen to make us feel the beast and bird in a +single line; how full of colour, how flashed into words which seem +like colours, the descriptions are, any animal-lover may hear in +the few lines I quote:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech;</p> +<p>Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam,</p> +<p>That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown</p> +<p>He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye.</p> +<p>By moonlight.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>That is enough to prove his power. And the animals are seen, not +as a cultured person sees them, but as a savage, with his eyes +untroubled by thoughts, sees them; for Browning, with his curious +self-transmuting power, has put himself into the skin of Caliban. +Then again, in that lovely lyric in <i>Paracelsus</i>,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Thus the Mayne glideth,</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>the banks and waves are full of all the bird and beast life of a +river. Elsewhere, he sees the falcon spread his wings like a +banner, the stork clapping his bill in the marsh, the coot dipping +his blue breast in the water, the swallow flying to +Venice—"that stout sea-farer"—the lark shivering for +joy, and a hundred other birds; and lastly, even the great bird of +the Imagination, the Phoenix, flying home; and in a splendid verse +records the sight:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>As the King-bird with ages on his plumes</p> +<p>Travels to die in his ancestral glooms.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Not less wonderful, and more unique in English poetry, is his +painting of insects. He describes the <a name='Page85' id= +"Page85"></a><span class='pagenum'>85</span>hermit-bee, the soft, +small, unfrighted thing, lighting on the dead vine-leaf, and +twirling and filing all day. He strikes out the grasshopper at a +touch—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Chirrups the contumacious grasshopper.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>He has a swift vision of the azure damsel-fly flittering in the +wood:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Child of the simmering quiet, there to die.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>He sees all the insect population of an old green wall; fancies +the fancies of the crickets and the flies, and the carousing of the +cicala in the trees, and the bee swinging in the chalice of the +campanula, and the wasps pricking the papers round the peaches, and +the gnats and early moths craving their food from God when dawn +awakes them, and the fireflies crawling like lamps through the +moss, and the spider, sprinkled with mottles on an ash-grey back, +and building his web on the edge of tombs. These are but a few +things out of this treasure-house of animal observation and love. +It is a love which animates and populates with life his +landscapes.</p> +<p>Many of the points I have attempted here to make are illustrated +in <i>Saul</i>. In verse v. the sheep are pictured, with all a +shepherd's delightful affection, coming back at evening to the +folding; and, with David's poetic imagination, compared to the +stars following one another into the meadows of night—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>And now one after one seeks his lodging, as star follows +star</p> +<p>Into eve and the blue far above us,—so blue and so +far!—</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>In verse vi. the quails, and the crickets, and the <a name= +'Page86' id="Page86"></a><span class='pagenum'>86</span>jerboa at +the door of his sand house, are thrilled into quicker life by +David's music. In verse ix. the full joy of living in beasts and +men is painted in the midst of landscape after landscape, struck +out in single lines,—till all nature seems crowded and +simmering with the intense life whose rapture Browning loved so +well. These fully reveal his poetic communion with animals. Then, +there is a fine passage in verse x. where he describes the +loosening of a thick bed of snow from the mountain-side<a name= +'FNanchor_4_4' id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href= +'#Footnote_4_4'>[4]</a>—an occurrence which also drew the +interest on Shelley in the <i>Prometheus</i>—which +illustrates what I have said of Browning's conception of the +separate life, as of giant Titans, of the vaster things in Nature. +The mountain is alive and lives his life with his own grim joy, and +wears his snow like a breastplate, and discharges it when it +pleases him. It is only David who thinks that the great creature +lives to guard us from the tempests. And Hebron, high on its +crested hill, lifts itself out of the morning mist in the same +giant fashion,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>For I wake in the grey dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves</p> +<p>The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron +retrieves</p> +<p>Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Then, at the end of the poem, Browning represents all Nature as +full of emotion, as gathered into a fuller life, by David's +prophecy of the coming of <a name='Page87' id= +"Page87"></a><span class='pagenum'>87</span>immortal Love in Christ +to man. This sympathy of Nature with humanity is so rare a thought +in Browning, and so apart from his view of her, that I think he +felt its strangeness here; so that he has taken some pains to make +us understand that it is not Nature herself who does this, but +David, in his uplifted inspiration, who imputes it to her. If that +is not the case, it is at least interesting to find the poet, +impassioned by his imagination of the situation, driven beyond his +usual view into another land of thought.</p> +<p>There is one more thing to say in closing this chapter. +Browning, unlike Tennyson, did not invent his landscapes. He drew +directly from nature. The landscapes in <i>Pauline</i> and +<i>Sordello</i>, and in the lyrical poems are plainly recollections +of what he has seen and noted in his memory, from the sweep of the +mountainous or oceanic horizon to the lichen on the rock and the +painted shell on the seashore. Even the imaginative landscape of +<i>Childe Roland</i> is a memory, not an invention. I do not say he +would have been incapable of such invented landscape as we find in +<i>Oenone</i> and the <i>Lotos-Eaters</i>, but it was not his way +to do this. However, he does it once; but he takes care to show +that it is not real landscape he is drawing, but landscape in a +picture. In <i>Gerard de Lairesse</i>, one of the poems in +<i>Parleyings with Certain People</i>, he sets himself to rival the +"Walk" in Lairesse's <i>Art of Painting</i>, and he invents as a +background to mythological or historic scenes, five landscapes, of +dawn, morning, and noon, evening and falling night. They may be +compared with the walk in <i>Pauline</i>, and indeed one of them +with <a name='Page88' id="Page88"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>88</span>its deep pool watched over by the trees recalls +his description of a similar pool in <i>Pauline</i>—a lasting +impression of his youth, for it is again used in <i>Sordello</i>. +These landscapes are some of his most careful natural description. +They begin with the great thunderstorm of dawn in which Prometheus +is seen riveted to his rock and the eagle-hound of Zeus beside him. +Then the morning is described and the awakening of the earth and +Artemis going forth, the huntress-queen and the queen of death; +then noon with Lyda and the Satyr—that sad story; then +evening charged with the fate of empires; and then the night, and +in it a vast ghost, the ghost of departing glory and beauty. The +descriptions are too long to quote, but far too short to read. I +would that Browning had done more of this excellent work; but that +these were created when he was an old man proves that the fire of +imagination burnt in him to the end. They are full of those keen +picture-words in which he smites into expression the central point +of a landscape. They realise the glory of light, the force, +fierceness, even the quiet of Nature, but they have lost a great +deal of the colour of which once he was so lavish. Nevertheless, +the whole scheme of colour in these pictures, with their figures, +recalls the pictures of Tintoret. They have his <i>furia</i>, his +black, gold, and sombre purple, his white mist and barred clouds +and the thunder-roar in his skies. Nor are Prometheus and Artemis, +and Lyda on her heap of skins in the deep woods, unworthy of the +daring hand of the great Venetian. They seem to stand forth from +his canvas.</p> +<p>The poem closes with a charming lyric, half-sad, half-joyful, in +which he hails the spring, and which <a name='Page89' id= +"Page89"></a><span class='pagenum'>89</span>in itself is full of +his heart when it was close to the hopefulness he drew from natural +beauty. I quote it to close this chapter:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Dance, yellows and whites and reds,</p> +<p>Lead your gay orgy, leaves, stalks, heads</p> +<p>Astir with the wind in the tulip-beds.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>There's sunshine; scarcely a wind at all</p> +<p>Disturbs starved grass and daisies small</p> +<p>On a certain mound by a churchyard wall.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Daisies and grass be my heart's bed-fellows,</p> +<p>On the mound wind spares and sunshine mellows:</p> +<p>Dance you, reds and whites and yellows.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>FOOTNOTES:</p> +<div class='footnote'> +<p><a name='Footnote_4_4' id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href= +'#FNanchor_4_4'>[4]</a> David could only have seen this on the +upper slopes of Hermon. But at the time of the poem, when he is the +shepherd-youth, he could scarcely have visited the north of +Palestine. Indeed, he does not seem all his life long to have been +near Hermon. Browning has transferred to David what he himself had +seen in Switzerland.</p> +</div> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page90' id="Page90"></a><span class='pagenum'>90</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_III' id="CHAPTER_III"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> +<h3><i>THE TREATMENT OF NATURE</i></h3> +<p>In the previous chapter, some of the statements made on Browning +as a poet of Nature were not sufficiently illustrated; and there +are other elements in his natural description which demand +attention. The best way to repair these deficiencies will be to +take chronologically the natural descriptions in his poems and to +comment upon them, leaving out those on which we have already +touched. New points of interest will thus arise; and, moreover, +taking his natural description as it occurs from volume to volume, +we may be able—within this phase of his poetic +nature—to place his poetic development in a clearer +light.</p> +<p>I begin, therefore, with <i>Pauline</i>. The descriptions of +nature in that poem are more deliberate, more for their own sake, +than elsewhere in Browning's poetry. The first of them faintly +recalls the manner of Shelley in the <i>Alastor</i>, and I have no +doubt was influenced by him. The two others, and the more finished, +have already escaped from Shelley, and are almost pre-Raphaelite, +as much so as Keats, in their detail. Yet all the three are +original, not imitative. They suggest Shelley and Keats, and no +more, and it is only the manner and not the matter of these +<a name='Page91' id="Page91"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>91</span>poets that they suggest. Browning became +instantly original in this as in other modes of poetry. It was +characteristic of him from the beginning to the end of his career, +to possess within himself his own methods, to draw out of himself +new matter and new shapings.</p> +<p>From one point of view this was full of treasureable matter for +us. It is not often the gods give us so opulent an originality. +From another point of view it was unfortunate. If he had begun by +imitating a little; if he had studied the excellences of his +predecessors more; if he had curbed his individuality sufficiently +to mark, learn and inwardly digest the noble style of others in +natural description, and in all other matters of poetry as well, +his work would have been much better than it is; his original +excellences would have found fitter and finer expression; his +faults would have been enfeebled instead of being developed; his +style would have been more concise on one side, less abrupt on +another, and we should not have been wrongly disturbed by +obscurities of diction and angularities of expression. He would +have reached more continuously the splendid level he often +attained. This is plentifully illustrated by his work on external +nature, but less perhaps than by his work on humanity.</p> +<p>The first natural description he published is in the beginning +of <i>Pauline</i>:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Thou wilt remember one warm morn when winter</p> +<p>Crept agèd from the earth, and spring's first breath</p> +<p>Blew soft from the moist hills; the blackthorn boughs,</p> +<p>So dark in the bare wood, when glistening</p> +<p>In the sunshine were white with coming buds,</p> +<p>Like the bright side of a sorrow, and the banks</p> +<p>Had violets opening from sleep like eyes.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page92' id="Page92"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>92</span>That is fairly good; he describes what he has +seen; but it might have been better. We know what he means, but his +words do not accurately or imaginatively convey this meaning. The +best lines are the first three, but the peculiar note of Shelley +sighs so fully in them that they do not represent Browning. What is +special in them is his peculiar delight not only in the morning +which here he celebrates, but in the spring. It was in his nature, +even in old age, to love with passion the beginnings of things; +dawn, morning, spring and youth, and their quick blood; their +changes, impulses, their unpremeditated rush into fresh experiment. +Unlike Tennyson, who was old when he was old, Browning was young +when he was old. Only once in <i>Asolando</i>, in one poem, can we +trace that he felt winter in his heart. And the lines in +<i>Pauline</i> which I now quote, spoken by a young man who had +dramatised himself into momentary age, are no ill description of +his temper at times when he was really old:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>As life wanes, all its care and strife and toil</p> +<p>Seem strangely valueless, while the old trees</p> +<p>Which grew by our youth's home, the waving mass</p> +<p>Of climbing plants heavy with bloom and dew,</p> +<p>The morning swallows with their songs like words.</p> +<p>All these seem clear and only worth our thoughts:</p> +<p>So, aught connected with my early life,</p> +<p>My rude songs or my wild imaginings,</p> +<p>How I look on them—most distinct amid</p> +<p>The fever and the stir of after years!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The next description in <i>Pauline</i> is that in which he +describes—to illustrate what Shelley was to him—the +woodland spring which became a mighty river. Shelley, as first +conceived by Browning, seemed to him like a sacred spring:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page93' id="Page93"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>93</p> +<p>Scarce worth a moth's flitting, which long grasses cross,</p> +<p>And one small tree embowers droopingly—</p> +<p>Joying to see some wandering insect won</p> +<p>To live in its few rushes, or some locust</p> +<p>To pasture on its boughs, or some wild bird</p> +<p>Stoop for its freshness from the trackless air.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>A piece of careful detail, close to nature, but not close +enough; needing to be more detailed or less detailed, but the first +instance in his work of his deliberate use of Nature, not for love +of herself only, (Wordsworth, Coleridge or Byron would have +described the spring in the woods for its own sake), but for +illustration of humanity. It is Shelley—Shelley in his lonely +withdrawn character, Shelley hidden in the wood of his own +thoughts, and, like a spring in that wood, bubbling upwards into +personal poetry—of whom Browning is now thinking. The image +is good, but a better poet would have dwelt more on the fountain +and left the insects and birds alone. It is Shelley also of whom he +thinks—Shelley breaking away from personal poetry to write of +the fates of men, of liberty and love and overthrow of wrong, of +the future of mankind—when he expands his tree-shaded +fountain into the river and follows it to the sea:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>And then should find it but the fountain head,</p> +<p>Long lost, of some great river washing towns</p> +<p>And towers, and seeing old woods which will live</p> +<p>But by its banks untrod of human foot.</p> +<p>Which, when the great sun sinks, lie quivering</p> +<p>In light as some thing lieth half of life</p> +<p>Before God's foot, waiting a wondrous change;</p> +<p>Then girt with rocks which seek to turn or stay</p> +<p>Its course in vain, for it does ever spread</p> +<p>Like a sea's arm as it goes rolling on,</p> +<p>Being the pulse of some great country—so</p> +<p>Wast thou to me, and art thou to the world!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page94' id="Page94"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>94</span>How good some of that is; how bad it is +elsewhere! How much it needs thought, concentration, and yet how +vivid also and original! And the faults of it, of grammar, of want +of clearness, of irritating parenthesis, of broken threads of +thought, of inability to leave out the needless, are faults of +which Browning never quite cleared his work. I do not think he ever +cared to rid himself of them.</p> +<p>The next description is not an illustration of man by means of +Nature. It is almost the only set description of Nature, without +reference to man, which occurs in the whole of Browning's work. It +is introduced by his declaration (for in this I think he speaks +from himself) of his power of living in the life of all living +things. He does not think of himself as living in the whole Being +of Nature, as Wordsworth or Shelley might have done. There was a +certain matter of factness in him which prevented his belief in any +theory of that kind. But he does transfer himself into the +rejoicing life of the animals and plants, a life which he knows is +akin to his own. And this distinction is true of all his poetry of +Nature. "I can mount with the bird," he says,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Leaping airily his pyramid of leaves</p> +<p>And twisted boughs of some tall mountain tree,</p> +<p>Or like a fish breathe deep the morning air</p> +<p>In the misty sun-warm water.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This introduces the description of a walk of twenty-four hours +through various scenes of natural beauty. It is long and +elaborate—the scenery he conceives round the home where he +and Pauline are to live. And it is so close, and so much of it is +repeated in other forms in his later <a name='Page95' id= +"Page95"></a><span class='pagenum'>95</span>poetry, that I think it +is drawn direct from Nature; that it is here done of set purpose to +show his hand in natural description. It begins with night, but +soon leaves night for the morning and the noon. Here is a piece of +it:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Morning, the rocks and valleys and old woods.</p> +<p>How the sun brightens in the mist, and here,</p> +<p>Half in the air, like<a name='FNanchor_5_5' id= +"FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href='#Footnote_5_5'>[5]</a> creatures of the +place,</p> +<p>Trusting the elements, living on high boughs</p> +<p>That sway in the wind—look at the silver spray</p> +<p>Flung from the foam-sheet of the cataract</p> +<p>Amid the broken rocks! Shall we stay here</p> +<p>With the wild hawks? No, ere the hot noon come</p> +<p>Dive we down—safe! See, this is our new retreat</p> +<p>Walled in with a sloped mound of matted shrubs,</p> +<p>Dark, tangled, old and green, still sloping down</p> +<p>To a small pool whose waters lie asleep,</p> +<p>Amid the trailing boughs turned water-plants:</p> +<p>And tall trees overarch to keep us in,</p> +<p>Breaking the sunbeams into emerald shafts,</p> +<p>And in the dreamy water one small group</p> +<p>Of two or three strange trees are got together</p> +<p>Wondering at all around—</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is nerveless work, tentative, talkative, no clear +expression of the whole; and as he tries to expand it further in +lines we may study with interest, for the very failures of genius +are interesting, he becomes even more feeble. Yet the feebleness is +traversed by verses of power, like lightning flashing through a +mist upon the sea. The chief thing to say about this direct, +detailed work is that he got out of its manner as fast as he could. +He never tried it again, but passed on to suggest the landscape by +a few sharp, high-coloured words; choosing out one or two of its +elements and <a name='Page96' id="Page96"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>96</span>flashing them into prominence. The rest was left +to the imagination of the reader.</p> +<p>He is better when he comes forth from the shadowy woodland-pool +into the clear air and open landscape:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Up for the glowing day, leave the old woods!</p> +<p>See, they part like a ruined arch: the sky!</p> +<p>Blue sunny air, where a great cloud floats laden</p> +<p>With light, like a dead whale that white birds pick,</p> +<p>Floating away in the sun in some north sea.</p> +<p>Air, air, fresh life-blood, thin and searching air,</p> +<p>The clear, dear breath of God that loveth us,</p> +<p>Where small birds reel and winds take their delight!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The last three lines are excellent, but nothing could be worse +than the sensational image of the dead whale. It does not fit the +thing he desires to illustrate, and it violates the sentiment of +the scene he is describing, but its strangeness pleased his +imagination, and he put it in without a question. Alas, in after +times, he only too often, both in the poetry of nature and of the +human soul, hurried into his verse illustrations which had no +natural relation to the matter in hand, just because it amused him +to indulge his fancy. The finished artist could not do this; he +would hear, as it were, the false note, and reject it. But +Browning, a natural artist, never became a perfect one. +Nevertheless, as his poetry went on, he reached, by natural power, +splendid description, as indeed I have fully confessed; but, on the +other hand, one is never sure of him. He is never quite +"inevitable."</p> +<p>The attempt at deliberate natural description in <i>Pauline</i>, +of which I have now spoken, is not renewed in <i>Paracelsus</i>. By +the time he wrote that <a name='Page97' id= +"Page97"></a><span class='pagenum'>97</span>poem the movement and +problem of the spirit of man had all but quenched his interest in +natural scenery. Nature is only introduced as a background, almost +a scenic background for the players, who are the passions, +thoughts, and aspirations of the intellectual life of Paracelsus. +It is only at the beginning of Part II. that we touch a +landscape:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Over the waters in the vaporous West</p> +<p>The sun goes down as in a sphere of gold</p> +<p>Behind the arm of the city, which between;</p> +<p>With all the length of domes and minarets,</p> +<p>Athwart the splendour, black and crooked runs</p> +<p>Like a Turk verse along a scimitar.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>That is all; nothing but an introduction. Paracelsus turns in a +moment from the sight, and absorbs himself in himself, just as +Browning was then doing in his own soul. Nearly two thousand lines +are then written before Nature is again touched upon, and then +Festus and Paracelsus are looking at the dawn; and it is worth +saying how in this description Browning's work on Nature has so +greatly improved that one can scarcely believe he is the same poet +who wrote the wavering descriptions of <i>Pauline</i>. This is +close and clear:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Morn must be near.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>FESTUS. Best ope the casement: see,</p> +<p>The night, late strewn with clouds and flying stars,</p> +<p>Is blank and motionless: how peaceful sleep</p> +<p>The tree-tops all together! Like an asp<a name='FNanchor_6_6' +id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href='#Footnote_6_6'>[6]</a></p> +<p>The wind slips whispering from bough to bough.</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<a name='Page98' id="Page98"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>98</p> +<p>PARACELSUS. See, morn at length. The heavy darkness seems</p> +<p>Diluted, grey and clear without the stars;</p> +<p>The shrubs bestir and rouse themselves as if</p> +<p>Some snake, that weighed them down all night, let go</p> +<p>His hold; and from the East, fuller and fuller,</p> +<p>Day, like a mighty river, flowing in;</p> +<p>But clouded, wintry, desolate and cold.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>That is good, clear, and sufficient; and there the description +should end. But Browning, driven by some small demon, adds to it +three lines of mere observant fancy.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Yet see how that broad prickly star-shaped plant,</p> +<p>Half-down in the crevice, spreads its woolly leaves,</p> +<p>All thick and glistening with diamond dew.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>What is that for? To give local colour or reality? It does +neither. It is mere childish artistry. Tennyson could not have done +it. He knew when to stay his hand.<a name='FNanchor_7_7' id= +"FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href='#Footnote_7_7'>[7]</a></p> +<p>The finest piece of natural description in +<i>Paracelsus</i><a name='Page99' id="Page99"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>99</span> is of the coming of Spring. It is full of the +joy of life; it is inspired by a passionate thought, lying behind +it, concerning man. It is still more inspired by his belief that +God himself was eternal joy and filled the universe with rapture. +Nowhere did Browning reach a greater height in his Nature poetry +than in these lines, yet they are more a description, as usual, of +animal life than of the beauty of the earth and sea:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod:</p> +<p>But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes</p> +<p>Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure</p> +<p>Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between</p> +<p>The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost,</p> +<p>Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face;</p> +<p>The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms</p> +<p>Like chrysalids impatient for the air,</p> +<p>The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run</p> +<p>Along the furrows, ants make their ado;</p> +<p>Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark</p> +<p>Soars up and up, shivering for very joy;</p> +<p>Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls</p> +<p>Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe</p> +<p>Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek</p> +<p>Their loves in wood and plain—and God renews</p> +<p>His ancient rapture.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Once more, in <i>Paracelsus</i>, there is the lovely lyric about +the flowing of the Mayne. I have driven through that gracious +country of low hill and dale and wide water-meadows, where under +flowered banks only a foot high the slow river winds in gentleness; +and this poem is steeped in the sentiment of the scenery. But, as +before, Browning quickly slides away from the beauty of inanimate +nature into a record of the animals that haunt the stream. He could +not get on long with mountains and rivers <a name='Page100' id= +"Page100"></a><span class='pagenum'>100</span>alone. He must people +them with breathing, feeling things; anything for life!</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Thus the Mayne glideth</p> +<p>Where my Love abideth.</p> +<p>Sleep's no softer; it proceeds</p> +<p>On through lawns, on through meads,</p> +<p>On and on, whate'er befall,</p> +<p>Meandering and musical,</p> +<p>Though the niggard pasturage</p> +<p>Bears not on its shaven ledge</p> +<p>Aught but weeds and waving grasses</p> +<p>To view the river as it passes,</p> +<p>Save here and there a scanty patch</p> +<p>Of primroses too faint to catch</p> +<p>A weary bee.</p> +<p class='i12'>And scarce it pushes</p> +<p>Its gentle way through strangling rushes</p> +<p>Where the glossy kingfisher</p> +<p>Flutters when noon-heats are near,</p> +<p>Glad the shelving banks to shun</p> +<p>Red and steaming in the sun,</p> +<p>Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat</p> +<p>Burrows, and the speckled stoat;</p> +<p>Where the quick sandpipers flit</p> +<p>In and out the marl and grit</p> +<p>That seems to breed them, brown as they:</p> +<p>Naught disturbs its quiet way,</p> +<p>Save some lazy stork that springs,</p> +<p>Trailing it with legs and wings,</p> +<p>Whom the shy fox from the hill</p> +<p>Rouses, creep he ne'er so still.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>"My heart, they loose my heart, those simple words," cries +Paracelsus, and he was right. They tell of that which to see and +love is better, wiser, than to probe and know all the problems of +knowledge. But that is a truth not understood, not believed. And +few there be who find it. And if Browning had found the secret of +how to live more outside of his understanding than he did, or +having <a name='Page101' id="Page101"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>101</span>found it, had not forgotten it, he would not +perhaps have spoken more wisely for the good of man, but he would +have more continuously written better poetry.</p> +<p>The next poem in which he may be said to touch Nature is +<i>Sordello</i>. <i>Strafford</i> does not count, save for the +charming song of the boat in music and moonlight, which the +children sing. In <i>Sordello</i>, the problem of life, as in +<i>Paracelsus</i>, is still the chief matter, but outward life, as +not in <i>Paracelsus</i>, takes an equal place with inward life. +And naturally, Nature, its changes and beauty, being outward, are +more fully treated than in <i>Paracelsus</i>. But it is never +treated for itself alone. It is made to image or reflect the +sentiment of the man who sees it, or to illustrate a phase of his +passion or his thought. But there is a closer grip upon it than +before, a clearer definition, a greater power of concentrated +expression of it, and especially, a fuller use of colour. Browning +paints Nature now like a Venetian; the very shadows of objects are +in colour. This new power was a kind of revelation to him, and he +frequently uses it with a personal joy in its exercise. Things in +Nature blaze in his poetry now and afterwards in gold, purple, the +crimson of blood, in sunlit green and topaz, in radiant blue, in +dyes of earthquake and eclipse. Then, when he has done his +landscape thus in colour, he adds more; he places in its foreground +one drop, one eye of still more flaming colour, to vivify and +inflame the whole.</p> +<p>The main landscape of <i>Sordello</i> is the plain and the low +pine-clad hills around Mantua; the half-circle of the deep lagoon +which enarms the <a name='Page102' id="Page102"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>102</span>battlemented town; and the river Mincio, seen +by Sordello when he comes out of the forest on the hill, as it +enters and leaves the lagoon, and winds, a silver ribbon, through +the plain. It is the landscape Vergil must have loved. A long +bridge of more than a hundred arches, with towers of defence, +crosses the marsh from the towered gateway of the walls to the +mainland, and in the midst of the lagoon the deep river flows fresh +and clear with a steady swiftness. Scarcely anywhere in North Italy +is the upper sky more pure at dawn and even, and there is no view +now so mystic in its desolation. Over the lagoon, and puffing from +it, the mists, daily encrimsoned by sunrise and sunset, continually +rise and disperse.</p> +<p>The character and the peculiarities of this landscape Browning +has seized and enshrined in verse. But his descriptions are so +arranged as to reflect certain moments of crisis in the soul of +Sordello. He does not describe this striking landscape for its own +sake, but for the sake of his human subject. The lines I quote +below describe noon-day on the lagoon, seen from the golden woods +and black pines; and the vision of the plain, city and river, +suddenly opening out from the wood, symbolises the soul of Sordello +opening out from solitude "into the veritable business of +mankind."</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>Then wide</p> +<p>Opened the great morass, shot every side</p> +<p>With flashing water through and through; a-shine,</p> +<p>Thick-steaming, all-alive. Whose shape divine</p> +<p>Quivered i' the farthest rainbow-vapour, glanced</p> +<p>Athwart the flying herons? He advanced,</p> +<p>But warily; though Mincio leaped no more,</p> +<p>Each footfall burst up in the marish-floor</p> +<p>A diamond jet.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page103' id="Page103"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>103</span>And then he somewhat spoils this excellent +thing by a piece of detail too minute for the largeness of the +impression. But how clear and how full of true sentiment it is; and +how the image of Palma rainbowed in the mist, and of Sordello +seeing her, fills the landscape with youthful passion!</p> +<p>Here is the same view in the morning, when Mincio has come down +in flood and filled the marsh:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>Mincio, in its place,</p> +<p>Laughed, a broad water, in next morning's face,</p> +<p>And, where the mists broke up immense and white</p> +<p>I' the steady wind, burned like a spilth of light</p> +<p>Out of the crashing of a million stars.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>It were well to compare that brilliant piece of light with the +grey water-sunset at Ferrara in the beginning of Book VI.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>While eve slow sank</p> +<p>Down the near terrace to the farther bank,</p> +<p>And only one spot left from out the night</p> +<p>Glimmered upon the river opposite—</p> +<p>breadth of watery heaven like a bay,</p> +<p>A sky-like space of water, ray for ray,</p> +<p>And star for star, one richness where they mixed</p> +<p>As this and that wing of an angel, fixed,</p> +<p>Tumultuary splendours folded in</p> +<p>To die.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>As usual, Spring enchants him. The second book begins with her +coming, and predicates the coming change in Sordello's soul.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>The woods were long austere with snow; at last</p> +<p>Pink leaflets budded on the beech, and fast</p> +<p>Larches, scattered through pine-tree solitudes,</p> +<p>Brightened, as in the slumbrous heart of the woods</p> +<p>Our buried year, a witch, grew young again</p> +<p>To placid incantations, and that stain</p> +<p>About were from her cauldron, green smoke blent</p> +<p>With those black pines.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page104' id="Page104"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>104</span>Nor does he omit in <i>Sordello</i> to recall +two other favourite aspects of nature, long since recorded in +<i>Pauline</i>, the ravine and the woodland spring. Just as Turner +repeated in many pictures of the same place what he had first +observed in it, so Browning recalled in various poems the first +impressions of his youth. He had a curious love for a ravine with +overhanging trees and a thin thread of water, looping itself round +rocks. It occurs in the <i>Fireside</i>, it is taken up in his +later poems, and up such a ravine Sordello climbs among the pines +of Goito:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>He climbed with (June at deep) some close ravine</p> +<p>Mid clatter of its million pebbles sheen,</p> +<p>Over which, singing soft, the runnel slipped</p> +<p>Elate with rains.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Then, in <i>Sordello</i>, we come again across the fountain in +the grove he draws in <i>Pauline</i>, now greatly improved in +clearness and word-brightness—a real vision. Fate has given +him here a fount</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Of pure loquacious pearl, the soft tree-tent</p> +<p>Guards, with its face of reate and sedge, nor fail</p> +<p>The silver globules and gold-sparkling grail</p> +<p>At bottom—</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>where the impulse of the water sends up the sand in a +cone—a solitary loveliness of Nature that Coleridge and +Tennyson have both drawn with a finer pencil than Browning. The +other examples of natural description in <i>Sordello</i>, as well +as those in <i>Balaustion</i> I shall reserve till I speak of those +poems. As to the dramas, they are wholly employed with humanity. In +them man's soul has so overmastered Browning that they are scarcely +diversified half a dozen times by any illustrations derived from +Nature.</p> +<p><a name='Page105' id="Page105"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>105</span>We now come, with <i>The Ring and the Book</i>, +to a clear division in his poetry of Nature. From this time forth +Nature decays in his verse. Man masters it and drives it out. In +<i>The Ring and the Book</i>, huge as it is, Nature rarely +intrudes; the human passion of the matter is so great that it +swallows up all Browning's interest. There is a little forky +flashing description of the entrance to the Val d'Ema in Guido's +first statement. Caponsacchi is too intensely gathered round the +tragedy to use a single illustration from Nature. The only person +who does use illustrations from Nature is the only one who is by +age, by his life, by the apartness of his high place, capable of +sufficient quiet and contemplation to think of Nature at all. This +is the Pope.</p> +<p>He illustrates with great vigour the way in which Guido +destroyed all the home life which clung about him and himself +remained dark and vile, by the burning of a nest-like hut in the +Campagna, with all its vines and ivy and flowers; till nothing +remains but the blackened walls of the malicious tower round which +the hut had been built.</p> +<p>He illustrates the sudden event which, breaking in on +Caponsacchi's life, drew out of him his latent power and his inward +good, by this vigorous description:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>As when a thundrous midnight, with black air</p> +<p>That burns, rain-drops that blister, breaks a spell,</p> +<p>Draws out the excessive virtue of some sheathed</p> +<p>Shut unsuspected flower that hoards and hides</p> +<p>Immensity of sweetness.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And the last illustration, in which the Pope hopes that Guido's +soul may yet be saved by the <a name='Page106' id= +"Page106"></a><span class='pagenum'>106</span>suddenness of his +death, is one of the finest pieces of natural description in +Browning, and reads like one of his own memories:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>I stood at Naples once, a night so dark</p> +<p>I could have scarce conjectured there was earth</p> +<p>Anywhere, sky or sea or world at all:</p> +<p>But the night's black was burst through by a blaze—</p> +<p>Thunder struck blow on blow, earth groaned and bore,</p> +<p>Through her whole length of mountain visible:</p> +<p>There lay the city thick and plain with spires,</p> +<p>And, like a ghost disshrouded, white the sea.</p> +<p>So may the truth be flashed out by one blow,</p> +<p>And Guido see, one instant, and be saved.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>After <i>The Ring and the Book</i>, poor Nature, as one of +Browning's mistresses, was somewhat neglected for a time, and he +gave himself up to ugly representations of what was odd or twisted +in humanity, to its smaller problems, like that contained in +<i>Fifine at the Fair</i>, to its fantastic impulses, its strange +madnesses, its basenesses, even its commonplace crimes. These +subjects were redeemed by his steady effort to show that underneath +these evil developments of human nature lay immortal good; and that +a wise tolerance, based on this underlying godlikeness in man, was +the true attitude of the soul towards the false and the stupid in +mankind. This had been his attitude from the beginning. It +differentiates him from Tennyson, who did not maintain that view; +and at that point he is a nobler poet than Tennyson.</p> +<p>But he became too much absorbed in the intellectual treatment of +these side-issues in human nature. And I think that he was left +unprotected from this or not held back from it by his having almost +given up Nature in her relation to man as a <a name='Page107' id= +"Page107"></a><span class='pagenum'>107</span>subject for his +poetry. To love that great, solemn and beautiful Creature, who even +when she seems most merciless retains her glory and loveliness, +keeps us from thinking too much on the lower problems of humanity, +on its ignobler movements; holds before us infinite grandeur, +infinite beauty, infinite order, and suggests and confirms within +us eternal aspiration. Those intimations of the ideal and endless +perfectness which are dimmed within us by the meaner aspects of +human life, or by the sordid difficulties of thought which a +sensual and wealth-seeking society present to us, are restored to +us by her quiet, order and beauty. When he wrote <i>Prince +Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Red Cotton Nightcap Country</i>, and <i>The +Inn Album</i>, Nature had ceased to awaken the poetic passion in +him, and his poetry suffered from the loss. Its interest lies in +the narrow realm of intellectual analysis, not in the large realm +of tragic or joyous passion. He became the dissector of corrupt +bodies, not the creator of living beings.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, in <i>Fifine at the Fair</i> there are several +intercalated illustrations from Nature, all of which are +interesting and some beautiful. The sunset over Sainte-Marie and +the lie Noirmoutier, with the birds who sing to the dead, and the +coming of the nightwind and the tide, is as largely wrought as the +description of the mountain rill—the "infant of mist and +dew," and its voyage to the sea is minute and delicate. There is +also that magnificent description of a sunset which I have already +quoted. It is drawn to illustrate some remote point in the +argument, and is far too magnificent for the thing it illustrates. +Yet how few <a name='Page108' id="Page108"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>108</span>in this long poem, how remote from Browning's +heart, are these touches of Nature.</p> +<p>Again, in <i>The Inn Album</i> there is a description of an +English elm-tree, as an image of a woman who makes marriage life +seem perfect, which is interesting because it is the third, and +only the third, reference to English scenery in the multitude of +Browning's verses. The first is in <i>Pauline</i>, the second in +that poem, "Oh, to be in England," and this is the third. The woman +has never ceased to gaze</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>On the great elm-tree in the open, posed</p> +<p>Placidly full in front, smooth hole, broad branch,</p> +<p>And leafage, one green plenitude of May.</p> +<p class='i12'>... bosomful</p> +<p>Of lights and shades, murmurs and silences,</p> +<p>Sun-warmth, dew-coolness, squirrel, bee, bird,</p> +<p>High, higher, highest, till the blue proclaims</p> +<p>"Leave Earth, there's nothing better till next step</p> +<p>Heavenward!"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This, save in one line, is not felt or expressed with any of +that passion which makes what a poet says completely right.</p> +<p>Browning could not stay altogether in this condition, in which, +moreover, his humour was also in abeyance; and in his next book, +<i>Pacchiarotto, &c.</i>, he broke away from these morbid +subjects, and, with that recovery, recovered also some of his old +love of Nature. The prologue to that book is poetry; and Nature +(though he only describes an old stone wall in Italy covered with +straying plants) is interwoven with his sorrow and his love. Then, +all through the book, even in its most fantastic humour, Nature is +not altogether neglected for humanity; and the poetry, which +Browning seemed <a name='Page109' id="Page109"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>109</span>to have lost the power to create, has partly +returned to him. That is also the case in <i>La Saisiaz,</i> and I +have already spoken of the peculiar elements of the nature-poetry +in that work. In the <i>Dramatic Idyls</i>, of which he was himself +fond; and in <i>Jocoseria</i>, there is very little natural +description. The subjects did not allow of it, but yet Nature +sometimes glides in, and when she does, thrills the verse into a +higher humanity. In <i>Ferishtah's Fancies</i>, a book full of +flying charm, Nature has her proper place, and in the lyrics which +close the stories she is not forgotten; but still there is not the +care for her which once ran like a full river of delight through +his landscape of human nature. He loved, indeed, that landscape of +mankind the most, the plains and hills and woods of human life; but +when he watered it with the great river of Nature his best work was +done. Now, as life grew to a close, that river had too much dried +up in his poetry.</p> +<p>It was not that he had not the power to describe Nature if he +cared. But he did not care. I have spoken of the invented +descriptions of morn and noon and sunset in Gerard de Lairesse in +the book which preceded <i>Asolando</i>. They have his trenchant +power, words that beat out the scene like strokes on an anvil, but, +curiously enough, they are quite unsuffused with human feeling; as +if, having once divorced Nature from humanity, he never could bring +them together again. Nor is this a mere theory. The Prologue to +<i>Asolando</i> supports it.</p> +<p>That sorrowful poem, written, it seems, in the year he died +(1889), reveals his position towards Nature when he had lost the +power of youth to pour <a name='Page110' id= +"Page110"></a><span class='pagenum'>110</span>fire on the world. It +is full of his last thinking. "The poet's age is sad," he says. "In +youth his eye lent to everything in the natural world the colours +of his own soul, the rainbow glory of imagination:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>And now a flower is just a flower:</p> +<p class='i2'>Man, bird, beast are but beast, bird, man—</p> +<p>Simply themselves, uncinct by dower</p> +<p class='i2'>Of dyes which, when life's day began,</p> +<p>Round each in glory ran."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>"Ah! what would you have?" he says. "What is the best: things +draped in colour, as by a lens, or the naked things themselves? +truth ablaze, or falsehood's fancy haze? I choose the first."</p> +<p>It is an old man's effort to make the best of age. For my part, +I do not see that the things are the better for losing the colour +the soul gives them. The things themselves are indifferent. But as +seen by the soul, they are seen in God, and the colour and light +which imagination gives them are themselves divine. Nor is their +colour or light only in our imagination, but in themselves also, +part of the glory and beauty of God. A flower is never only a +flower, or a beast a beast. And so Browning would have said in the +days when he was still a lover of Nature as well as of man, when he +was still a faithful soldier in the army of imagination, a poet +more than a philosopher at play. It is a sad business. He has not +lost his eagerness to advance, to climb beyond the flaming walls, +to find God in his heaven. He has not lost the great hopes with +which he began, nor the ideals he nursed of old. He has not lost +his fighting power, nor his cheerful cry that life is before him in +the fulness of <a name='Page111' id="Page111"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>111</span>the world to come. The <i>Rêverie</i> and +the <i>Epilogue</i> to <i>Asolando</i> are noble statements of his +courage, faith, and joy. There is nothing sad there, nothing to +make us beat the breast. But there is sadness in this abandonment +of the imaginative glory with which once he clothed the world of +Nature; and he ought to have retained it. He would have done so had +he not forgotten Nature in anatomising man.</p> +<p>However, he goes on with his undying effort to make the best of +things, and though he has lost his rapture in Nature, he has not +lost his main theory of man's life and of the use of the universe. +The end of this <i>Prologue</i> puts it as clearly as it was put in +<i>Paracelsus</i>. Nothing is changed in that.</p> +<p>"At Asolo," he continues, "my Asolo, when I was young, all +natural objects were palpably clothed with fire. They mastered me, +not I them. Terror was in their beauty. I was like Moses before the +Bush that burned. I adored the splendour I saw. Then I was in +danger of being content with it; of mistaking the finite for the +infinite beauty. To be satisfied—that was the peril. Now I +see the natural world as it is, without the rainbow hues the soul +bestowed upon it. Is that well? In one sense yes.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>And now? The lambent flame is—where?</p> +<p class='i2'>Lost from the naked world: earth, sky,</p> +<p>Hill, vale, tree, flower—Italia's rare</p> +<p class='i2'>O'er-running beauty crowds the eye—</p> +<p>But flame?—The Bush is bare.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>All is distinct, naked, clear, Nature and nothing else. Have I +lost anything in getting down to fact instead of to fancy? Have I +shut my eyes in <a name='Page112' id="Page112"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>112</span>pain—pain for disillusion? No—now I +know that my home is not in Nature; there is no awe and splendour +in her which can keep me with her. Oh, far beyond is the true +splendour, the infinite source of awe and love which transcends +her:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>No, for the purged ear apprehends</p> +<p class='i2'>Earth's import, not the eye late dazed:</p> +<p>The Voice said "Call my works thy friends!</p> +<p class='i2'>At Nature dost thou shrink amazed?</p> +<p>God is it who transcends."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>All Browning is in that way of seeing the matter; but he forgets +that he could see it in the same fashion while he still retained +the imaginative outlook on the world of Nature. And the fact is +that he did do so in <i>Paracelsus</i>, in <i>Easter-Day</i>, in a +host of other poems. There was then no need for him to reduce to +naked fact the glory with which young imagination clothed the +world, in order to realise that God transcended Nature. He had +conceived that truth and believed it long ago. And this +explanation, placed here, only tells us that he had lost his +ancient love of Nature, and it is sorrowful to understand it of +him.</p> +<p>Finally, the main contentions of this chapter, which are drawn +from a chronological view of Browning's treatment of Nature, are +perhaps worth a summary. The first is that, though the love of +Nature was always less in him than his love of human nature, yet +for the first half of his work it was so interwoven with his human +poetry that Nature suggested to him humanity and humanity Nature. +And these two, as subjects for thought and feeling, were each +uplifted and impassioned, illustrated and developed, by this +intercommunion. <a name='Page113' id="Page113"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>113</span>That was a true and high position. Humanity was +first, Nature second in Browning's poetry, but both were linked +together in a noble marriage; and at that time he wrote his best +poetry.</p> +<p>The second thing this chronological treatment of his +Nature-poetry shows, is that his interest in human nature pushed +out his love of Nature, gradually at first, but afterwards more +swiftly, till Nature became almost non-existent in his poetry. With +that his work sank down into intellectual or ethical exercises, in +which poetry decayed.</p> +<p>It shows, thirdly, how the love of Nature, returning, but +returning with diminished power, entered again into his love of +human nature, and renewed the passion of his poetry, its singing, +and its health. But reconciliations of this kind do not bring back +all the ancient affection and happiness. Nature and humanity never +lived together in his poetry in as vital a harmony as before, nor +was the work done on them as good as it was of old. A broken +marriage is not repaired by an apparent condonation. Nature and +humanity, though both now dwelt in him, kept separate rooms. Their +home-life was destroyed. Browning had been drawn away by a Fifine +of humanity. He never succeeded in living happily again with +Elvire; and while our intellectual interest in his work remained, +our poetic interest in it lessened. We read it for mental and +ethical entertainment, not for ideal joy.</p> +<p>No; if poetry is to <i>be</i> perfectly written; if the art is +to be brought to its noblest height; if it is to continue to lift +the hearts of men into the realm where perfection lives; if it is +to glow, an unwearied fire, in the world; the love of Nature must +be justly <a name='Page114' id="Page114"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>114</span>mingled in it with the love of humanity. The +love of humanity must be first, the love of Nature second, but they +must not be divorced. When they are, when the love of Nature forms +the only subject, or when the love of Man forms the only subject, +poetry decays and dies.</p> +<p>FOOTNOTES:</p> +<div class='footnote'> +<p><a name='Footnote_5_5' id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href= +'#FNanchor_5_5'>[5]</a> Creatures accordant with the place?</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote'> +<p><a name='Footnote_6_6' id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href= +'#FNanchor_6_6'>[6]</a> Browning, even more than Shelley, was fond +of using the snake in his poetry. Italy is in that habit.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote'> +<p><a name='Footnote_7_7' id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href= +'#FNanchor_7_7'>[7]</a> There is a fine picture of the passing of a +hurricane in <i>Paracelsus</i> (p. 67, vol i.) which illustrates +this inability to stop when he has done all he needs. Paracelsus +speaks:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>The hurricane is spent,</p> +<p>And the good boat speeds through the brightening weather;</p> +<p>But is it earth or sea that heaves below?</p> +<p>The gulf rolls like a meadow-swell, o'erstrewn</p> +<p>With ravaged boughs and remnants of the shore;</p> +<p>And now, some islet, loosened from the land,</p> +<p>Swims past with all its trees, sailing to ocean:</p> +<p><i>And now the air is full of uptorn canes.</i></p> +<p><i>Light strippings from the fan-trees, tamarisks</i></p> +<p><i>Unrooted, with their birds still clinging to them,</i></p> +<p><i>All high in the wind</i>. Even so my varied life</p> +<p>Drifts by me.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>I think that the lines I have italicised should have been left +out. They weaken what he has well done.</p> +</div> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page115' id="Page115"></a><span class='pagenum'>115</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_IV' id="CHAPTER_IV"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> +<h3><i>BROWNING'S THEORY OF HUMAN LIFE<br /> +PAULINE AND PARACELSUS</i></h3> +<p>To isolate Browning's view of Nature, and to leave it behind us, +seemed advisable before speaking of his work as a poet of mankind. +We can now enter freely on that which is most distinctive, most +excellent in his work—his human poetry; and the first thing +that meets us and in his very first poems, is his special view of +human nature, and of human life, and of the relation of both to +God. It marks his originality that this view was entirely his own. +Ancient thoughts of course are to be found in it, but his +combination of them is original amongst the English poets. It marks +his genius that he wrought out this conception while he was yet so +young. It is partly shaped in <i>Pauline</i>; it is fully set forth +in <i>Paracelsus</i>. And it marks his consistency of mind that he +never changed it. I do not think he ever added to it or developed +it. It satisfied him when he was a youth, and when he was an old +man. We have already seen it clearly expressed in the +<i>Prologue</i> to <i>Asolando</i>.</p> +<p>That theory needs to be outlined, for till it is understood +Browning's poetry cannot be understood <a name='Page116' id= +"Page116"></a><span class='pagenum'>116</span>or loved as fully as +we should desire to love it. It exists in <i>Pauline</i>, but all +its elements are in solution; uncombined, but waiting the electric +flash which will mix them, in due proportions, into a composite +substance, having a lucid form, and capable of being used. That +flash was sent through the confused elements of <i>Pauline</i>, and +the result was <i>Paracelsus</i>.</p> +<p>I will state the theory first, and then, lightly passing through +<i>Pauline</i> and <i>Paracelsus</i>, re-tell it. It is fitting to +apologise for the repetition which this method of treatment will +naturally cause; but, considering that the theory underlies every +drama and poem that he wrote during sixty years, such repetition +does not seem unnecessary. There are many who do not easily grasp +it, or do not grasp it at all, and they may be grateful. As to +those who do understand it, they will be happy in their anger with +any explanation of what they know so well.</p> +<p>He asks what is the secret of the world: "of man and man's true +purpose, path and fate." He proposes to understand "God-and his +works and all God's intercourse with the human soul."</p> +<p>We are here, he thinks, to grow enough to be able to take our +part in another life or lives. But we are surrounded by limitations +which baffle and retard our growth. That is miserable, but not so +much as we think; for the failures these limitations cause prevent +us—and this is a main point in Browning's view—from +being content with our condition on the earth. There is that within +us which is always endeavouring to transcend those limitations, and +which believes in their final dispersal. This aspiration rises to +something higher <a name='Page117' id="Page117"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>117</span>than any possible actual on earth. It is never +worn out; it is the divine in us; and when it seems to decay, God +renews it by spiritual influences from without and within, coming +to us from nature as seen by us, from humanity as felt by us, and +from himself who dwells in us.</p> +<p>But then, unless we find out and submit to those limitations, +and work within them, life is useless, so far as any life is +useless. But while we work within them, we see beyond them an +illimitable land, and thirst for it. This battle between the dire +necessity of working in chains and longing for freedom, between the +infinite destiny of the soul and the baffling of its effort to +realise its infinitude on earth, makes the storm and misery of +life. We may try to escape that tempest and sorrow by determining +to think, feel, and act only within our limitations, to be content +with them as Goethe said; but if we do, we are worse off than +before. We have thrown away our divine destiny. If we take this +world and are satisfied with it, cease to aspire, beyond our +limits, to full perfection in God; if our soul should ever say, "I +want no more; what I have here—the pleasure, fame, knowledge, +beauty or love of this world—is all I need or care for," then +we are indeed lost. That is the last damnation. The worst failure, +the deepest misery, is better than contentment with the success of +earth; and seen in this light, the failures and misery of earth are +actually good things, the cause of a chastened joy. They open to us +the larger light. They suggest, and in Browning's belief they +proved, that this life is but the threshold of an infinite life, +that our true life is beyond, that there <a name='Page118' id= +"Page118"></a><span class='pagenum'>118</span>is an infinite of +happiness, of knowledge, of love, of beauty which we shall attain. +Our failures are prophecies of eternal successes. To choose the +finite life is to miss the infinite Life! O fool, to claim the +little cup of water earth's knowledge offers to thy thirst, or the +beauty or love of earth, when the immeasurable waters of the +Knowledge, Beauty and Love of the Eternal Paradise are thine beyond +the earth.</p> +<p>Two things are then clear: (1) The attainment of our desires for +perfection, the satisfaction of our passion for the infinite, is +forbidden to us on earth by the limitations of life. We are made +imperfect; we are kept imperfect here; and we must do all our work +within the limits this natural imperfection makes. (2) We must, +nevertheless, not cease to strive towards the perfection +unattainable on earth, but which shall be attained hereafter. Our +destiny, the God within us, demands that. And we lose it, if we are +content with our earthly life, even with its highest things, with +knowledge, beauty, or with love.</p> +<p>Hence, the foundation of Browning's theory is a kind of Original +Sin in us, a natural defectiveness deliberately imposed on us by +God, which prevents us attaining any absolute success on earth. And +this defectiveness of nature is met by the truth, which, while we +aspire, we know—that God will fulfil all noble desire in a +life to come.</p> +<p>We must aspire then, but at the same time all aspiring is to be +conterminous with steady work within our limits. Aspiration to the +perfect is not to make us idle, indifferent to the present, but to +drive us on. Its passion teaches us, as it urges into action +<a name='Page119' id="Page119"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>119</span>all our powers, what we can and what we cannot +do. That is, it teaches us, through the action it engenders, what +our limits are; and when we know them, the main duties of life rise +clear. The first of these is, to work patiently within our limits; +and the second is the apparent contradiction of the first, never to +be satisfied with our limits, or with the results we attain within +them. Then, having worked within them, but always looked beyond +them, we, as life closes, learn the secret. The failures of earth +prove the victory beyond: "For—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>what is our failure here but a triumph's +evidence</p> +<p class='i2'>For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or +agonised?</p> +<p>Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue +thence?</p> +<p class='i2'>Why rushed the discords in but that harmony should be +prized?</p> +<p>Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear.</p> +<p class='i2'>Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal +and the woe:</p> +<p>But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear;</p> +<p class='i2'>The rest may reason, and welcome: 'tis we musicians +know."</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p><i>Abt Vogler</i>.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Finally, the root and flower of this patient but uncontented +work is Love for man because of his being in God, because of his +high and immortal destiny. All that we do, whether failure or not, +builds up the perfect humanity to come, and flows into the +perfection of God in whom is the perfection of man. This love, +grounded on this faith, brings joy into life; and, in this joy of +love, we enter into the eternal temple of the Life to come. Love +opens Heaven while Earth closes us round. At last limitations cease +to trouble us. <a name='Page120' id="Page120"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>120</span>They are lost in the vision, they bring no more +sorrow, doubt or baffling. Therefore, in this confused chaotic time +on earth—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Earn the means first. God surely will contrive</p> +<p class='i2'>Use for our earning.</p> +<p>Others mistrust, and say: "But time escapes;</p> +<p class='i2'>Live now or never!"</p> +<p>He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes!</p> +<p class='i2'>Man has Forever."</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p><i>A Grammarian's Funeral</i>.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is a sketch of his explanation of life. The expression of +it began in <i>Pauline</i>. Had that poem been as imitative, as +poor as the first efforts of poets usually are, we might leave it +aside. But though, as he said, "good draughtsmanship and right +handling were far beyond the artist at that time," though "with +repugnance and purely of necessity" he republished it, he did +republish it; and he was right. It was crude and confused, but the +stuff in it was original and poetic; wonderful stuff for a young +man.</p> +<p>The first design of it was huge. <i>Pauline</i> is but a +fragment of a poem which was to represent, not one but various +types of human life. It became only the presentation of the type of +the poet, the first sketch of the youth of Sordello. The other +types conceived were worked up into other poems.</p> +<p>The hero in <i>Pauline</i> hides in his love for Pauline from a +past he longed to forget. He had aspired to the absolute beauty and +goodness, and the end was vanity and vexation. The shame of this +failure beset him from the past, and the failure was caused because +he had not been true to the aspirations which took him beyond +himself. When <a name='Page121' id="Page121"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>121</span>he returned to self, the glory departed. And a +fine simile of his soul as a young witch whose blue eyes,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>As she stood naked by the river springs,</p> +<p>Drew down a God,</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>who, as he sat in the sunshine on her knees singing of heaven, +saw the mockery in her eyes and vanished, tells of how the early +ravishment departed, slain by self-scorn that followed on +self-worship. But one love and reverence remained—that for +Shelley, the Sun-treader, and kept him from being "wholly lost." To +strengthen this one self-forgetful element, the love of Pauline +enters in, and the new impulse brings back something of the ancient +joy. "Let me take it," he cries, "and sing on again</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>fast as fancies come;</p> +<p>Rudely, the verse being as the mood it paints,"—</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>a line which tells us how Browning wished his metrical movement +to be judged. This is the exordium, and it is already full of his +theory of life—the soul forced from within to aspire to the +perfect whole, the necessary failure, the despair, the new impulse +to love arising out of the despair; failure making fresh growth, +fresh uncontentment. God has sent a new impulse from without; let +me begin again.</p> +<p>Then, in the new light, he strips his mind bare. What am I? What +have I done? Where am I going?</p> +<p>The first element in his soul, he thinks, is a living +personality, linked to a principle of restlessness,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Which would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page122' id="Page122"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>122</span>And this would plunge him into the depths of +self were it not for that Imagination in him whose power never +fails to bear him beyond himself; and is finally in him a need, a +trust, a yearning after God; whom, even when he is most lost, he +feels is always acting on him, and at every point of life +transcending him.</p> +<p>And Imagination began to create, and made him at one with all +men and women of whom he had read (the same motive is repeated in +<i>Sordello</i>), but especially at one with those out of the Greek +world he loved—"a God wandering after Beauty"—a +high-crested chief</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Sailing with troops of friends to Tenedos.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Never was anything more clear than these lives he lived beyond +himself; and the lines in which he records the vision have all the +sharpness and beauty of his after-work—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>I had not seen a work of lofty art.</p> +<p>Nor woman's beauty nor sweet Nature's face,</p> +<p>Yet, I say, never morn broke clear as those</p> +<p>On the dim-clustered isles in the blue sea,</p> +<p>The deep groves and white temples and wet caves:</p> +<p>And nothing ever will surprise me now—</p> +<p>Who stood beside the naked Swift-footed,</p> +<p>Who bound my forehead with Proserpine's hair.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Yet, having this infinite world of beauty, he aimed low; lost in +immediate wants, striving only for the mortal and the possible, +while all the time there lived in him, breathing with keen desire, +powers which, developed, would make him at one with the infinite +Life of God.</p> +<p>But having thus been untrue to his early aspiration, he fell +into the sensual life, like Paracelsus, and <a name='Page123' id= +"Page123"></a><span class='pagenum'>123</span>then, remorseful, +sought peace in self-restraint; but no rest, no contentment was +gained that way. It is one of Browning's root-ideas that peace is +not won by repression of the noble passions, but by letting them +loose in full freedom to pursue after their highest aims. Not in +restraint, but in the conscious impetuosity of the soul towards the +divine realities, is the wisdom of life. Many poems are consecrated +to this idea.</p> +<p>So, cleansing his soul by ennobling desire, he sought to realise +his dreams in the arts, in the creation and expression of pure +Beauty. And he followed Poetry and Music and Painting, and chiefly +explored passion and mind in the great poets. Fed at these deep +springs, his soul rose into keen life; his powers burst forth, and +gazing on all systems and schemes of philosophy and government, he +heard ineffable things unguessed by man. All Plato entered into +him; he vowed himself to liberty and the new world where "men were +to be as gods and earth us heaven." Thus, yet here on earth, not +only beyond the earth, he would attain the Perfect. Man also shall +attain it; and so thinking, he turned, like Sordello, to look at +and learn mankind, pondering "how best life's end might be +attained—an end comprising every joy."</p> +<p>And even as he believed, the glory vanished; everything he had +hoped for broke to pieces:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>First went my hopes of perfecting mankind,</p> +<p>Next—faith in them, and then in freedom's self</p> +<p>And virtue's self, then my own motives, ends</p> +<p>And aims and loves, and human love went last.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And then, with the loss of all these things of the soul which +bear a man's desires into the invisible <a name='Page124' id= +"Page124"></a><span class='pagenum'>124</span>and unreachable, he +gained the world, and success in it. All the powers of the mere +Intellect, that grey-haired deceiver whose name is Archimago, were +his;—wit, mockery, analytic force, keen reasoning on the +visible, the Understanding's absolute belief in itself; its close +grasp on what it called facts, and its clear application of +knowledge for clear ends. God, too, had vanished in this +intellectual satisfaction; and in the temple of his soul, where He +had been worshipped, troops of shadows now knelt to the man whose +intellect, having grasped all knowledge, was content; and hailed +him as king.</p> +<p>The position he describes is like that Wordsworth states in the +<i>Prelude</i> to have been his, when, after the vanishing of his +aspirations for man which followed the imperialistic fiasco of the +French Revolution, he found himself without love or hope, but with +full power to make an intellectual analysis of nature and of human +nature, and was destroyed thereby. It is the same position which +Paracelsus attains and which is followed by the same ruin. It is +also, so far as its results are concerned, the position of the Soul +described by Tennyson in <i>The Palace of Art</i>.</p> +<p>Love, emotion, God are shut out. Intellect and knowledge of the +world's work take their place. And the result is the slow corrosion +of the soul by pride. "I have nursed up energies," says Browning, +"they will prey on me." He feels this and breaks away from its +death. "My heart must worship," he cries. The "shadows" know this +feeling is against them, and they shout in answer:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>"Thyself, thou art our king!"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page125' id="Page125"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>125</span>But the end of that is misery. Therefore he +begins to aspire again, but still, not for the infinite of +perfection beyond, but for a finite perfection on, the earth.</p> +<p>"I will make every joy here my own," he cries, "and then I will +die." "I will have one rapture to fill all the soul." "All +knowledge shall be mine." It is the aspiration of Paracelsus. "I +will live in the whole of Beauty, and here it shall be mine." It is +the aspiration of Aprile. "Then, having this perfect human soul, +master of all powers, I shall break forth, at some great crisis in +history, and lead the world." It is the very aspiration of +Sordello.</p> +<p>But when he tries for this, he finds failure at every point. +Everywhere he is limited; his soul demands what his body refuses to +fulfil; he is always baffled, falling short, chained down and +maddened by restrictions; unable to use what he conceives, to grasp +as a tool what he can reach in Thought; hating himself; imagining +what might be, and driven back from it in despair.</p> +<p>Even in his love for Pauline, in which he has skirted the +infinite and known that his soul cannot accept finality—he +finds that in him which is still unsatisfied.</p> +<p>What does this puzzle mean? "It means," he answers, "that this +earth's life is not my only sphere,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Can I so narrow sense but that in life</p> +<p>Soul still exceeds it?"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Yet, he will try again. He has lived in all human life, and his +craving is still athirst. He has not <a name='Page126' id= +"Page126"></a><span class='pagenum'>126</span>yet tried Nature +herself. She seems to have undying beauty, and his feeling for her +is now, of course, doubled by his love for Pauline. "Come with me," +he cries to her, "come out of the world into natural beauty"; and +there follows a noble description of a lovely country into which he +passes from a mountain glen—morning, noon, afternoon and +evening all described—and the emotion of the whole rises till +it reaches the topmost height of eagerness and joy, when, suddenly, +the whole fire is extinguished—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i2'>I am concentrated—I feel;</p> +<p>But my soul saddens when it looks beyond:</p> +<p>I cannot be immortal, taste all joy.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>O God, where do they tend—these struggling aims?</p> +<p>What would I have? What is this "sleep" which seems</p> +<p>To bound all? Can there be a "waking" point</p> +<p>Of crowning life?</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p>And what is that I hunger for but God?</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>So, having worked towards perfection, having realised that he +cannot have it here, he sees at last that the failures of earth are +a prophecy of a perfection to come. He claims the infinite beyond. +"I believe," he cries, "in God and truth and love. Know my last +state is happy, free from doubt or touch of fear."</p> +<p>That is Browning all over. These are the motives of a crowd of +poems, varied through a crowd of examples; never better shaped than +in the trenchant and magnificent end of <i>Easter-Day</i>, where +the questions and answers are like the flashing and clashing of +sharp scimitars. Out of the same quarry from which <i>Pauline</i> +was hewn the rest were <a name='Page127' id= +"Page127"></a><span class='pagenum'>127</span>hewn. They are +polished, richly sculptured, hammered into fair form, but the stone +is the same. Few have been so consistent as Browning, few so true +to their early inspiration. He is among those happy warriors</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>Who, when brought</p> +<p>Among the tasks of real life, have wrought</p> +<p>Upon the plan that pleased their boyish thought.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This, then, is <i>Pauline</i>; I pass on to <i>Paracelsus</i>. +<i>Paracelsus</i>, in order to give the poem a little local colour, +opens at Würzburg in a garden, and in the year 1512. But it is +not a poem which has to do with any place or any time. It belongs +only to the country of the human soul. The young student Paracelsus +is sitting with his friends Festus and Michal, on the eve of his +departure to conquer the whole world by knowledge. They make a last +effort to retain him, but even as he listens to their arguments his +eyes are far away—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>As if where'er he gazed there stood a star,</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>so strong, so deep is desire to attain his aim.</p> +<p>For Paracelsus aims to know the whole of knowledge. Quiet and +its charms, this homelike garden of still work, make their appeal +in vain. "God has called me," he cries; "these burning desires to +know all are his voice in me; and if I stay and plod on here, I +reject his call who has marked me from mankind. I must reach pure +knowledge. That is my only aim, my only reward."</p> +<p>Then Festus replies: "In this solitariness of aim, all other +interests of humanity are left out. Will knowledge, alone, give you +enough for life? You, a man!" And again: "You discern your <a name= +'Page128' id="Page128"></a><span class='pagenum'>128</span>purpose +clearly; have you any security of attaining it? Is it not more than +mortal power is capable of winning?" Or again: "Have you any +knowledge of the path to knowledge?" Or, once more, "Is anything in +your mind so clear as this, your own desire to be singly +famous?"</p> +<p>"All this is nothing," Paracelsus answers; "the restless force +within me will overcome all difficulties. God does not give that +fierce energy without giving also that which it desires. And, I am +chosen out of all the world to win this glory."</p> +<p>"Why not then," says Festus, "make use of knowledge already +gained? Work here; what knowledge will you gain in deserts?"</p> +<p>"I have tried all the knowledge of the past," Paracelsus +replies, "and found it a contemptible failure. Others were content +with the scraps they won. Not I! I want the whole; the source and +sum of divine and human knowledge, and though I craze as even one +truth expands its infinitude before me, I go forth alone, rejecting +all that others have done, to prove my own soul. I shall arrive at +last. And as to mankind, in winning perfect knowledge I shall serve +them; but then, all intercourse ends between them and me. I will +not be served by those I serve."</p> +<p>"Oh," answers Festus, "is that cause safe which produces +carelessness of human love? You have thrown aside all the helps of +human knowledge; now you reject all sympathy. No man can thrive who +dares to claim to serve the race, while he is bound by no single +tie to the race. You would be a being knowing not what Love +is—a monstrous spectacle!"</p> +<p>"<a name='Page129' id="Page129"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>129</span>That may be true," Paracelsus replies, "but for +the time I will have nothing to do with feeling. My affections +shall remain at rest, and then, <i>when</i> I have attained my +single aim, when knowledge is all mine, my affections will awaken +purified and chastened by my knowledge. Let me, unhampered by +sympathy, win my victory. And I go forth certain of victory."</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Are there not, Festus, are there not, dear Michal,</p> +<p>Two points in the adventure of the diver:</p> +<p>One—when, a beggar, he prepares to plunge;</p> +<p>One—when, a prince, he rises with his pearl?</p> +<p>Festus, I plunge!</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>FESTUS. We wait you when you rise.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>So ends the first part, and the second opens ten years +afterwards in a Greek Conjurer's house in Constantinople, with +Paracelsus writing down the result of his work. And the result is +this:</p> +<p>"I have made a few discoveries, but I could not stay to use +them. Nought remains but a ceaseless, hungry pressing forward, a +vision now and then of truth; and I—I am old before my hour: +the adage is true—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Time fleets, youth fades, life is an empty dream;</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>and now I would give a world to rest, even in failure!</p> +<p>"This is all my gain. Was it for this," he cries, "I subdued my +life, lost my youth, rooted out love; for the sake of this wolfish +thirst of knowledge?" No dog, said Faust, in Goethe's poem, driven +to the same point by the weariness of knowledge, no dog would +longer live this life. My tyrant aim has brought me into a desert; +worse still, the <a name='Page130' id="Page130"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>130</span>purity of my aim is lost. Can I truly say that +I have worked for man alone? Sadder still, if I had found that +which I sought, should I have had power to use it? O God, Thou who +art pure mind, spare my mind. Thus far, I have been a man. Let me +conclude, a man! Give me back one hour of my young energy, that I +may use and finish what I know.</p> +<p>"And God is good: I started sure of that; and he may still renew +my heart.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>True, I am worn;</p> +<p>But who clothes summer, who is life itself?</p> +<p>God, that created all things, can renew!"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>At this moment the voice of Aprile is heard singing the song of +the poets, who, having great gifts, refused to use them, or abused +them, or were too weak; and who therefore live apart from God, +mourning for ever; who gaze on life, but live no more. He breaks in +on Paracelsus, and, in a long passage of overlapping thoughts, +Aprile—who would love infinitely and be loved, aspiring to +realise every form of love, as Paracelsus has aspired to realise +the whole of knowledge—makes Paracelsus feel that love is +what he wants. And then, when Paracelsus realises this, Aprile in +turn realises that he wants knowledge. Each recognises that he is +the complement of the other, that knowledge is worthless without +love, and love incapable of realising its aspirations without +knowledge—as if love did not contain the sum of knowledge +necessary for fine being. Both have failed; and it seems, at first, +that they failed because they did not combine their aims. But the +chief reason <a name='Page131' id="Page131"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>131</span>of their failure—and this is, indeed, +Browning's main point—is that each of them tried to do more +than our limits on earth permit. Paracelsus would have the whole +sum of knowledge, Aprile nothing less than the whole of love, and, +in this world. It is impossible; yet, were it possible, could they +have attained the sum of knowledge and of love on earth and been +satisfied therewith, they would have shut out the infinite of +knowledge and love beyond them in the divine land, and been, in +their satisfaction, more hopelessly lost than they are in their +present wretchedness. Failure that leaves an unreached ideal before +the soul is in reality a greater boon than success which thinks +perfect satisfaction has been reached. Their aim at perfection is +right: what is wrong is their view that failure is ruin, and not a +prophecy of a greater glory to come. Could they have thought +perfection were attained on earth—were they satisfied with +anything this world can give, no longer stung with hunger for the +infinite—all Paradise, with the illimitable glories, were +closed to them!</p> +<p>Few passages are more beautiful in English poetry than that in +which Aprile narrates his youthful aspiration: how, loving all +things infinitely, he wished to throw them into absolute beauty of +form by means of all the arts, for the love of men, and receive +from men love for having revealed beauty, and merge at last in God, +the Eternal Love. This was his huge aim, his full desire.</p> +<p>Few passages are more pathetic than that in which he tells his +failure and its cause. "Time is short; the means of life are +limited; we have <a name='Page132' id="Page132"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>132</span>no means answering to our desires. Now I am +wrecked; for the multitudinous images of beauty which filled my +mind forbade my seizing upon one which I could have shaped. I often +wished to give one to the world, but the others came round and +baffled me; and, moreover, I could not leave the multitude of +beauty for the sake of one beauty. Unless I could embody all I +would embody none.</p> +<p>"And, afterwards, when a cry came from man, 'Give one ray even +of your hoarded light to us,' and I tried for man's sake to select +one, why, then, mists came—old memories of a thousand +sweetnesses, a storm of images—till it was impossible to +choose; and so I failed, and life is ended.</p> +<p>"But could I live I would do otherwise. I would give a trifle +out of beauty, as an example by which men could guess the rest and +love it all; one strain from an angel's song; one flower from the +distant land, that men might know that such things were. Then, too, +I would put common life into loveliness, so that the lowest hind +would find me beside him to put his weakest hope and fear into +noble language. And as I thus lived with men, and for them, I +should win from them thoughts fitted for their progress, the very +commonest of which would come forth in beauty, for they would have +been born in a soul filled full of love. This should now be my aim: +no longer that desire to embrace the whole of beauty which isolates +a man from his fellows; but to realise enough of loveliness to give +pleasure to men who desire to love. Therefore, I should live, still +aspiring to the whole, still uncontent, but waiting for another +life to gain the whole; but at the same time content, for man's +sake, <a name='Page133' id="Page133"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>133</span>to work within the limitations of life; not +grieving either for failure, because love given and received makes +failure pleasure. In truth, the failure to grasp all on earth +makes, if we love, the certainty of a success beyond the +earth."</p> +<p>And Paracelsus listening and applying what Aprile says to his +old desire to grasp, apart from men, the whole of knowledge as +Aprile had desired to grasp the whole of love, learns the truth at +last, and confesses it:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Love me henceforth, Aprile, while I learn</p> +<p>To love; and, merciful God, forgive us both!</p> +<p>We wake at length from weary dreams; but both</p> +<p>Have slept in fairy-land: though dark and drear</p> +<p>Appears the world before us, we no less</p> +<p>Wake with our wrists and ankles jewelled still.</p> +<p>I too have sought to KNOW as thou to LOVE—</p> +<p>Excluding love as thou refusedst knowledge.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>We are halves of a dissevered world, and we must never part till +the Knower love, and thou, the Lover, know, and both are saved.</p> +<p>"No, no; that is not all," Aprile answers, and dies. "Our +perfection is not in ourselves but in God. Not our strength, but +our weakness is our glory. Not in union with me, with earthly love +alone, will you find the perfect life. I am not that you seek. It +is God the King of Love, his world beyond, and the infinite +creations Love makes in it."</p> +<p>But Paracelsus does not grasp that last conclusion. He only +understands that he has left out love in his aim, and therefore +failed. He does not give up the notion of attainment upon earth. He +cannot lose the first imprint of his idea of himself—his +lonely grasp of the whole of Knowledge.</p> +<p>The next two parts of the poem do not strengthen <a name= +'Page134' id="Page134"></a><span class='pagenum'>134</span>much the +main thoughts. Paracelsus tries to work out the lesson learnt from +Aprile—to add love to knowledge, to aspire to that fulness in +God. But he does not love enough. He despises those who follow him +for the sake of his miracles, yet he desires their worship. +Moreover, the pride of knowledge still clings to him; he cannot +help thinking it higher than love; and the two together drive him +into the thought that this world must give him satisfaction. So, he +puts aside the ideal aim. But here also he is baffled. Those who +follow him as the great teacher ask of him signs. He gives these; +and he finds at Basel that he has sunk into the desire of vulgar +fame, and prostituted his knowledge; and, sick of this, beaten back +from his noble ambitions, he determines to have something at least +out of earth, and chooses at Colmar the life of sensual pleasure. +"I still aspire," he cries. "I will give the night to study, but I +will keep the day for the enjoyment of the senses. Thus, intellect +and sense woven together, I shall at least have attained something. +If I do not gain knowledge I shall have gained sensual pleasure. +Man I despise and hate, and God has deceived me. I take the world." +But, even while he says this, his ancient aspiration lives so much +in him that he scorns himself for his fall as much as he scorns the +crowd.</p> +<p>Then comes the last scene, when, at Salzburg, he returns to find +his friend Festus, and to die. In the hour of his death he reviews +his whole life, his aims, their failure and the reason of it, and +yet dies triumphant for he has found the truth.</p> +<p>I pass over the pathetic delirium in which <a name='Page135' id= +"Page135"></a><span class='pagenum'>135</span>Paracelsus thinks +that Aprile is present, and cries for his hand and sympathy while +Festus is watching by the couch. At last he wakes, and knows his +friend, and that he is dying. "I am happy," he cries; "my foot is +on the threshold of boundless life; I see the whole whirl and +hurricane of life behind me; all my life passes by, and I know its +purpose, to what end it has brought me, and whither I am going. I +will tell you all the meaning of life. Festus, my friend, tell it +to the world.</p> +<p>"There was a time when I was happy; the secret of life was in +that happiness." "When, when was that?" answers Festus, "all I hope +that answer will decide."</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>PAR. When, but the time I vowed myself to man?</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>FEST. Great God, thy judgments are inscrutable!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Then he explains. "There are men, so majestical is our nature, +who, hungry for joy and truth, win more and more of both, and know +that life is infinite progress in God. This they win by long and +slow battle. But there are those, of whom I was one"—and here +Browning draws the man of genius—"who are born at the very +point to which these others, the men of talent, have painfully +attained. By intuition genius knows, and I knew at once, what God +is, what we are, what life is. Alas! I could not use the knowledge +aright. There is an answer to the passionate longings of the heart +for fulness, and I knew it. And the answer is this: Live in all +things outside of yourself by love and you will have joy. That is +the life of God; it ought to be our life. In him it is accomplished +and perfect; <a name='Page136' id="Page136"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>136</span>but in all created things it is a lesson +learned slowly against difficulty.</p> +<p>"Thus I knew the truth, but I was led away from it. I broke down +from thinking of myself, my fame, and of this world. I had not love +enough, and I lost the truth for a time. But whatever my failures +were, I never lost sight of it altogether. I never was content with +myself or with the earth. Out of my misery I cried for the joy God +has in living outside of himself in love of all things."</p> +<p>Then, thrilled with this thought, he breaks forth into a most +noble description—new in English poetry, new in feeling and +in thought, enough of itself to lift Browning on to his lofty +peak—first of the joy of God in the Universe he makes +incessantly by pouring out of himself his life, and, secondly, of +the joy of all things in God. "Where dwells enjoyment there is He." +But every realised enjoyment looks forward, even in God, to a new +and higher sphere of distant glory, and when that is reached, to +another sphere beyond—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>thus climbs</p> +<p>Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Creation is God's joyous self-giving. The building of the frame +of earth was God's first joy in Earth. That made him conceive a +greater joy—the joy of clothing the earth, of making life +therein—of the love which in animals, and last in man, +multiplies life for ever.</p> +<p>So there is progress of all things to man, and all created +things before his coming have—in beauty, in power, in +knowledge, in dim shapes of love and trust in the animals—had +prophecies of him which man <a name='Page137' id= +"Page137"></a><span class='pagenum'>137</span>has realised, hints +and previsions, dimly picturing the higher race, till man appeared +at last, and one stage of being was complete. But the law of +progress does not cease now man has come. None of his faculties are +perfect. They also by their imperfection suggest a further life, in +which as all that was unfinished in the animals suggested man, so +also that which is unfinished in us suggests ourselves in higher +place and form. Man's self is not yet Man.</p> +<p>We learn this not only from our own boundless desires for higher +life, and from our sense of imperfection. We learn it also when we +look back on the whole of nature that was before we were. We +illustrate and illuminate all that has been. Nature is humanised, +spiritualised by us. We have imprinted ourselves on all things; and +this, as we realise it, as we give thought and passion to lifeless +nature, makes us understand how great we are, and how much greater +we are bound to be. We are the end of nature but not the end of +ourselves. We learn the same truth when among us the few men of +genius appear; stars in the darkness. We do not say—These +stand alone; we never can become as they. On the contrary, we cry: +All are to be what these are, and more. They longed for more, and +we and they shall have it. All shall be perfected; and then, and +not till then, begins the new age and the new life, new progress +and new joy. This is the ultimate truth.</p> +<p>"And as in inferior creatures there were prognostics of +man—and here Browning repeats himself—so in man there +are prognostics of the future and loftier humanity.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page138' id="Page138"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>138</p> +<p>August anticipations, symbols, types</p> +<p>Of a dim splendour ever on before</p> +<p>In that eternal cycle life pursues.</p> +<p>For men begin to pass their nature's bound—</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>ceaselessly outgrowing themselves in history, and in the +individual life—and some, passionately aspiring, run ahead of +even the general tendency, and conceive the very highest, and live +to reveal it, and in revealing it lift and save those who do not +conceive it.</p> +<p>"I, Paracelsus," he cries—and now Browning repeats the +whole argument of the poem—"was one of these. To do this I +vowed myself, soul and limb.</p> +<p>"But I mistook my means, I took the wrong path, led away by +pride. I gazed on power alone, and on power won by knowledge alone. +This I thought was the only note and aim of man, and it was to be +won, at once and in the present, without any care for all that man +had already done. I rejected all the past. I despised it as a +record of weakness and disgrace. Man should be all-sufficient now; +a single day should bring him to maturity. He has power to reach +the whole of knowledge at one leap.</p> +<p>"In that, I mistook the conditions of life. I did not see our +barriers; nor that progress is slow; nor that every step of the +past is necessary to know and to remember; nor that, in the shade +of the past, the present stands forth bright; nor that the future +is not to be all at once, but to dawn on us, in zone after zone of +quiet progress. I strove to laugh down all the limits of our life, +and then the smallest things broke me down—me, who tried to +realise the <a name='Page139' id="Page139"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>139</span>impossible on earth. At last I knew that the +power I sought was only God's, and then I prayed to die. All my +life was failure.</p> +<p>"At this crisis I met Aprile, and learned my deep mistake. I had +left love out; and love and knowledge, and power through knowledge, +must go together. And Aprile had also failed, for he had sought +love and rejected knowledge. Life can only move when both are hand +in hand:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>love preceding</p> +<p>Power, and with much power, always much more love:</p> +<p>Love still too straitened in its present means,</p> +<p>And earnest for new power to set love free.</p> +<p>I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>"But to learn it, and to fulfil it, are two different things. I +taught the simple truth, but men would not have it. They sought the +complex, the sensational, the knowledge which amazed them. And for +this knowledge they praised me. I loathed and despised their +praise; and when I would not give them more of the signs and +wonders I first gave them, they avenged themselves by casting shame +on my real knowledge. Then I was tempted, and became the charlatan; +and yet despised myself for seeking man's praise for that which was +most contemptible in me. Then I sought for wild pleasure in the +senses, and I hated myself still more. And hating myself I came to +hate men; and then all that Aprile taught to me was lost.</p> +<p>"But now I know that I did not love enough to trace beneath the +hate of men their love. I did not love enough to see in their +follies the grain of divine wisdom.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page140' id="Page140"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>140</p> +<p>To see a good in evil, and a hope</p> +<p>In ill-success; to sympathise, be proud</p> +<p>Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim</p> +<p>Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies,</p> +<p>Their prejudice and fears and cares and doubts;</p> +<p>All with a touch of nobleness, despite</p> +<p>Their error, upward tending all though weak.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>"I did not see this, I did not love enough to see this, and I +failed.</p> +<p>"Therefore let men regard me, who rashly longed to know all for +power's sake; and regard Aprile, the poet, who rashly longed for +the whole of love for beauty's sake—and regarding both, shape +forth a third and better-tempered spirit, in whom beauty and +knowledge, love and power, shall mingle into one, and lead Man up +to God, in whom all these four are One. In God alone is the +goal.</p> +<p>"Meanwhile I die in peace, secure of attainment. What I have +failed in here I shall attain there. I have never, in my basest +hours, ceased to aspire; God will fulfil my aspiration:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>If I stoop</p> +<p>Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud.</p> +<p>It is but for a time; I press God's lamp</p> +<p>Close to my breast; its splendour, soon or late,</p> +<p>Will pierce the gloom: I shall emerge one day.</p> +<p>You understand me? I have said enough?</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Aprile! Hand in hand with you, Aprile!"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And so he dies.</p> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page141' id="Page141"></a><span class='pagenum'>141</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_V' id="CHAPTER_V"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> +<h3><i>THE POET OF ART</i></h3> +<p>The theory of human life which Browning conceived, and which I +attempted in the last chapter to explain out of <i>Pauline</i> and +<i>Paracelsus</i>, underlies the poems which have to do with the +arts. Browning as the poet of Art is as fascinating a subject as +Browning the poet of Nature; even more so, for he directed of set +purpose a great deal of his poetry to the various arts, especially +to music and painting. Nor has he neglected to write about his own +art. The lover in Pauline is a poet. Paracelsus and Aprile have +both touched that art. Sordello is a poet, and so are many others +in the poems. Moreover, he treats continually of himself as a poet, +and of the many criticisms on his work.</p> +<p>All through this work on the arts, the theory of which we have +written appears continuously. It emerges fully in the close of +<i>Easter-Day</i>. It is carefully wrought into poems like <i>Abt +Vogler</i> and <i>A Grammarian's Funeral</i>, in which the pursuit +of grammar is conceived of as the pursuit of an art. It is +introduced by the way in the midst of subjects belonging to the art +of painting, as in <i>Old Pictures in Florence</i> and <i>Andrea +del Sarto</i>. Finally, in those poems which represent in vivid +colour and selected <a name='Page142' id="Page142"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>142</span>personalities special times and forms of art, +the theory still appears, but momentarily, as a dryad might show +her face in a wood to a poet passing by. I shall be obliged then to +touch again and again on this theory of his in discussing Browning +as the poet of the arts. This is a repetition which cannot be +helped, but for which I request the pardon of my readers.</p> +<p>The subject of the arts, from the time when Caliban "fell to +make something" to the re-birth of naturalism in Florence, from the +earliest music and poetry to the latest, interested Browning +profoundly; and he speaks of them, not as a critic from the +outside, but out of the soul of them, as an artist. He is, for +example, the only poet of the nineteenth century till we come to +Rossetti, who has celebrated painting and sculpture by the art of +poetry; and Rossetti did not link these arts to human life and +character with as much force and penetration as Browning. Morris, +when he wrote poetry, did not care to write about the other arts, +their schools or history. He liked to describe in verse the +beautiful things of the past, but not to argue on their how and +why. Nor did he ever turn in on himself as artist, and ask how he +wrote poetry or how he built up a pattern. What he did as artist +was to <i>make</i>, and when he had made one thing to make another. +He ran along like Pheidippides to his goal, without halting for one +instant to consider the methods of his running. And all his life +long this was his way.</p> +<p>Rossetti described a picture in a sonnet with admirable skill, +so admirable that we say to ourselves—"Give me the picture or +the sonnet, not <a name='Page143' id="Page143"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>143</span>both. They blot out one another." But to +describe a picture is not to write about art. The one place where +he does go down to its means and soul is in his little prose +masterpiece, <i>Hand and Soul</i>, in which we see the path, the +goal, the passion, but not the power of art. But he never, in +thought, got, like Browning, to the bottom-joy of it. He does not +seem to see, as clearly as Browning saw, that the source of all art +was love; and that the expression of love in beautiful form was or +ought to be accomplished with that exulting joy which is the +natural child of self-forgetfulness. This story of Rossetti's was +in prose. In poetry, Rossetti, save in description from the +outside, left art alone; and Browning's special work on art, and +particularly his poetic studies of it, are isolated in English +poetry, and separate him from other poets.</p> +<p>I cannot wish that he had thought less and written less about +other arts than poetry. But I do wish he had given more time and +trouble to his own art, that we might have had clearer and lovelier +poetry. Perhaps, if he had developed himself with more care as an +artist in his own art, he would not have troubled himself or his +art by so much devotion to abstract thinking and intellectual +analysis. A strange preference also for naked facts sometimes beset +him, as if men wanted these from a poet. It was as if some +scientific demon entered into him for a time and turned poetry out, +till Browning got weary of his guest and threw him out of the +window. These reversions to some far off Browning in the past, who +was deceived into thinking the intellect the king of life, +enfeebled and <a name='Page144' id="Page144"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>144</span>sometimes destroyed the artist in him; and +though he escaped for the best part of his poetry from this +position, it was not seldom in his later years as a brand plucked +from the burning. Moreover, he recognised this tendency in himself; +and protested against it, sometimes humorously, sometimes +seriously. At least so I read what he means in a number of poems, +when he turns, after an over-wrought piece of analysis, upon +himself, and bursts out of his cobwebs into a solution of the +question by passion and imagination. Nevertheless the charm of this +merely intellectual play pulled at him continually, and as he could +always embroider it with fancy it seemed to him close to +imagination; and this belief grew upon him as he got farther away +from the warmth and natural truth of youth. It is the melancholy +tendency of some artists, as they feel the weakness of decay, to +become scientific; and a fatal temptation it is. There is one poem +of his in which he puts the whole matter clearly and happily, with +a curious and suggestive title, "<i>Transcendentalism</i>: A Poem +in Twelve Books."</p> +<p>He speaks to a young poet who will give to men "naked thought, +good, true, treasurable stuff, solid matter, without imaginative +imagery, without emotion."</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Thought's what they mean by verse, and seek in verse.</p> +<p>Boys seek for images and melody,</p> +<p>Men must have reason—so, you aim at men.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>It is "quite otherwise," Browning tells him, and he illustrates +the matter by a story.</p> +<p>Jacob Böhme did not care for plants. All he cared for was +his mysticism. But one day, as if <a name='Page145' id= +"Page145"></a><span class='pagenum'>145</span>the magic of poetry +had slipped into his soul, he heard all the plants talking, and +talking to him; and behold, he loved them and knew what they meant. +Imagination had done more for him than all his metaphysics. So we +give up our days to collating theory with theory, criticising, +philosophising, till, one morning, we wake "and find life's summer +past."</p> +<p>What remedy? What hope? Why, a brace of rhymes! And then, in +life, that miracle takes place which John of Halberstadt did by his +magic. We feel like a child; the world is new; every bit of life is +run over and enchanted by the wild rose.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>And in there breaks the sudden rose herself,</p> +<p>Over us, under, round us every side,</p> +<p>Nay, in and out the tables and the chairs</p> +<p>And musty volumes, Boehme's book and all—Buries</p> +<p>us with a glory, young once more,</p> +<p>Pouring heaven into this shut house of life.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>So come, the harp back to your heart again!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>I return, after this introduction, to Browning's doctrine of +life as it is connected with the arts. It appears with great +clearness in <i>Easter-Day</i>. He tells of an experience he had +when, one night, musing on life, and wondering how it would be with +him were he to die and be judged in a moment, he walked on the wild +common outside the little Dissenting Chapel he had previously +visited on Christmas-Eve and thought of the Judgment. And +Common-sense said: "You have done your best; do not be dismayed; +you will only be surprised, and when the shock is over you will +smile at your fear." And as he thought thus the whole sky became a +sea of fire. A fierce and vindictive <a name='Page146' id= +"Page146"></a><span class='pagenum'>146</span>scribble of red quick +flame ran across it, and the universe was burned away. "And I +knew," thought Browning, "now that Judgment had come, that I had +chosen this world, its beauty, its knowledge, its good—that, +though I often looked above, yet to renounce utterly the beauty of +this earth and man was too hard for me." And a voice came: +"Eternity is here, and thou art judged." And then Christ stood +before him and said: "Thou hast preferred the finite when the +infinite was in thy power. Earthly joys were palpable and tainted. +The heavenly joys flitted before thee, faint, and rare, and +taintless. Thou hast chosen those of this world. They are +thine."</p> +<p>"O rapture! is this the Judgment? Earth's exquisite treasures of +wonder and delight for me!"</p> +<p>"So soon made happy," said the voice. "The loveliness of earth +is but like one rose flung from the Eden whence thy choice has +excluded thee. The wonders of earth are but the tapestry of the +ante-chamber in the royal house thou hast abandoned.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>All partial beauty was a pledge</p> +<p>Of beauty in its plenitude:</p> +<p>But since the pledge sufficed thy mood,</p> +<p>Retain it! plenitude be theirs</p> +<p>Who looked above!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>"O sharp despair! but since the joys of earth fail me, I take +art. Art gives worth to nature; it stamps it with man. I'll take +the Greek sculpture, the perfect painting of Italy—that world +is mine!"</p> +<p>"Then obtain it," said the voice: "the one abstract form, the +one face with its one look—all they could manage. Shall I, +the illimitable beauty, <a name='Page147' id= +"Page147"></a><span class='pagenum'>147</span>be judged by these +single forms? What of that perfection in their souls these artists +were conscious of, inconceivably exceeding all they did? What of +their failure which told them an illimitable beauty was before +them? What of Michael Angelo now, who did not choose the world's +success or earth's perfection, and who now is on the breast of the +Divine? All the beauty of art is but furniture for life's first +stage. Take it then. But there are those, my saints, who were not +content, like thee, with earth's scrap of beauty, but desired the +whole. They are now filled with it. Take thy one jewel of beauty on +the beach; lose all I had for thee in the boundless ocean."</p> +<p>"Then I take mind; earth's knowledge carries me beyond the +finite. Through circling sciences, philosophies and histories I +will spin with rapture; and if these fail to inspire, I will fly to +verse, and in its dew and fire break the chain which binds me to +the earth;—Nay, answer me not, I know what Thou wilt say: +What is highest in knowledge, even those fine intuitions which lead +the finite into the infinite, and which are best put in noble +verse, are but gleams of a light beyond them, sparks from the sum +of the whole. I give that world up also, and I take Love. All I ask +is leave to love."</p> +<p>"Ah," said the voice, "is this thy final choice? Love is the +best; 'tis somewhat late. Yet all the power and beauty, nature and +art and knowledge of this earth were only worth because of love. +Through them infinite love called to thee; and even now thou +clingest to earth's love as all. It is precious, but it exists to +bear thee beyond the love of earth into the boundless love of God +in me." <a name='Page148' id="Page148"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>148</span>At last, beaten to his last fortress, all +broken down, he cries:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Thou Love of God! Or let me die,</p> +<p>Or grant what shall seem heaven almost.</p> +<p>Let me not know that all is lost,</p> +<p>Though lost it be—leave me not tied</p> +<p>To this despair—this corpse-like bride!</p> +<p>Let that old life seem mine—no more—</p> +<p>With limitation as before,</p> +<p>With darkness, hunger, toil, distress:</p> +<p>Be all the earth a wilderness!</p> +<p>Only let me go on, go on,</p> +<p>Still hoping ever and anon</p> +<p>To reach one eve the Better Land!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is put more strongly, as in the line: "Be all the earth a +wilderness!" than Browning himself would have put it. But he is in +the passion of the man who speaks, and heightens the main truth +into an extreme. But the theory is there, and it is especially +applied to the love of beauty and therefore to the arts. The +illustrations are taken from music and painting, from sculpture and +poetry. Only in dwelling too exclusively, as perhaps the situation +demands, on the renunciation of this world's successes, he has left +out that part of his theory which demands that we should, accepting +our limits, work within them for the love of man, but learn from +their pressure and pain to transcend them always in the desire of +infinite perfection. In <i>Rabbi Ben Ezra</i>, a masterpiece of +argumentative and imaginative passion—such a poem as only +Browning could have written, who, more than other poets, equalised, +when most inspired, reasoning, emotions and intuitions into one +material for poetry—he applies this view of his to the whole +of man's life here and in the world to come, when the <a name= +'Page149' id="Page149"></a><span class='pagenum'>149</span>Rabbi in +the quiet of old age considers what his life has been, and how God +has wrought him through it for eternity. But I leave that poem, +which has nothing to do with art, for <i>Abt Vogler</i>, which is +dedicated to music.</p> +<p>"When Solomon pronounced the Name of God, all the spirits, good +and bad, assembled to do his will and build his palace. And when I, +Abt Vogler, touched the keys, I called the Spirits of Sound to me, +and they have built my palace of music; and to inhabit it all the +Great Dead came back, till in the vision I made a perfect music. +Nay, for a moment, I touched in it the infinite perfection; but now +it is gone; I cannot bring it back. Had I painted it, had I written +it, I might have explained it. But in music, out of the sounds +something emerges which is above the sounds, and that ineffable +thing I touched and lost. I took the well-known sounds of earth, +and out of them came a fourth sound, nay, not a sound—but a +star. This was a flash of God's will which opened the Eternal to me +for a moment; and I shall find it again in the eternal life. +Therefore, from the achievement of earth and the failure of it, I +turn to God, and in him I see that every image, thought, impulse, +and dream of knowledge or of beauty—which, coming whence we +know not, flit before us in human life, breathe for a moment, and +then depart; which, like my music, build a sudden palace in +imagination; which abide for an instant and dissolve, but which +memory and hope retain as a ground of aspiration—are not lost +to us though they seem to die in their immediate passage. Their +music has its home in the Will of God and we shall find them +completed there.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page150' id="Page150"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>150</p> +<p>All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist;</p> +<p class='i2'>Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, +nor power</p> +<p>Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the +melodist</p> +<p class='i2'>When eternity affirms the conception of an hour.</p> +<p>The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too +hard,</p> +<p class='i2'>The passion that left the ground to lose itself in +the sky,</p> +<p>Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard;</p> +<p class='i2'>Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it +by-and-by.</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p>Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign:</p> +<p class='i2'>I will be patient and proud, and soberly +acquiesce.</p> +<p>Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again,</p> +<p class='i2'>Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the +minor,—yes,</p> +<p>And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground,</p> +<p class='i2'>Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the +deep;</p> +<p>Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is +found,</p> +<p class='i2'>The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to +sleep."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>With that he returns to human life, content to labour in its +limits—the common chord is his. But he has been where he +shall be, and he is not likely to be satisfied with the C major of +life. This, in Browning's thought, is the true comfort and strength +of the life of the artist, to whom these fallings from us, +vanishings, these transient visits of the infinite Divine, like +swallows that pass in full flight, are more common than to other +men. They tell him of the unspeakable beauty; they let loose his +spirit to fly into the third heaven.</p> +<p>So much for the theory in this poem. As to the artist and his +art in it, that is quite a different matter; and as there are few +of Browning's poems which reach a higher level than this both in +form, thought, and spiritual passion, it may be worth while, for +once, to examine a poem of his at large.</p> +<p>Browning's imagination conceived in a moment the musician's +experience from end to end; and the <a name='Page151' id= +"Page151"></a><span class='pagenum'>151</span>form of the +experience arose along with the conception. He saw Abt Vogler in +the silent church, playing to himself before the golden towers of +the organ, and slipping with sudden surprise into a strain which is +less his than God's. He saw the vision which accompanied the music, +and the man's heart set face to face with the palace of music he +had built. He saw him live in it and then pass to heaven with it +and lose it. And he saw the close of the experience, with all its +scenery in the church and in Abt Vogler's heart, at the same time, +in one vision. In this unconscious shaping of his thought into a +human incident, with its soul and scenery, is the imagination +creating, like a god, a thing unknown, unseen before.</p> +<p>Having thus shaped the form, the imagination passed on to make +the ornament. It creates that far-off image of Solomon and his +spirits building their palace for the Queen of Sheba which exalts +the whole conception and enlarges the reader's imagination through +all the legends of the great King—and then it makes, for +fresh adornment, the splendid piling up of the sounds into walls of +gold, pinnacles, splendours and meteor moons; and lastly, with +upward sweeping of its wings, bids the sky to fall in love with the +glory of the palace, and the mighty forms of the noble Dead to walk +in it. This is the imagination at play with its conception, +adorning, glorifying, heightening the full impression, but keeping +every imaged ornament misty, impalpable, as in a dream—for so +the conception demanded.</p> +<p>And then, to fill the conception with the spirit of humanity, +the personal passion of the poet rises and falls through the +description, as the music <a name='Page152' id= +"Page152"></a><span class='pagenum'>152</span>rises and falls. We +feel his breast beating against ours; till the time comes when, +like a sudden change in a great song, his emotion changes into +ecstasy in the outburst of the 9th verse:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name?</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>It almost brings tears into the eyes. This is +art-creation—this is what imagination, intense emotion, and +individuality have made of the material of thought—poetry, +not prose.</p> +<p>Even at the close, the conception, the imagination, and the +personal passion keep their art. The rush upwards of the +imaginative feeling dies slowly away; it is as evanescent as the +Vision of the Palace, but it dies into another picture of humanity +which even more deeply engages the human heart. Browning sees the +organ-loft now silent and dark, and the silent figure in it, alone +and bowed over the keys. The church is still, but aware of what has +been. The golden pipes of the organ are lost in the twilight and +the music is over—all the double vision of the third heaven +into which he has been caught has vanished away. The form of the +thing rightly fits the idea. Then, when the form is shaped, the +poet fills it with the deep emotion of the musician's soul, and +then with his own emotion; and close as the air to the earth are +the sorrow and exultation of Abt Vogler and Browning to the human +heart—sorrow for the vanishing and the failure, exultant joy +because what has been is but an image of the infinite beauty they +will have in God. In the joy they do not sorrow for the failure. It +is nothing but an omen of success. Their soul, greater than the +vision, takes <a name='Page153' id="Page153"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>153</span>up common life with patience and silent hope. +We hear them sigh and strike the chord of C.</p> +<p>This is lyric imagination at work in lyric poetry. There are two +kinds of lyrics among many others. One is where the strong emotion +of the poet, fusing all his materials into one creation, comes to a +height and then breaks off suddenly. It is like a thunderstorm, +which, doubling and redoubling its flash and roar, ends in the +zenith with the brightest flash and loudest clang of thunder. There +is another kind. It is when the storm of emotion reaches, like the +first, its climax, but does not end with it. The lyric passion dies +slowly away from the zenith to the horizon, and ends in quietude +and beauty, attended by soft colour and gentle sounds; like the +thunderstorm which faints with the sunset and gathers its clouds to +be adorned with beauty. This lyric of Browning's is a noble example +of the second type.</p> +<p>I take another poem, the <i>Grammarian's Funeral</i>, to +illustrate his art. The main matter of thought in it is the same as +that of <i>Abt Vogler</i>, with the variation that the central +figure is not a musician but a grammarian; that what he pursued was +critical knowledge, not beauty, and that he is not a modern, like +Abt Vogler, but one of the Renaissance folk, and seized, as men +were seized then, with that insatiable curiosity which +characterised the outbreak of the New Learning. The matter of +thought in it is of less interest to us than the poetic creation +wrought out of it, or than the art with which it is done. We see +the form into which the imaginative conception is thrown—the +group of sorrowing students carrying their master's corpse to the +high <a name='Page154' id="Page154"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>154</span>platform of the mountain, singing what he was, +in admiration and honour and delight that he had mastered life and +won eternity; a conception full of humanity, as full of the life of +the dead master's soul as of the students' enthusiasm. This thrills +us into creation, with the poet, as we read. Then the imagination +which has made the conception into form adorns it. It creates the +plain, the encircling mountains, one cloudy peak higher than the +rest; as we mount we look on the plain below; we reach the city on +the hill, pass it, and climb the hill-top; there are all the +high-flying birds, the meteors, the lightnings, the thickest dew. +And we lay our dead on the peak, above the plain. This is the +scenery, the imaginative ornament, and all through it we are made +to hear the chant of the students; and so lifting is the melody of +the verse we seem to taste the air, fresher and fresher as we +climb. Then, finally, into the midst of this flows for us the eager +intensity of the scholar. Dead as he is, we feel him to be alive; +never resting, pushing on incessantly, beating failure beneath his +feet, making it the step for further search for the infinite, +resolute to live in the dull limits of the present work, but never +content save in waiting for that eternity which will fulfil the +failure of earth; which, missing earth's success, throws itself on +God, dying to gain the highest. This is the passion of the poem, +and Browning is in it like a fire. It was his own, his very life. +He pours it into the students who rejoice in the death of their +master, and he gives it to us as we read the poem. And then, +because conception, imagination, and intensity of thought and +emotion all here work together, as in <i>Abt Vogler</i>, <a name= +'Page155' id="Page155"></a><span class='pagenum'>155</span>the +melody of the poem is lovely, save in one verse which ought to be +out of the poem. As to the conclusion, it is priceless. Such a +conclusion can only emerge when all that precedes it finely +contains it, and I have often thought that it pictures Browning +himself. I wish he had been buried on a mountain top, all Italy +below him.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place:</p> +<p class='i2'>Hail to your purlieus,</p> +<p>All ye high-flyers of the feathered race,</p> +<p class='i2'>Swallows and curlews!</p> +<p>Here's the top-peak; the multitude below</p> +<p class='i2'>Live, for they can, there:</p> +<p>This man decided not to Live but Know—</p> +<p class='i2'>Bury this man there?</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Here—here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds +form,</p> +<p class='i2'>Lightenings are loosened.</p> +<p>Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,</p> +<p class='i2'>Peace let the dew send!</p> +<p>Lofty designs must close in like effects:</p> +<p class='i2'>Loftily lying,</p> +<p>Leave him—still loftier than the world suspects,</p> +<p class='i2'>Living and dying.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is the artist at work, and I doubt whether all the +laborious prose written, in history and criticism, on the revival +of learning, will ever express better than this short poem the +inexhaustible thirst of the Renaissance in its pursuit of +knowledge, or the enthusiasm of the pupils of a New Scholar for his +desperate strife to know in a short life the very centre of the +Universe.</p> +<p>Another poem on the arts which is mixed up with Browning's +theory of life is <i>Andrea del Sarto</i>. Into it the theory +slips, like an uninvited guest into a dinner-party of whom it is +felt that he has some relation to some one of the guests, but for +whom no <a name='Page156' id="Page156"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>156</span>cover is laid. The faulty and broken life of +Andrea, in its contrast with his flawless drawing, has been a +favourite subject with poets. Alfred de Musset and others have +dramatised it, and it seems strange that none of our soul-wrecking +and vivisecting novelists have taken it up for their amusement. +Browning has not left out a single point of the subject. The only +criticism I should make of this admirable poem is that, when we +come to the end, we dislike the woman and despise the man more than +we pity either of them; and in tragic art-work of a fine quality, +pity for human nature with a far-off tenderness in it should remain +as the most lasting impression. All the greater artists, even while +they went to the bottom of sorrow and wickedness, have done this +wise and beautiful thing, and Browning rarely omits it.</p> +<p>The first art-matter in the poem is Browning's sketch of the +sudden genesis of a picture. Andrea is sitting with his wife on the +window-seat looking out to Fiesole. As he talks she smiles a weary, +lovely, autumn smile, and, born in that instant and of her smile, +he sees his picture, knows its atmosphere, realises its tone of +colour, feels its prevailing sentiment. How he will execute it is +another question, and depends on other things; but no better sketch +could be given of the sudden spiritual fashion in which great +pictures are generated. Here are the lines, and they also strike +the keynote of Andrea's soul—that to which his life has +brought him.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>You smile? why, there's my picture ready made,</p> +<p>There's what we painters call our harmony!</p> +<p>A common greyness silvers everything,—</p> +<a name='Page157' id="Page157"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>157</p> +<p>All in a twilight, you and I alike—,</p> +<p>You at the point of your first pride in me</p> +<p>(That's gone, you know),—but I, at every point;</p> +<p>My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down</p> +<p>To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole.</p> +<p>There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top;</p> +<p>That length of convent-wall across the way</p> +<p>Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside;</p> +<p>The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease,</p> +<p>And autumn grows, autumn in everything.</p> +<p>Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape</p> +<p>As if I saw alike my work and self</p> +<p>And all that I was born to be and do,</p> +<p>A twilight piece. Love, we are in God's hand.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>In God's hand? Yes, but why being free are we so fettered? And +here slips in the unbidden guest of the theory. Andrea has chosen +earthly love; Lucrezia is all in all; and he has reached absolute +perfection in drawing—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>I do what many dream of, all their lives.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>He can reach out beyond himself no more. He has got the earth, +lost the heaven. He makes no error, and has, therefore, no +impassioned desire which, flaming through the faulty picture, makes +it greater art than his faultless work. "The soul is gone from me, +that vext, suddenly-impassioned, upward-rushing thing, with its +play, insight, broken sorrows, sudden joys, pursuing, uncontented +life. These men reach a heaven shut out from me, though they cannot +draw like me. No praise or blame affects me. I know my handiwork is +perfect. But there burns a truer light of God in them. Lucrezia, I +am judged."</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,</p> +<p>Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-grey</p> +<p>Placid and perfect with my art:—the worse</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>"<a name='Page158' id="Page158"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>158</span>Here," he says, "is a piece of Rafael. The arm +is out of drawing, and I could make it right. But the passion, the +soul of the thing is not in me. Had you, my love, but urged me +upward, to glory and God, I might have been uncontent; I might have +done it for you. No," and again he sweeps round on himself, out of +his excuses, "perhaps not, 'incentives come from the soul's self'; +and mine is gone. I've chosen the love of you, Lucrezia, earth's +love, and I cannot pass beyond my faultless drawing into the strife +to paint those divine imaginations the soul conceives."</p> +<p>That is the meaning of Browning. The faultless, almost +mechanical art, the art which might be born of an adulterous +connection between science and art, is of little value to men. Not +in the flawless painter is true art found, but in those who painted +inadequately, yet whose pictures breathe</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Infinite passion and the pain</p> +<p>Of finite hearts that yearn.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>In this incessant strife to create new worlds, and in their +creation, which, always ending in partial failure, forces fresh +effort, lies, Browning might have said, the excuse for God having +deliberately made us defective. Had we been made good, had we no +strife with evil; had we the power to embody at once the beauty we +are capable of seeing; could we have laid our hand on truth, and +grasped her without the desperate struggle we have to win one fruit +from her tree; had we had no strong crying and tears, no agony +against wrong, against our own passions and their work, against +false views of things—we might have been angels; but we +<a name='Page159' id="Page159"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>159</span>should not have had humanity and all its wild +history, and all its work; we should not have had that which, for +all I know, may be unique in the universe; no, nor any of the great +results of the battle and its misery. Had it not been for the +defectiveness, the sin and pain, we should have had nothing of the +interest of the long evolution of science, law and government, of +the charm of discovery, of pursuit, of the slow upbuilding of moral +right, of the vast variety of philosophy. Above all, we should have +had none of the great art men love so well, no <i>Odyssey</i>, +<i>Divine Comedy</i> no <i>Hamlet</i>, no <i>Oedipus</i>, no +Handel, no Beethoven, no painting or sculpture where the love and +sorrow of the soul breathe in canvas, fresco, marble and bronze, +no, nor any of the great and loving lives who suffered and +overcame, from Christ to the poor woman who dies for love in a +London lane. All these are made through the struggle and the +sorrow. We should not have had, I repeat, humanity; and provided no +soul perishes for ever but lives to find union with undying love, +the game, with all its terrible sorrow, pays for the candle. We may +find out, some day, that the existence and work of humanity, +crucified as it has been, are of untold interest and use to the +universe—which things the angels desire to look into. If +Browning had listened to that view, he would, I think, have +accepted it.</p> +<p><i>Old Pictures in Florence</i> touches another side of his +theory. In itself, it is one of Browning's half-humorous poems; a +pleasantly-composed piece, glancing here and glancing there, as a +man's mind does when leaning over a hill-villa's parapet on a +<a name='Page160' id="Page160"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>160</span>sunny morning in Florence. I have elsewhere +quoted its beginning. It is a fine example of his nature-poetry: it +creates the scenery and atmosphere of the poem; and the four lines +with which the fourth verse closes sketch what Browning thought to +be one of his poetic gifts—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>And mark through the winter afternoons.</p> +<p class='i2'>By a gift God grants me now and then,</p> +<p>In the mild decline of those suns like moons.</p> +<p class='i2'>Who walked in Florence, besides her men.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This, then, is a poem of many moods, beginning with Giotto's +Tower; then wondering why Giotto did not tell the poet who loved +him so much that one of his pictures was lying hidden in a shop +where some one else picked it up; then, thinking of all Giotto's +followers, whose ghosts he imagines are wandering through Florence, +sorrowing for the decay of their pictures.</p> +<p>"But at least they have escaped, and have their holiday in +heaven, and do not care one straw for our praise or blame. They did +their work, they and the great masters. We call them old Masters, +but they were new in their time; their old Masters were the Greeks. +They broke away from the Greeks and revolutionised art into a new +life. In our turn we must break away from them."</p> +<p>And now glides in the theory. "When Greek art reached its +perfection, the limbs which infer the soul, and enough of the soul +to inform the limbs, were faultlessly represented. Men said the +best had been done, and aspiration and growth in art ceased. +Content with what had been done, men imitated, but did not create. +But man cannot remain without change in a past perfection; for +<a name='Page161' id="Page161"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>161</span>then he remains in a kind of death. Even with +failure, with faulty work, he desires to make new things, and in +making, to be alive and feel his life. Therefore Giotto and the +rest began to create a fresh aspect of humanity, which, however +imperfect in form, would suggest an infinite perfection. The Greek +perfection ties us down to earth, to a few forms, and the sooner, +if it forbid us to go on, we reject its ideal as the only one, the +better for art and for mankind.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>'Tis a life-long toil till our lump be leaven—</p> +<p class='i2'>The better! What's come to perfection perishes.</p> +<p>Things learned on earth, we shall practise in heaven:</p> +<p class='i2'>Works done least rapidly, Art most cherishes.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>"The great Campanile is still unfinished;" so he shapes his +thoughts into his scenery. Shall man be satisfied in art with the +crystallised joy of Apollo, or the petrified grief of Niobe, when +there are a million more expressions of joy and grief to render? In +that way felt Giotto and his crew. "We will paint the whole of +man," they cried, "paint his new hopes and joys and pains, and +never pause, because we shall never quite succeed. We will paint +the soul in all its infinite variety—bring the invisible full +into play. Of course we shall miss perfection—who can get +side by side with infinitude?—but we shall grow out of the +dead perfection of the past, and live and move, and have our +being.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Let the visible go to the dogs—what matters?"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Thus art began again. Its spring-tide came, dim and dewy; and +the world rejoiced.</p> +<p>And that is what has happened again and again in the history of +art. Browning has painted a <a name='Page162' id= +"Page162"></a><span class='pagenum'>162</span>universal truth. It +was that which took place when Wordsworth, throwing away the +traditions of a century and all the finished perfection, as men +thought, of the Augustan age, determined to write of man as man, +whatever the issue; to live with the infinite variety of human +nature, and in its natural simplicities. What we shall see, he +thought, may be faulty, common, unideal, imperfect. What we shall +write will not have the conventional perfection of Pope and Gray, +which all the cultivated world admires, and in which it rests +content—growth and movement dead—but it will be true, +natural, alive, running onwards to a far-off goal. And we who +write—our loins are accinct, our lights burning, as men +waiting for the revelation of the Bridegroom. Wordsworth brought +back the soul to Poetry. She made her failures, but she was alive. +Spring was blossoming around her with dews and living airs, and the +infinite opened before her.</p> +<p>So, too, it was when Turner recreated landscape art. There was +the perfect Claudesque landscape, with all its parts arranged, its +colours chosen, the composition balanced, the tree here, the river +there, the figures in the foreground, the accurate distribution and +gradation of the masses of light and shade. "There," the critics +said, "we have had perfection. Let us rest in that." And all growth +in landscape-art ceased. Then came Turner, who, when he had +followed the old for a time and got its good, broke away from it, +as if in laughter. "What," he felt, "the infinite of nature is +before me; inconceivable change and variety in earth, and sky, and +sea—and shall I be tied down to one form of painting +landscape, one arrangement of <a name='Page163' id= +"Page163"></a><span class='pagenum'>163</span>artistic properties? +Let the old perfection go." And we had our revolution in landscape +art: nothing, perhaps, so faultless as Claude's composition, but +life, love of nature, and an illimitable range; incessant change, +movement, and aspiration which have never since allowed the +landscape artist to think that he has attained.</p> +<p>On another side of the art of painting, Rossetti, Millais, Hunt +arose; and they said, "We will paint men as they actually were in +the past, in the moments of their passion, and with their emotions +on their faces, and with the scenery around them as it was; and +whatever background of nature there was behind them, it shall be +painted direct from the very work of nature herself, and in her +very colours. In doing this our range will become infinite. No +doubt we shall fail. We cannot grasp the whole of nature and +humanity, but we shall be <i>in</i> their life: aspiring, alive, +and winning more and more of truth." And the world of art howled at +them, as the world of criticism howled at Wordsworth. But a new +life and joy began to move in painting. Its winter was over, its +spring had begun, its summer was imagined. Their drawing was +faulty; their colour was called crude; they seemed to know little +or nothing of composition; but the Spirit of Life was in them, and +their faults were worth more than the best successes of the school +that followed Rafael; for their faults proved that passion, +aspiration and originality were again alive:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and glory</p> +<p class='i2'>For daring so much, before they well did it.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>If ever the artist should say to himself, "What I <a name= +'Page164' id="Page164"></a><span class='pagenum'>164</span>desire +has been attained: I can but imitate or follow it"; or if the +people who care for any art should think, "The best has been +reached; let us be content to rest in that perfection"; the death +of art has come.</p> +<p>The next poem belonging to this subject is the second part of +<i>Pippa Passes</i>. What concerns us here is that Jules, the +French artist, loves Phene; and on his return from his marriage +pours out his soul to her concerning his art.</p> +<p>In his work, in his pursuit of beauty through his aspiration to +the old Greek ideal, he has found his full content—his heaven +upon earth. But now, living love of a woman has stolen in. How can +he now, he asks, pursue that old ideal when he has the real? how +carve Tydeus, with her about the room? He is disturbed, thrilled, +uncontent A new ideal rises. How can he now</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait,</p> +<p>My hand transfers its lineaments to stone?</p> +<p>Will my mere fancies live near you, their truth—</p> +<p>The live truth, passing and repassing me,</p> +<p>Sitting beside me?</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Before he had seen her, all the varied stuff of Nature, every +material in her workshop, tended to one form of beauty, to the +human archetype. But now she, Phene, represents the archetype; and +though Browning does not express this, we feel that if Jules +continue in that opinion, his art will die. Then, carried away by +his enthusiasm for his art, he passes, through a statement that +nature suggests in all her doings man and his life and his +beauty—a statement Browning himself makes in +<i>Paracelsus</i>—to a description of the capabilities of +various stuffs <a name='Page165' id="Page165"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>165</span>in nature under the sculptor's hand, and +especially of marble as having in it the capabilities of all the +other stuffs and also something more a living spirit in itself +which aids the sculptor and even does some of his work.</p> +<p>This is a subtle thought peculiarly characteristic of Browning's +thinking about painting, music, poetry, or sculpture. I believe he +felt, and if he did not, it is still true, that the vehicle of any +art brought something out of itself into the work of the artist. +Abt Vogler feels this as he plays on the instrument he made. Any +musician who plays on two instruments knows that the distinct +instrument does distinct work, and loves each instrument for its +own spirit; because each makes his art, expressed in it, different +from his art expressed in another. Even the same art-creation is +different in two instruments: the vehicle does its own part of the +work. Any painter will say the same, according as he works in +fresco or on canvas, in water-colour or in oil. Even a material +like charcoal makes him work the same conception in a different +way. I will quote the passage; it goes to the root of the matter; +and whenever I read it, I seem to hear a well-known sculptor as he +talked one night to me of the spiritual way in which marble, so +soft and yet so firm, answered like living material to his tool, +sending flame into it, and then seemed, as with a voice, to welcome +the emotion which, flowing from him through the chisel, passed into +the stone.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>But of the stuffs one can be master of,</p> +<p>How I divined their capabilities!</p> +<p>From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk</p> +<p>That yields your outline to the air's embrace,</p> +<a name='Page166' id="Page166"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>166</p> +<p>Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom:</p> +<p>Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sure</p> +<p>To cut its one confided thought clean out</p> +<p>Of all the world. But marble!—'neath my tools</p> +<p>More pliable than jelly—as it were</p> +<p>Some clear primordial creature dug from depths</p> +<p>In the earth's heart, where itself breeds itself.</p> +<p>And whence all baser substance may be worked;</p> +<p>Refine it off to air, you may—condense it</p> +<p>Down to the diamond;—is not metal there,</p> +<p>When o'er the sudden speck my chisel trips?</p> +<p>—Not flesh, as flake off flake I scale, approach,</p> +<p>Lay bare those bluish veins of blood asleep?</p> +<p>Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised</p> +<p>By the swift implement sent home at once,</p> +<p>Flushes and glowings radiate and hover</p> +<p>About its track?</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>But Jules finds that Phene, whom he has been deceived into +believing an intelligence equal to his own, does not understand one +word he has said, is nothing but an uneducated girl; and his dream +of perfection in the marriage of Art and Love vanishes away, and +with the deception the aims and hopes of his art as it has been. +And Browning makes this happen of set purpose, in order that, +having lost satisfaction in his art-ideal, and then his +satisfaction in that ideal realised in a woman—having failed +in Art and Love—he may pass on into a higher aim, with a +higher conception, both of art and love, and make a new world, in +the woman and in the art. He is about to accept the failure, to +take only to revenge on his deceivers, when Pippa sings as she is +passing, and the song touches him into finer issues of thought. He +sees that Phene's soul is, like a butterfly, half-loosed from its +chrysalis, and ready for flight. The sight and song awake a truer +love, for as yet he has loved Phene <a name='Page167' id= +"Page167"></a><span class='pagenum'>167</span>only through his art. +Now he is impassioned with pity for a human soul, and his first new +sculpture will be the creation of her soul.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuff</p> +<p>Be Art—and further, to evoke a soul</p> +<p>From form be nothing? This new soul is mine!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>At last, he is borne into self-forgetfulness by love, and finds +a man's salvation. And in that loss of self he drinks of the deep +fountain of art. Aprile found that out. Sordello dies as he +discovers it, and Jules, the moment he has touched its waters with +his lip, sees a new realm of art arise, and loves it with such joy +that he knows he will have power to dwell in its heart, and create +from its joy.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>One may do whate'er one likes</p> +<p>In Art; the only thing is, to make sure</p> +<p>That one does like it—which takes pains to know.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>He breaks all his models up. They are paltry, dead things +belonging to a dead past. "I begin," he cries, "art afresh, in a +fresh world,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The ideal that fails means the birth of a new ideal. The very +centre of Browning as an artist is there:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,</p> +<p class='i2'>Sleep to wake!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Sordello is another example of his theory, of a different type +from Aprile, or that poet in <i>Pauline</i> who gave Browning the +sketch from which Sordello was conceived. But Browning, who, as I +have said, repeated his theory, never repeated his examples: and +Sordello is not only clearly varied from Aprile <a name='Page168' +id="Page168"></a><span class='pagenum'>168</span>and the person in +<i>Pauline</i>, but the variations themselves are inventively +varied. The complex temperament of Sordello incessantly alters its +form, not only as he grows from youth to manhood, but as +circumstances meet him. They give him a shock, as a slight blow +does to a kaleidoscope, and the whole pattern of his mind changes. +But as with the bits of coloured glass in the kaleidoscope, the +elements of Bordello's mind remain the same. It is only towards the +end of his career, on the forcible introduction into his life of +new elements from the outward world, that his character radically +changes, and his soul is born. He wins that which he has been +without from the beginning. He wins, as we should say, a heart. He +not only begins to love Palma otherwise than in his dreams, but +with that love the love of man arises—for, in characters like +Sordello, personal love, once really stirred, is sure to expand +beyond itself—and then, following on the love of man, +conscience is quickened into life, and for the first time +recognises itself and its duties. In this new light of love and +conscience, directed towards humanity, he looks back on his life as +an artist, or rather, Browning means us to do so; and we understand +that he has done nothing worthy in his art; and that even his gift +of imagination has been without the fire of true passion. His +aspirations, his phantasies, his songs, done only for his own sake, +have been cold, and left the world cold.</p> +<p>He has aspired to a life in the realm of pure imagination, to +winning by imagination alone all knowledge and all love, and the +power over men which flows from these. He is, in this aspiration, +Paracelsus and Aprile in one. But he has neither <a name='Page169' +id="Page169"></a><span class='pagenum'>169</span>the sincerity of +Paracelsus nor the passion of Aprile. He lives in himself alone, +beyond the world of experience, and only not conscious of those +barriers which limit our life on which Browning dwells so much, +because he does not bring his aspirations or his imaginative work +to the test by shaping them outside of himself. He fails, that is, +to create anything which will please or endure; fails in the first +aim, the first duty of an artist. He comes again and again to the +verge of creating something which may give delight to men, but only +once succeeds, when by chance, in a moment of excited impulse, +caused partly by his own vanity, and partly by the waves of +humanity at Palma's <i>Court of Love</i> beating on his soul, he +breaks for a passing hour into the song which conquers Eglamor. +When, at the end, he does try to shape himself without for the sake +of men he is too late for this life. He dies of the long struggle, +of the revelation of his failure and the reasons of it, of the +supreme light which falls on his wasted life; and yet not wasted, +since even in death he has found his soul and all it means. His +imagination, formerly only intellectual, has become emotional as +well; he loves mankind, and sacrifices fame, power, and knowledge +to its welfare. He no longer thinks to avoid, by living only in +himself, the baffling limitations which inevitably trouble human +life; but now desires, working within these limits, to fix his eyes +on the ineffable Love; failing but making every failure a ladder on +which to climb to higher things. This—the true way of +life—he finds out as he dies. To have that spirit, and to +work in it, is the very life of art. To pass for ever out of and +beyond <a name='Page170' id="Page170"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>170</span>one's self is to the artist the lesson of +Bordello's story.</p> +<p>It is hardly learnt. The self in Sordello, the self of +imagination unwarned by love of men, is driven out of the artist +with strange miseries, battles and despairs, and these Browning +describes with such inventiveness that at the last one is inclined +to say, with all the pitiful irony of Christ, "This kind goeth not +forth but with prayer and fasting."</p> +<p>The position in the poem is at root the same as that in +Tennyson's <i>Palace of Art</i>. These two poets found, about the +same time, the same idea, and, independently, shaped it into poems. +Tennyson put it into the form of a vision, the defect of which was +that it was too far removed from common experience. Browning put it +into the story of a man's life. Tennyson expressed it with +extraordinary clearness, simplicity, and with a wealth of lovely +ornament, so rich that it somewhat overwhelmed the main lines of +his conception. Browning expressed it with extraordinary +complexity, subtlety, and obscurity of diction. But when we take +the trouble of getting to the bottom of <i>Sordello</i>, we find +ourselves where we do not find ourselves in <i>The Palace of +Art</i>—we find ourselves in close touch and friendship with +a man, living with him, sympathising with him, pitying him, +blessing him, angry and delighted with him, amazingly interested in +his labyrinthine way of thinking and feeling; we follow with keen +interest his education, we see a soul in progress; we wonder what +he will do next, what strange turn we shall come to in his mind, +what new effort he will make to realise himself; and, loving him +right through from his childhood to his death, we are <a name= +'Page171' id="Page171"></a><span class='pagenum'>171</span>quite +satisfied when he dies. At the back of this, and complicating it +still more—but, when we arrive at seeing it clearly, +increasing the interest of the poem—is a great to-and-fro of +humanity at a time when humanity was alive and keen and full of +attempting; when men were savagely original, when life was lived to +its last drop, and when a new world was dawning. Of all this +outside humanity there is not a trace in Tennyson, and Browning +could not have got on without it. Of course, it made his poetry +difficult. We cannot get excellences without their attendant +defects. We have a great deal to forgive in <i>Sordello</i>. But +for the sake of the vivid humanity we forgive it all.</p> +<p>Sordello begins as a boy, living alone in a castle near Mantua, +built in a gorge of the low hills, and the description of the +scenery of the castle, without and within, is one example of the +fine ornament of which <i>Sordello</i> is so full. There, this rich +and fertile nature lives, fit to receive delight at every sense, +fit to shape what is received into imaginative pictures within, but +not without; content with the contemplation of his own imaginings. +At first it is Nature from whom Sordello receives impressions, and +he amuses himself with the fancies he draws from her. But he never +shapes his emotion into actual song. Then tired of Nature, he +dreams himself into the skin and soul of all the great men of whom +he has read. He becomes them in himself, as Pauline's lover has +done before him; but one by one they fade into unreality—for +he knows nothing of men—and the last projection of himself +into Apollo, the Lord of Poetry, is the most unreal of them all: at +which fantasy all the woods and <a name='Page172' id= +"Page172"></a><span class='pagenum'>172</span>streams and sunshine +round Goito are infinitely amused. Thus, when he wants sympathy, he +does not go down to Mantua and make song for the crowd of men; he +invents in dreams a host of sympathisers, all of whom are but +himself in other forms. Even when he aims at perfection, and, +making himself Apollo, longs for a Daphne to double his life, his +soul is still such stuff as dreams are made of, till he wakes one +morning to ask himself: "When will this dream be truth?"</p> +<p>This is the artist's temperament in youth when he is not +possessed of the greater qualities of genius—his imaginative +visions, his aspirations, his pride in apartness from men, his +self-contentment, his sloth, the presence in him of barren +imagination, the absence from it of the spiritual, nothing in him +which as yet desires, through the sorrow and strife of life, God's +infinitude, or man's love; a natural life indeed, forgiveable, gay, +sportive, dowered with happy self-love, good to pass through and +enjoy, but better to leave behind. But Sordello will not become the +actual artist till he lose his self-involvement and find his soul, +not only in love of his Daphne but in love of man. And the first +thing he will have to do is that which Sordello does not care to +do—to embody before men in order to give them pleasure or +impulse, to console or exalt them, some of the imaginations he has +enjoyed within himself. Nor can Sordello's imagination reach true +passion, for it ignores that which chiefly makes the artist; union +with the passions of mankind. Only when near to death does he +outgrow the boy of Goito, and then we find that he has ceased to be +the artist. Thus, the poem is the <a name='Page173' id= +"Page173"></a><span class='pagenum'>173</span>history of the +failure of a man with an artistic temperament to be an artist. Or +rather, that is part of the story of the poem, and, as Browning was +an artist himself, a part which is of the greatest interest.</p> +<p>Sordello, at the close of the first book, is wearied of dreams. +Even in his solitude, the limits of life begin to oppress him. Time +fleets, fate is tardy, life will be over before he lives. Then an +accident helps him—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Which breaking on Sordello's mixed content</p> +<p>Opened, like any flash that cures the blind,</p> +<p>The veritable business of mankind.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This accident is the theme of the second book. It belongs to the +subject of this chapter, for it contrasts two types of the artist, +Eglamor and Sordello, and it introduces Naddo, the critic, with a +good knowledge of poetry, with a great deal of common sense, with +an inevitable sliding into the opinion that what society has +stamped must be good—a mixed personage, and a sketch done +with Browning's humorous and pitying skill.</p> +<p>The contrast between Eglamor and Sordello runs through the whole +poem. Sordello recalls Eglamor at the last, and Naddo appears again +and again to give the worldly as well as the common-sense solution +of the problems which Sordello makes for himself. Eglamor is the +poet who has no genius, whom one touch of genius burns into +nothing, but who, having a charming talent, employs it well; and +who is so far the artist that what he feels he is able to shape +gracefully, and to please mankind therewith; who, moreover loves, +enjoys, and is <a name='Page174' id="Page174"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>174</span>wholly possessed with what he shapes in song. +This is good; but then he is quite satisfied with what he does; he +has no aspiration, and all the infinitude of beauty is lost to him. +And when Sordello takes up his incomplete song, finishes it, +inspires, expands what Eglamor thought perfect, he sees at last +that he has only a graceful talent, that he has lived in a vain +show, like a gnome in a cell of the rock of gold. Genius, +momentarily realising itself in Sordello, reveals itself to Eglamor +with all its infinities; Heaven and Earth and the universe open on +Eglamor, and the revelation of what he is, and of the perfection +beyond, kills him. That is a fine, true, and piteous sketch.</p> +<p>But Sordello, who is the man of possible genius, is not much +better off. There has been one outbreak into reality at Palma's +<i>Court of Love</i>. Every one, afterwards, urges him to sing. The +critics gather round him. He makes poems, he becomes the accepted +poet of Northern Italy. But he cannot give continuous delight to +the world. His poems are not like his song before Palma. They have +no true passion, being woven like a spider's web out of his own +inside. His case then is more pitiable, his failure more complete, +than Eglamor's. Eglamor could shape something; he had his own +enjoyment, and he gave pleasure to men. Sordello, lured incessantly +towards abstract ideals, lost in their contemplation, is smitten, +like Aprile, into helplessness by the multitudinousness of the +images he sees, refuses to descend into real life and submit to its +limitations, is driven into the slothfulness of that dreaming +imagination which is powerless to embody its images in the actual +song. Sometimes <a name='Page175' id="Page175"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>175</span>he tries to express himself, longing for +reality. When he tries he fails, and instead of making failure a +step to higher effort, he falls back impatiently on himself, and is +lost in himself. Moreover, he tries always within himself, and with +himself for judge. He does not try the only thing which would help +him—the submission of his work to the sympathy and judgment +of men. Out of touch with any love save love of his own imaginings, +he cannot receive those human impressions which kindle the artist +into work, nor answer the cry which comes from mankind, with such +eagerness, to genius—"Express for us in clear form that which +we vaguely feel. Make us see and admire and love." Then he ceases +even to love song, because, though he can imagine everything, he +can do nothing; and deaf to the voices of men, he despises man. +Finally he asks himself, like so many young poets who have followed +his way, What is the judgment of the world worth? Nothing at all, +he answers. With that ultimate folly, the favourite resort of minor +poets, Sordello goes altogether wrong. He pleases nobody, not even +himself; spends his time in arguing inside himself why he has not +succeeded; and comes to no conclusion, except that total failure is +the necessity of the world. At last one day, wandering from Mantua, +he finds himself in his old environment, in the mountain cup where +Goito and the castle lie. And the old dream, awakened by the old +associations, that he was Apollo, Lord of Song, rushed back upon +him and enwrapped him wholly. He feels, in the blessed silence, +that he is no longer what he has been of late,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page176' id="Page176"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>176</p> +<p class='i12'>a pettish minstrel meant</p> +<p>To wear away his soul in discontent,</p> +<p>Brooding on fortune's malice,</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>but himself once more, freed from the world of Mantua; alone +again, but in his loneliness really more lost than he was at +Mantua, as we soon find out in the third book.</p> +<p>I return, in concluding this chapter, to the point which bears +most clearly on Browning as the poet of art. The only time when +Sordello realises what it is to be an artist is when, swept out of +himself by the kindled emotion of the crowd at the <i>Court of +Love</i> and inspired also by the true emotion of Eglamor's song, +which has been made because he loved it—his imagination is +impassioned enough to shape for man the thing within him, outside +of himself, and to sing for the joy of singing—having +forgotten himself in mankind, in their joy and in his own.</p> +<p>But it was little good to him. When he stole home to Goito in a +dream, he sat down to think over the transport he had felt, why he +felt it, how he was better than Eglamor; and at last, having missed +the whole use of the experience (which was to draw him into the +service of man within the limits of life but to always transcend +the limits in aspiration), he falls away from humanity into his own +self again; and perfectly happy for the moment, but lost as an +artist and a man, lies lazy, filleted and robed on the turf, with a +lute beside him, looking over the landscape below the castle and +fancying himself Apollo. This is to have the capacity to be an +artist, but it is not to be an artist. And we leave Sordello lying +on the grass enjoying himself, but not destined on that account to +give any joy to man.</p> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page177' id="Page177"></a><span class='pagenum'>177</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_VI' id="CHAPTER_VI"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> +<h3><i>SORDELLO</i></h3> +<p>The period in which the poem of <i>Sordello</i> opens is at the +end of the first quarter of the thirteenth century, at the time +when the Guelf cities allied themselves against the Ghibellines in +Northern Italy. They formed the Lombard League, and took their +private quarrels up into one great quarrel—that between the +partisans of the Empire and those of the Pope. Sordello is then a +young man of thirty years. He was born in 1194, when the fierce +fight in the streets of Vicenza took place which Salinguerra +describes, as he looks back on his life, in the fourth canto of +this poem. The child is saved in that battle, and brought from +Vicenza by Adelaide, the second wife of Ezzelino da Romano +II.,<a name='FNanchor_8_8' id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href= +'#Footnote_8_8'>[8]</a> to Goito. He is really the son of +Salinguerra and Retrude, a connection of Frederick II., but +Adelaide conceals this, and brings him up as her page, alleging +that he is the son of Elcorte, an archer. Palma (or Cunizza), +Ezzelino's daughter by Agnes Este, his first wife, is also at Goito +in attendance on Adelaide. Sordello and she meet as girl and boy, +and she becomes one of the <a name='Page178' id= +"Page178"></a><span class='pagenum'>178</span>dreams with which his +lonely youth at Goito is adorned.</p> +<p>At Adelaide's death Palma discovers the real birth of Sordello. +She has heard him sing some time before at a Love-court, where he +won the prize; where she, admiring, began to love him; and this +love of hers has been increased by his poetic fame which has now +filled North Italy. She summons him to her side at Verona, makes +him understand that she loves him, and urges him, as Salinguerra's +son, to take the side of the Ghibellines to whose cause +Salinguerra, the strongest military adventurer in North Italy, has +now devoted himself. When the poem begins, Salinguerra has received +from the Emperor the badge which gives him the leadership of the +Ghibelline party in North Italy.</p> +<p>Then Palma, bringing Sordello to see Salinguerra, reveals to the +great partisan that Sordello is his son, and that she loves him. +Salinguerra, seeing in the union of Palma, daughter of the Lord of +Romano, with his son, a vital source of strength to the Emperor's +party, throws the Emperor's badge on his son's neck, and offers him +the leadership of the Ghibellines. Palma urges him to accept it; +but Sordello has been already convinced that the Guelf side is the +right one to take for the sake of mankind. Rome, he thinks, is the +great uniting power; only by Rome can the cause of peace and the +happiness of the people be in the end secured. That cause—the +cause of a happy people—is the one thing for which, after +many dreams centred in self, Sordello has come to care. He is +sorely tempted by the love of Palma and by the power <a name= +'Page179' id="Page179"></a><span class='pagenum'>179</span>offered +him to give up that cause or to palter with it; yet in the end his +soul resists the temptation. But the part of his life, in which he +has neglected his body, has left him without physical strength; and +now the struggle of his soul to do right in this spiritual crisis +gives the last blow to his weakened frame. His heart breaks, and he +dies at the moment when he dimly sees the true goal of life. This +is a masterpiece of the irony of the Fate-Goddess; and a faint +suspicion of this irony, underlying life, even though Browning +turns it round into final good, runs in and out of the whole poem +in a winding thread of thought.</p> +<p>This is the historical background of the poem, and in front of +it are represented Sordello, his life, his development as an +individual soul, and his death. I have, from one point of view, +slightly analysed the first two books of the poem, but to analyse +the whole would be apart from the purpose of this book. My object +in this and the following chapter is to mark out, with here and +there a piece of explanation, certain characteristics of the poem +in relation, first, to the time in which it is placed; secondly, to +the development of Sordello in contact with that time; and thirdly, +to our own time; then to trace the connection of the poem with the +poetic evolution of Browning; and finally, to dwell throughout the +whole discussion on its poetic qualities.</p> +<p>1. The time in which the poem's thought and action are placed is +the beginning of the thirteenth century in North Italy, a period in +which the religious basis of life, laid so enthusiastically in the +eleventh century, and gradually weakening through the twelfth, had +all but faded away for the mediæval <a name='Page180' id= +"Page180"></a><span class='pagenum'>180</span>noble and burgher, +and even for the clergy. Religion, it is true, was confessed and +its dogmas believed in; the Cistercian revival had restored some of +its lost influence, but it did not any longer restrain the +passions, modify the wickedness, control the ambitions or subdue +the world, in the heart of men, as it had done in the eleventh +century. There was in Italy, at least, an unbridled licence of +life, a fierce individuality, which the existence of a number of +small republics encouraged; and, in consequence, a wild confusion +of thought and act in every sphere of human life. Moreover, all +through the twelfth century there had been a reaction among the +artistic and literary men against the theory of life laid down by +the monks, and against the merely saintly aims and practice of the +religious, of which that famous passage in <i>Aucassin and +Nicolete</i> is an embodiment. Then, too, the love poetry (a poetry +which tended to throw monkish purity aside) started in the midst of +the twelfth century; then the troubadours began to sing; and then +the love-songs of Germany arose. And Italian poetry, a poetry which +tended to repel the religion of the spirit for the religion of +enjoyment, had begun in Sicily and Siena in 1172-78, and was +nurtured in the Sicilian Court of Frederick II., while Sordello was +a youth. All over Europe, poetry drifted into a secular poetry of +love and war and romance. The religious basis of life had lost its +strength. As to North Italy, where our concern lies, humanity there +was weltering like a sea, tossing up and down, with no direction in +its waves. It was not till Francis of Assisi came that a new +foundation for religious life, a new direction for it, began to be +established. As to <a name='Page181' id="Page181"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>181</span>Law, Government, Literature, and Art, all their +elements were in equal confusion. Every noble, every warrior who +reached ascendency, or was born to it, made his own laws and +governed as he liked. Every little city had its own fashions and +its own aims; and was continually fighting, driven by jealousy, +envy, hatred, or emulation, with its neighbours. War was the +incessant business of life, and was carried on not only against +neighbouring cities, but by each city in its own streets, from its +own towers, where noble fought against noble, citizen with citizen, +and servant with servant. Literature was only trying to begin, to +find its form, to find its own Italian tongue, to understand what +it desired. It took more than a century after Sordello's youth to +shape itself into the poetry of Dante and Petrarch, into their +prose and the prose of Boccaccio. The <i>Vita Nuova</i> was set +forth in 1290, 93, the <i>Decameron</i> in 1350, 53, and Petrarch +was crowned at Rome in 1341. And the arts of sculpture and painting +were in the same condition. They were struggling towards a new +utterance, but as yet they could not speak.</p> +<p>It is during this period of impassioned confusion and struggle +towards form, during this carnival of individuality, that Sordello, +as conceived by Browning, a modern in the midst of +mediævalism, an exceptional character wholly unfitted for the +time, is placed by Browning. And the clash between himself and his +age is too much for him. He dies of it; dies of the striving to +find an anchorage for life, and of his inability to find it in this +chartless sea. But the world of men, incessantly recruited by new +generations, does not die like the individual, <a name='Page182' +id="Page182"></a><span class='pagenum'>182</span>and what Sordello +could not do, it did. It emerged from this confusion in the +thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, with S. Francis, Dante, +Petrarch and Boccaccio, the Pisani, Giotto, and the Commonwealth of +Florence. Religion, Poetry, Prose, Sculpture, Painting, Government +and Law found new foundations. The Renaissance began to dawn, and +during its dawn kept, among the elect of mankind, all or nearly all +the noble impulses and faith of mediævalism.</p> +<p>This dawn of the Renaissance is nearly a hundred years away at +the time of this poem, yet two of its characteristics vitally moved +through this transition period; and, indeed, while they continued +even to the end of the Renaissance, were powers which brought it +about. The first of these was a boundless curiosity about life, and +the second was an intense individuality. No one can read the +history of the Italian Republics in the thirteenth century without +incessantly coming into contact with both these elements working +fiercely, confusedly, without apparently either impulse or aim, but +producing a wonderful activity of life, out of which, by command as +it were of the gods, a new-created world might rise into order. It +was as if chaos were stirred, like a cauldron with a stick, that +suns and planets, moving by living law, might emerge in beauty. +Sordello lived in the first whirling of these undigested elements, +and could only dream of what might be; but it was life in which he +moved, disorderly life, it is true, but not the dread disorder of +decay. Browning paints it with delight.</p> +<p>This unbridled curiosity working in men of un<a name='Page183' +id="Page183"></a><span class='pagenum'>183</span>bridled +individuality produced a tumbling confusion in life. Men, full of +eagerness, each determined to fulfil his own will, tried every kind +of life, attempted every kind of pursuit, strove to experience all +the passions, indulged their passing impulses to the full, and when +they were wearied of any experiment in living passed on to the +next, not with weariness but with fresh excitement. Cities, small +republics, did the same collectively—Ferrara, Padua, Verona, +Mantua, Milan, Parma, Florence, Pisa, Siena, Perugia. Both cities +and citizens lived in a nervous storm, and at every impulse passed +into furious activity. In five minutes a whole town was up in the +market-place, the bells rang, the town banner was displayed, and in +an hour the citizens were marching out of the gates to attack the +neighbouring city. A single gibe in the streets, or at the church +door, interchanged between one noble and another of opposite +factions, and the gutters of the streets ran red with the blood of +a hundred men. This then was the time of <i>Sordello</i>, and +splendidly has Browning represented it.</p> +<p>2. Sordello is the image of this curiosity and individuality, +but only inwardly. In the midst of this turbulent society Browning +creates him with the temperament of a poet, living in a solitary +youth, apart from arms and the wild movement of the world. His soul +is full of the curiosity of the time. The inquisition of his whole +life is, "What is the life most worth living? How shall I attain +it, in what way make it mine?" and then, "What sort of lives are +lived by other men?" and, finally, "What is the happiest life for +the whole?" The curiosity does not drive him, like the rest of the +<a name='Page184' id="Page184"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>184</span>world, into action in the world. It expands +only in thought and dreaming. But however he may dream, however +wrapt in self he may be, his curiosity about these matters never +lessens for a moment. Even in death it is his ruling passion.</p> +<p>Along with this he shares fully in the impassioned individuality +of the time. Browning brings that forward continually. All the +dreams of his youth centre in himself; Nature becomes the +reflection of himself; all histories of great men he represents as +in himself; finally, he becomes to himself Apollo, the incarnation +of poetry. But he does not seek to realise his individuality, any +more than his curiosity, in action. When he is drawn out of himself +at Mantua and sings for a time to please men, he finds that the +public do not understand him, and flies back to his solitude, back +to his own soul. And Mantua, and love, and adventure all die within +him. "I have all humanity," he says, "within myself—why then +should I seek humanity?" This is the way the age's passion for +individuality shows itself in him. Other men put it into love, war, +or adventure. He does not; he puts it into the lonely building-up +of his own soul. Even when he is brought into the midst of the +action of the time we see that he is apart from it. As he wanders +through the turmoil of the streets of Ferrara in Book iv., he is +dreaming still of his own life, of his own soul. His curiosity, +wars and adventures are within. The various lives he is anxious to +live are lived in lonely imaginations. The individuality he +realises is in thought. At this point then he is apart from his +century—an exceptional temperament set in strong contrast to +<a name='Page185' id="Page185"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>185</span>the world around him—the dreamer face to +face with a mass of men all acting with intensity. And the common +result takes place; the exceptional breaks down against the steady +and terrible pull of the ordinary. It is Hamlet over again, and +when Sordello does act it is just as Hamlet does, by a sudden +impulse which lifts him from dreaming into momentary action, out of +which, almost before he has realised he is acting, he slips back +again into dreams. And his action seems to him the dream, and his +dream the activity. That saying of Hamlet's would be easy on the +lips of Sordello, if we take "bad dreams" to mean for him what they +meant for Hamlet the moment he is forced to action in the real +world—"I could be bounded in a nut-shell and think myself +king of infinite space, had I not bad dreams." When he is surprised +into action at the Court of Love at Mantua, and wins the prize of +song, he seems to slip back into a sleepy cloud. But Palma, bending +her beautiful face over him and giving him her scarf, wins him to +stay at Mantua; and for a short time he becomes the famous poet. +But he is disappointed. That which he felt himself to be (the +supernal greatness of his individuality) is not recognised, and at +last he feels that to act and fight his way through a world which +appreciates his isolated greatness so little as to dare to +criticise him, is impossible. We have seen in the last chapter how +he slips back to Goito, to his contemplation of himself in nature, +to his self-communion, to the dreams which do not contradict his +opinion of himself. The momentary creator perishes in the dreamer. +He gives up life, adventure, love, war, and he finally surrenders +his art. No more poetry for him.</p> +<p><a name='Page186' id="Page186"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>186</span>It is thus that a character feeble for action, +but mystic in imagination, acts in the petulance of youth when it +is pushed into a clashing, claiming world. In this mood a year +passes by in vague content. Yet a little grain of conscience makes +him sour. He is vexed that his youth is gone with all its promised +glow, pleasure and action; and the vexation is suddenly deepened by +seeing a great change in the aspect of nature. "What," he thinks, +when he sees the whole valley filled with Mincio in flood, "can +Nature in this way renew her youth, and not I? Alas! I cannot so +renew myself; youth is over." But if youth be dead, manhood +remains; and the curiosity and individuality of the age stir in him +again. "I must find," he thinks, "the fitting kind of life. I must +make men feel what I am. But how; what do I want for this? I want +some outward power to draw me forth and upward, as the moon draws +the waters; to lead me to a life in which I may know mankind, in +order that I may take out of men all I need to make <i>myself</i> +into perfect form—a full poet, able to impose my genius on +mankind, and to lead them where I will. What force can draw me out +of these dreaming solitudes in which I fail to realise my art? Why, +there is none so great as love. Palma who smiled on me, she shall +be my moon." At that moment, when he is again thrilled with +curiosity concerning life, again desirous to realise his +individuality in the world of men, a message comes from Palma. +"Come, there is much for you to do—come to me at Verona." She +lays a political career before him. "Take the Kaiser's cause, you +and I together; build a new Italy under the Emperor." And Sordello +is fired <a name='Page187' id="Page187"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>187</span>by the thought, not as yet for the sake of +doing good to man, but to satisfy his curiosity in a new life, and +to edify his individual soul into a perfection unattained as yet. +"I will go," he thinks, "and be the spirit in this body of mankind, +wield, animate, and shape the people of Italy, make them the form +in which I shall express myself. It is not enough to act, in +imagination, all that man is, as I have done. I will now make men +act by the force of my spirit: North Italy shall be my body, and +thus I shall realise myself"—as if one could, with that +self-contemplating motive, ever realise personality.</p> +<p>This, then, is the position of Sordello in the period of history +I have pictured, and it carries him to the end of the third book of +the poem. It has embodied the history of his youth—of his +first contact with the world; of his retreat from it into thought +over what he has gone through; and of his reawakening into a fresh +questioning—how he shall realise life, how manifest himself +in action. "What shall I do as a poet, and a man?"</p> +<p>3. The next thing to be said of <i>Sordello</i> is its vivid +realisation of certain aspects of mediæval life. Behind this +image of the curious dreamer lost in abstractions, and vividly +contrasted with it, is the fierce activity of mediæval cities +and men in incessant war; each city, each man eager to make his own +individuality supreme; and this is painted by Browning at the very +moment when the two great parties were formed, and added to +personal war the intensifying power of two ideals. This was a field +for imagination in which Browning was sure to revel, like a wild +creature of the woods on a summer day. He had the genius of places, +of portraiture, and of <a name='Page188' id= +"Page188"></a><span class='pagenum'>188</span>sudden flashes of +action and passion; and the time of which he wrote supplied him +with full matter for these several capacities of genius.</p> +<p>When we read in <i>Sordello</i> of the fierce outbursts of war +in the cities of North Italy, we know that Browning saw them with +his eyes and shared their fury and delight. Verona is painted in +the first book just as the news arrives that her prince is captive +in Ferrara. It is evening, a still and flaming sunset, and soft +sky. In dreadful contrast to this burning silence of Nature is the +wrath and hate which are seething in the market-place. Group talked +with restless group, and not a face</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>But wrath made livid, for among them were</p> +<p>Death's staunch purveyors, such as have in care</p> +<p>To feast him. Fear had long since taken root</p> +<p>In every breast, and now these crushed its fruit,</p> +<p>The ripe hate, like a wine; to note the way</p> +<p>It worked while each grew drunk! Men grave and grey</p> +<p>Stood, with shut eyelids, rocking to and fro,</p> +<p>Letting the silent luxury trickle slow</p> +<p>About the hollows where a heart should be;</p> +<p>But the young gulped with a delirious glee</p> +<p>Some foretaste of their first debauch in blood</p> +<p>At the fierce news.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Step by step the varying passions, varying with the men of the +varied cities of the League assembled at Verona, are smitten out on +the anvil of Browning's imagination. Better still is the +continuation of the same scene in the third book, when the night +has come, and the raging of the people, reaching its height, +declares war. Palma and Sordello, who are in the palace looking on +the square, lean out to see and hear. On the black balcony beneath +them, in the still air, amid a gush <a name='Page189' id= +"Page189"></a><span class='pagenum'>189</span>of torch-fire, the +grey-haired counsellors harangue the people;</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>then</p> +<p>Sea-like that people surging to and fro</p> +<p>Shouted, "Hale forth the carroch—trumpets, ho,</p> +<p>A flourish! Run it in the ancient grooves!</p> +<p>Back from the bell! Hammer—that whom behoves</p> +<p>May hear the League is up!"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Then who will may read the dazzling account of the streets of +Ferrara thick with corpses; of Padua, of Bassano streaming blood; +of the wells chokeful of carrion, of him who catches in his spur, +as he is kicking his feet when he sits on the well and singing, his +own mother's face by the grey hair; of the sack of Vicenza in the +fourth book; of the procession of the envoys of the League through +the streets of Ferrara, with ensigns, war-cars and clanging bells; +of the wandering of Sordello at night through the squares blazing +with fires, and the soldiers camped around them singing and +shouting; of his solitary silent thinking contrasted with their +noise and action—and he who reads will know, as if he lived +in them, the fierce Italian towns of the thirteenth century.</p> +<p>Nor is his power less when he describes the solitary silent +places of mediæval castles, palaces, and their rooms; of the +long, statue-haunted, cypress-avenued gardens, a waste of flowers +and wild undergrowth. We wander, room by room, through Adelaide's +castle at Goito, we see every beam in the ceiling, every figure on +the tapestry; we walk with Browning through the dark passages into +the dim-lighted chambers of the town palace at Verona, and hang +over its balconies; we know the gardens at <a name='Page190' id= +"Page190"></a><span class='pagenum'>190</span>Goito, and the lonely +woods; and we keep pace with Sordello through those desolate paths +and ilex-groves, past the fountains lost in the wilderness of +foliage, climbing from terrace to terrace where the broken statues, +swarming with wasps, gleam among the leering aloes and the +undergrowth, in the garden that Salinguerra made for his Sicilian +wife at Ferrara. The words seem as it were to flare the ancient +places out before the eyes.</p> +<p>Mixed up with all this painting of towns, castles and gardens +there is some natural description. Browning endeavours, it is +plain, to keep that within the mediæval sentiment. But that +he should succeed in that was impossible. The mediæval folk +had little of our specialised sentiment for landscape, and Browning +could not get rid of it.</p> +<p>The modern philosophies of Nature do not, however, appear in +<i>Sordello</i> as they did in <i>Pauline</i> or <i>Paracelsus</i>. +Only once in the whole of <i>Sordello</i> is Nature conceived as in +analogy with man, and Browning says this in a parenthesis. "Life is +in the tempest," he cries, "thought</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>"Clothes the keen hill-top; mid-day woods are fraught</p> +<p>With fervours":</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>but, in spite of the mediæval environment, the modern way +of seeing Nature enters into all his descriptions. They are none +the worse for it, and do not jar too much with the mediæval +<i>mise-en-scène</i>. We expect our modern sentiment, and +Sordello himself, being in many ways a modern, seems to license +these descriptions. Most of them also occur when he is on the +canvas, and are a background to his thought. Moreover, they are +<a name='Page191' id="Page191"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>191</span>not set descriptions; they are flashed out, as +it were, in a few lines, as if they came by chance, and are not +pursued into detail. Indeed, they are not done so much for the love +of Nature herself, as for passing illustrations of Sordello's ways +of thought and feeling upon matters which are not Nature. As such, +even in a mediæval poem, they are excusable. And vivid they +are in colour, in light, in reality. Some I have already isolated. +Here are a few more, just to show his hand. This is the castle and +its scenery, described in Book i.:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>In Mantua territory half is slough,</p> +<p>Half pine-tree forest: maples, scarlet oaks</p> +<p>Breed o'er the river-beds; even Mincio chokes</p> +<p>With sand the summer through: but 'tis morass</p> +<p>In winter up to Mantua's walls. There was,</p> +<p>Some thirty years before this evening's coil,</p> +<p>One spot reclaimed from the surrounding spoil,</p> +<p>Goito; just a castle built amid</p> +<p>A few low mountains; firs and larches hid</p> +<p>Their main defiles, and rings of vineyard bound</p> +<p>The rest. Some captured creature in a pound,</p> +<p>Whose artless wonder quite precludes distress,</p> +<p>Secure beside in its own loveliness,</p> +<p>So peered, with airy head, below, above</p> +<p>The castle at its toils, the lapwings love</p> +<p>To glean among at grape time.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And this is the same place from the second book:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>And thus he wandered, dumb</p> +<p>Till evening, when he paused, thoroughly spent</p> +<p>On a blind hill-top: down the gorge he went,</p> +<p>Yielding himself up as to an embrace.</p> +<p>The moon came out; like features of a face,</p> +<p>A querulous fraternity of pines,</p> +<p>Sad blackthorn clumps, leafless and grovelling vines</p> +<p>Also came out, made gradually up</p> +<p>The picture; 'twas Goito's mountain-cup</p> +<p>And castle.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page192' id="Page192"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>192</span>And here, from Book iii., is Spring when Palma, +dreaming of the man she can love, cries that the waking earth is in +a thrill to welcome him—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>"Waits he not the waking year?</p> +<p>His almond-blossoms must be honey-ripe</p> +<p>By this; to welcome him fresh runnels stripe</p> +<p>The thawed ravines; because of him the wind</p> +<p>Walks like a herald."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is May from Book ii.; and afterwards, in the third book, +the months from Spring to Summer—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>My own month came;</p> +<p>'Twas a sunrise of blossoming and May.</p> +<p>Beneath a flowering laurel thicket lay</p> +<p>Sordello; each new sprinkle of white stars</p> +<p>That smell fainter of wine than Massic jars</p> +<p>Dug up at Baiæ, when the south wind shed</p> +<p>The ripest, made him happier.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Not any strollings now at even-close</p> +<p>Down the field path, Sordello! by thorn-rows</p> +<p>Alive with lamp-flies, swimming spots of fire</p> +<p>And dew, outlining the black cypress-spire</p> +<p>She waits you at, Elys, who heard you first</p> +<p>Woo her, the snow month through, but, ere she durst</p> +<p>Answer 'twas April. Linden-flower-time long</p> +<p>Her eyes were on the ground; 'tis July, strong</p> +<p>Now; and, because white dust-clouds overwhelm</p> +<p>The woodside, here, or by the village elm</p> +<p>That holds the moon, she meets you, somewhat pale.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And here are two pieces of the morning, one of the wide valley +of Naples; another with which the poem ends, pure modern, for it +does not belong to Sordello's time, but to our own century. This is +from the fourth book.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>Broke</p> +<p>Morning o'er earth; he yearned for all it woke—</p> +<p>From the volcano's vapour-flag, winds hoist</p> +<p>Black o'er the spread of sea,—down to the moist</p> +<p>Dale's silken barley-spikes sullied with rain,</p> +<p>Swayed earthwards, heavily to rise again.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page193' id="Page193"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>193</span>And this from the last book—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Lo, on a heathy brown and nameless hill</p> +<p>By sparkling Asolo, in mist and chill,</p> +<p>Morning just up, higher and higher runs</p> +<p>A child barefoot and rosy. See! the sun's</p> +<p>On the square castle's inner-court's low wall</p> +<p>Like the chine of some extinct animal</p> +<p>Half-turned to earth and flowers; and through the haze,</p> +<p>(Save where some slender patches of grey maize</p> +<p>Are to be over-leaped) that boy has crossed</p> +<p>The whole hill-side of dew and powder-frost</p> +<p>Matting the balm and mountain camomile.</p> +<p>Up and up goes he, singing all the while</p> +<p>Some unintelligible words to beat</p> +<p>The lark, God's poet, swooning at his feet.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>As alive, and even clearer in outline than these natural +descriptions, are the portraits in <i>Sordello</i> of the people of +the time. No one can mistake them for modern folk. I do not speak +of the portrait of Sordello—that is chiefly of the soul, not +of the body—but of the personages who fill the background, +the heads of noble houses, the warriors, priests, soldiers, +singers, the women, and chiefly Adelaide and Palma. These stand +before us as Tintoret or Veronese might have painted them had they +lived on into the great portrait-century. Their dress, their +attitudes, their sudden gestures, their eyes, hair, the trick of +their mouths, their armour, how they walked and talked and read and +wrote, are all done in quick touches and jets of colour. Each is +distinct from the others, each a type. A multitude of cabinet +sketches of men are made in the market-places, in castle rooms, on +the roads, in the gardens, on the bastions of the towns. Take as +one example the Pope's Legate:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page194' id="Page194"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>194</p> +<p>With eyes, like fresh-blown thrush-eggs on a thread,</p> +<p>Faint-blue and loosely floating in his head,</p> +<p>Large tongue, moist open mouth; and this long while</p> +<p>That owner of the idiotic smile</p> +<p>Serves them!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Nor does Browning confine himself to personages of Sordello's +time. There are admirable portraits, but somewhat troubled by +unnecessary matter, of Dante, of Charlemagne, of Hildebrand. One +elaborate portrait is continued throughout the poem. It is that of +Salinguerra, the man of action as contrasted with Sordello the +dreamer. Much pains are spent on this by Browning. We see him first +in the streets of Ferrara.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>Men understood</p> +<p>Living was pleasant to him as he wore</p> +<p>His careless surcoat, glanced some missive o'er,</p> +<p>Propped on his truncheon in the public way.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Then at the games at Mantua, when he is told Sordello will not +come to sing a welcome to him. What cares he for poet's whims?</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>The easy-natured soldier smiled assent,</p> +<p>Settled his portly person, smoothed his chin,</p> +<p>And nodded that the bull-bait might begin.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Then mad with fighting frenzy in the sacking of Vicenza, then in +his palace nursing his scheme to make the Emperor predominant, then +pacing like a lion, hot with hope of mastering all Italy, when he +finds out that Sordello is his son: "hands clenched, head erect, +pursuing his discourse—crimson ear, eyeballs suffused, +temples full fraught."</p> +<p>Then in the fourth book there is a long portrait of him which I +quote as a full specimen of the power with which Browning could +paint a partisan <a name='Page195' id="Page195"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>195</span>of the thirteenth century. Though sixty years +old, Salinguerra looked like a youth—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>So agile, quick</p> +<p>And graceful turned the head on the broad chest</p> +<p>Encased in pliant steel, his constant vest,</p> +<p>Whence split the sun off in a spray of fire</p> +<p>Across the room; and, loosened of its tire</p> +<p>Of steel, that head let breathe the comely brown</p> +<p>Large massive locks discoloured as if a crown</p> +<p>Encircled them, so frayed the basnet where</p> +<p>A sharp white line divided clean the hair;</p> +<p>Glossy above, glossy below, it swept</p> +<p>Curling and fine about a brow thus kept</p> +<p>Calm, laid coat upon coat, marble and sound:</p> +<p>This was the mystic mark the Tuscan found,</p> +<p>Mused of, turned over books about. Square-faced,</p> +<p>No lion more; two vivid eyes, enchased</p> +<p>In hollows filled with many a shade and streak</p> +<p>Settling from the bold nose and bearded cheek.</p> +<p>Nor might the half-smile reach them that deformed</p> +<p>A lip supremely perfect else—unwarmed,</p> +<p>Unwidened, less or more; indifferent</p> +<p>Whether on trees or men his thoughts were bent,</p> +<p>Thoughts rarely, after all, in trim and train</p> +<p>As now a period was fulfilled again:</p> +<p>Of such, a series made his life, compressed</p> +<p>In each, one story serving for the rest.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is one example of a gallery of vivid portraiture in all +Browning's work, such as Carlyle only in the nineteenth century has +approached in England. It is not a national, but an international +gallery of portraits. The greater number of the portraits are +Italian, and they range over all classes of society from the Pope +to the peasant. Even Bishop Blougram has the Italian subtlety, and, +like the Monsignore in <i>Pippa Passes</i>, something of the +politic morality of Machiavelli. But Israel, Greece, France, Spain, +Germany, and the days before the <a name='Page196' id= +"Page196"></a><span class='pagenum'>196</span>world was brought +together, furnish him with men drawn as alive. He has painted their +souls, but others have done this kind of painting as well, if not +so minutely. But no others have painted so livingly the outside of +men—their features one by one, their carriage, their +gestures, their clothing, their walk, their body. All the colours +of their dress and eyes and lips are given. We see them live and +move and have their being. It is the same with his women, but I +keep these for further treatment.</p> +<p>4. The next thing I have to say about <i>Sordello</i> concerns +what I call its illustrative episodes. Browning, wishing to +illuminate his subject, sometimes darts off from it into an +elaborate simile as Homer does. But in Homer the simile is +carefully set, and explained to be a comparison. It is not mixed up +with the text. It is short, rarely reaching more than ten lines. In +Browning, it is glided into without any preparation, and at first +seems part of the story. Nor are we always given any intimation of +its end. And Browning is led away by his imaginative pleasure in +its invention to work it up with adventitious ornament of colour +and scenery; having, in his excitement of invention, lost all power +of rejecting any additional touch which occurs to him, so that the +illustration, swelling out into a preposterous length, might well +be severed from the book and made into a separate poem. Moreover, +these long illustrations are often but faintly connected with the +subject they are used to illumine; and they delay the movement of +the poem while they confuse the reader. The <a name='Page197' id= +"Page197"></a><span class='pagenum'>197</span>worst of these, worst +as an illustration, but in itself an excellent fragment to isolate +as a picture-poem, is the illustration of the flying slave who +seeks his tribe beyond the Mountains of the Moon. It is only to +throw light on a moment of Salinguerra's discursive thought, and is +far too big for that. It is more like an episode than an +illustration. I quote it not only to show what I mean, but also for +its power. It is in Bk. iv.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>"As, shall I say, some Ethiop, past pursuit</p> +<p>Of all enslavers, dips a shackled foot</p> +<p>Burnt to the blood, into the drowsy black</p> +<p>Enormous watercourse which guides him back</p> +<p>To his own tribe again, where he is king;</p> +<p>And laughs because he guesses, numbering</p> +<p>The yellower poison-wattles on the pouch</p> +<p>Of the first lizard wrested from its couch</p> +<p>Under the slime (whose skin, the while, he strips</p> +<p>To cure his nostril with, and festered lips,</p> +<p>And eyeballs bloodshot through the desert-blast)</p> +<p>That he has reached its boundary, at last</p> +<p>May breathe;—thinks o'er enchantments of the South</p> +<p>Sovereign to plague his enemies, their mouth,</p> +<p>Eyes, nails, and hair; but, these enchantments tried</p> +<p>In fancy, puts them soberly aside</p> +<p>For truth, projects a cool return with friends,</p> +<p>The likelihood of winning mere amends</p> +<p>Ere long; thinks that, takes comfort silently,</p> +<p>Then, from the river's brink, his wrongs and he,</p> +<p>Hugging revenge close to their hearts, are soon</p> +<p>Off-striding for the Mountains of the Moon."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The best of these is where he illustrates the restless desire of +a poet for the renewal of energy, for finding new worlds to sing. +The poet often seems to stop his work, to be satisfied. "Here I +will rest," he says, "and do no more." But he only waits for a +fresh impulse.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page198' id="Page198"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>198</p> +<p>'Tis but a sailor's promise, weather-bound:</p> +<p>"Strike sail, slip cable, here the bark be moored</p> +<p>For once, the awning stretched, the poles assured!</p> +<p>Noontide above; except the wave's crisp dash,</p> +<p>Or buzz of colibri, or tortoise' splash,</p> +<p>The margin's silent: out with every spoil</p> +<p>Made in our tracking, coil by mighty coil,</p> +<p>This serpent of a river to his head</p> +<p>I' the midst! Admire each treasure, as we spread</p> +<p>The bank, to help us tell our history</p> +<p>Aright; give ear, endeavour to descry</p> +<p>The groves of giant rushes, how they grew</p> +<p>Like demons' endlong tresses we sailed through,</p> +<p>What mountains yawned, forests to give us vent</p> +<p>Opened, each doleful side, yet on we went</p> +<p>Till ... may that beetle (shake your cap) attest</p> +<p>The springing of a land-wind from the West!"</p> +<p>—Wherefore? Ah yes, you frolic it to-day!</p> +<p>To-morrow, and the pageant moved away</p> +<p>Down to the poorest tent-pole, we and you</p> +<p>Part company: no other may pursue</p> +<p>Eastward your voyage, be informed what fate</p> +<p>Intends, if triumph or decline await</p> +<p>The tempter of the everlasting steppe!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This, from Book iii., is the best because it is closer than the +rest to the matter in hand; but how much better it might have been! +How curiously overloaded it is, how difficult what is easy has been +made!</p> +<p>The fault of these illustrations is the fault of the whole poem. +<i>Sordello</i> is obscure, Browning's idolaters say, by +concentration of thought. It is rather obscure by want of that wise +rejection of unnecessary thoughts which is the true concentration. +It is obscure by a reckless misuse of the ordinary rules of +language. It is obscure by a host of parentheses introduced to +express thoughts which are only suggested, half-shaped, and which +are frequently interwoven with parentheses introduced <a name= +'Page199' id="Page199"></a><span class='pagenum'>199</span>into the +original parentheses. It is obscure by the worst punctuation I ever +came across, but this was improved in the later editions. It is +obscure by multitudinous fancies put in whether they have to do +with the subject or not, and by multitudinous deviations within +those fancies. It is obscure by Browning's effort to make words +express more than they are capable of expressing.</p> +<p>It is no carping criticism to say this of Browning's work in +<i>Sordello</i>, because it is the very criticism his +after-practice as an artist makes. He gave up these efforts to +force, like Procrustes, language to stretch itself or to cut itself +down into forms it could not naturally take; and there is no more +difficulty in most of his earlier poems than there is in +<i>Paracelsus</i>. Only a little of the Sordellian agonies remains +in them, only that which was natural to Browning's genius. The +interwoven parentheses remain, the rushes of invention into double +and triple illustrations, the multiplication of thought on thought; +but for these we may even be grateful. Opulence and plenitude of +this kind are not common; we are not often granted a man who flings +imaginations, fancies and thoughts from him as thick and bright as +sparks from a grinder's wheel. It is not every poet who is +unwilling to leave off, who finds himself too full to stop. "These +bountiful wits," as Lamb said, "always give full measure, pressed +down, and running over."</p> +<p>FOOTNOTES:</p> +<div class='footnote'> +<p><a name='Footnote_8_8' id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href= +'#FNanchor_8_8'>[8]</a> Browning spells this name <i>Ecelin</i>, +probably for easier use in verse.</p> +</div> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page200' id="Page200"></a><span class='pagenum'>200</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_VII' id="CHAPTER_VII"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> +<h3><i>BROWNING AND SORDELLO</i></h3> +<p>There are certain analogies between Browning as a poet and the +Sordello of the poem; between his relation to the world of his time +and that of Sordello to his time; and finally, between Browning's +language in this poem and the change in the Italian language which +he imputes to the work of Sordello. This chapter will discuss these +analogies, and close with an appreciation of Browning's position +between the classic and romantic schools of poetry.</p> +<p>The analogies of which I write may be denied, but I do not think +they can be disproved. Browning is, no doubt, separate from +Sordello in his own mind, but underneath the young poet he is +creating, he is continually asking himself the same question which +Sordello asks—What shall I do as an artist? To what +conclusion shall I come with regard to my life as a poet? It is no +small proof of this underlying personal element in the first three +books of the poem that at the end of the third book Browning flings +himself suddenly out of the mediæval world and the men he has +created, and waking into 1835-40 at Venice, asks himself—What +am I writing, and why? What is my aim <a name='Page201' id= +"Page201"></a><span class='pagenum'>201</span>in being a poet? Is +it worth my while to go on with Sordello's story, and why is it +worth the telling? In fact, he allows us to think that he has been +describing in Sordello's story a transitory phase of his own +career. And then, having done this, he tells how he got out of +confusion into clearer light.</p> +<p>The analogy between Browning's and Sordello's time is not a weak +one. The spirit of the world, between 1830 and 1840 in England, +resembled in many ways the spirit abroad at the beginning of the +thirteenth century. The country had awakened out of a long sleep, +and was extraordinarily curious not only with regard to life and +the best way to live it, but also with regard to government, law, +the condition of the people, the best kind of religion and how best +to live it, the true aims of poetry and how it was to be written, +what subjects it should work on, what was to be the mother-motive +of it, that is, what was the mother-motive of all the arts. And +this curiosity deepened from year to year for fifty years. But even +stronger than the curiosity was the eager individualism of this +time, which extended into every sphere of human thought and action, +and only began about 1866 to be balanced by an equally strong +tendency towards collectivism.</p> +<p>These two elements in the time-spirit did not produce, in a +settled state like England, the outward war and confusion they +produced in the thirteenth century, though they developed after +1840, in '48, into a European storm—but they did produce a +confused welter of mingled thoughts concerning the sources and ends +of human life, the action it should take, and why it should take +it. The poetry of Arnold and Clough represents with great clearness +<a name='Page202' id="Page202"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>202</span>the further development in the soul of man of +this confusion. I think that Browning has represented in the first +three books of <i>Sordello</i> his passage through this tossing sea +of thought.</p> +<p>He had put into <i>Paracelsus</i> all that he had worked out +with clearness during his youth; his theory of life is stated with +lucidity in that poem. But when it was finished, and he had +entered, like Sordello from Goito into Mantua, into the crowd and +clash of the world; when, having published <i>Pauline</i> and +<i>Paracelsus</i>, he had, like Sordello, met criticism and +misunderstanding, his Paracelsian theory did not seem to explain +humanity as clearly as he imagined. It was only a theory; Would it +stand the test of life among mankind, be a saving and healing +prophecy? Life lay before him, now that the silent philosophising +of poetic youth was over, in all its inexplicable, hurried, +tormented, involved, and multitudinously varied movement. He had +built up a transcendental building<a name='FNanchor_9_9' id= +"FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href='#Footnote_9_9'>[9]</a> in +<i>Paracelsus</i>. Was it all to fall in ruin? No answer came when +he looked forth on humanity over whose landscape the irony of the +gods, a bitter mist, seemed to brood. At what then shall he aim as +a poet? What shall be his subject-matter? How is life to be +lived?</p> +<p>Then he thought that he would, as a poet, describe his own time +and his own soul under the character of Sordello, and place +Sordello in a time more stormy than his own. And he would make +Sordello of an exceptional temper like himself, and <a name= +'Page203' id="Page203"></a><span class='pagenum'>203</span>to clash +with <i>his</i> time as he was then clashing with his own. With +these thoughts he wrote the first books of <i>Sordello</i>, and +Naddo, the critic of Sordello's verses, represents the critics of +Paracelsus and the early poems. I have experienced, he says of +himself in <i>Sordello</i>, something of the spite of fate.</p> +<p>Then, having done this, he leaves Sordello at the end of the +third book, and turns, beset with a thousand questions, to himself +and his art in a personal digression. Reclining on a ruined +palace-step at Venice, he thinks of Eglamor who made a flawless +song, the type of those who reach their own perfection here; and +then of Sordello who made a song which stirred the world far more +than Eglamor's, which yet was not flawless, not perfect; but +because of its imperfection looked forward uncontented to a higher +song. Shall he, Browning the poet, choose Eglamor or Sordello; even +though Sordello perish without any achievement? And he chooses to +sail for ever towards the infinite, chooses the imperfection which +looks forward. A sailor who loves voyaging may say, when +weather-bound, "Here rest, unlade the ship, sleep on this grassy +bank." 'Tis but a moment on his path; let the wind change, and he +is away again, whether triumph or shipwreck await him, for ever</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>The tempter of the everlasting steppe.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>That much is then settled for life and for poetry. And in that +choice of endless aspiration Browning confirms all that he thought, +with regard to half of his theory of life, in <i>Paracelsus</i>. +This is his first thought for life, and it is embodied in the whole +<a name='Page204' id="Page204"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>204</span>of Sordello's career. Sordello is never content +with earth, either when he is young, or when he passes into the +world, or when he dies not having attained or been already +perfect—a thought which is as much at the root of romanticism +as of Christianity. Then comes the further question: To whom shall +I dedicate the service of my art? Who shall be my motive, the Queen +whom I shall love and write of; and he thinks of Sordello who asks +that question and who, for the time, answers "Palma," that is, the +passion of love.</p> +<p>"But now, shall I, Browning, take as my Queen"—and he +symbolises his thought in the girls he sees in the boats from his +palace steps—"that girl from Bassano, or from Asolo, or her +from Padua; that is, shall I write of youth's love, of its tragic +or its comedy, of its darkness, joy and beauty only? No, he +answers, not of that stuff shall I make my work, but of that sad +dishevelled ghost of a girl, half in rags, with eyes inveterately +full of tears; of wild, worn, care-bitten, ravishing, piteous, and +pitiful Humanity, who begs of me and offers me her faded love in +the street corners. She shall be my Queen, the subject of my song, +the motive of my poetry. She may be guilty, warped awry from her +birth, and now a tired harlotry; but she shall rest on my shoulder +and I shall comfort her. She is false, mistaken, degraded, +ignorant, but she moves blindly from evil to good, and from lies to +truth, and from ignorance to knowledge, and from all to love; and +all her errors prove that she has another world in which, the +errors being worked through, she will develop into perfectness. +Slowly she moves, step by step; but not a millionth part <a name= +'Page205' id="Page205"></a><span class='pagenum'>205</span>is here +done of what she will do at last. That is the matter of my poetry, +which, in its infinite change and hopes, I shall express in my +work. I shall see it, say what I have seen, and it may be</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Impart the gift of seeing to the rest.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Therefore I have made Sordello, thus far, with all his weakness +and wrong—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>moulded, made anew</p> +<p>A Man, and give him to be turned and tried,</p> +<p>Be angry with or pleased at."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And then Browning severs himself from Sordello. After this +retirement of thought into himself, described as taking place in +Venice during an hour, but I dare say ranging over half a year in +reality, he tells the rest of Sordello's story from the outside, as +a spectator and describer.</p> +<p>Browning has now resolved to dedicate his art, which is his +life, to love of Humanity, of that pale dishevelled girl, unlovely +and lovely, evil and good; and to tell the story of individual men +and women, and of as many as possible; to paint the good which is +always mixed with their evil; to show that their failures and sins +point to a success and goodness beyond, because they emerged from +aspiration and aspiration from the divinity at the root of human +nature. But to do this, a poet must not live like Sordello, in +abstractions, nor shrink from the shock of men and circumstance, +nor refuse to take men and life as they are—but throw himself +into the vital present, with its difficulties, baffling elements +and limitations; take its failures for his own; go through them +while he looks beyond them, and, because he looks beyond <a name= +'Page206' id="Page206"></a><span class='pagenum'>206</span>them, +never lose hope, or retreat from life, or cease to fight his way +onward. And, to support him in this, there is but one +thing—infinite love, pity, and sympathy for mankind, +increased, not lessened by knowledge of the sins and weakness, the +failure and despairs of men. This is Browning's second thought for +life. But this is the very thing Sordello, as conceived by +Browning, did not and could not do. He lived in abstractions and in +himself; he tried to discard his human nature, or to make it bear +more than it could bear. He threw overboard the natural physical +life of the body because it limited, he thought, the outgoings of +the imaginative soul, and only found that in weakening the body he +enfeebled the soul. At every point he resented the limits of human +life and fought against them. Neither would he live in the world +allotted to him, nor among the men of his time, nor in its turmoil; +but only in imagination of his own inner world, among men whom he +created for himself, of which world he was to be sole king. He had +no love for men; they wearied, jarred, and disturbed his ideal +world. All he wanted was their applause or their silence, not their +criticism, not their affection. And of course human love and +sympathy for men and insight into them, departed from him, and with +them his art departed. He never became a true poet.</p> +<p>It is this failure, passing through several phases of life in +which action is demanded of Sordello, that Browning desired to +record in the last three books of the poem. And he thinks it worth +doing because it is human, and the record of what is human is +always of worth to man. He paints Sordello's <a name='Page207' id= +"Page207"></a><span class='pagenum'>207</span>passage through phase +after phase of thought and act in the outside world, in all of +which he seems for the moment to succeed or to touch the verge of +success, but in which his neglect of the needs of the body and the +uncontentment of his soul produce failure. At last, at the very +moment of death he knows why he failed, and sees, as through a +glass darkly, the failure making the success of the world to come. +The revelation bursts his heart.</p> +<p>And now what is the end, what is the result for man of this long +striving of Sordello? Nothing! Nothing has been done. Yet no, there +is one result. The imperfect song he made when he was young at +Goito, in the flush of happiness, when he forgot himself in love of +nature and of the young folk who wandered rejoicing through the +loveliness of nature—that song is still alive, not in the +great world among the noble women and warriors of the time, but on +the lips of the peasant girls of Asolo who sing it on dewy mornings +when they climb the castle hill. This is the outcome of Sordello's +life, and it sounds like irony on Browning's lips. It is not so; +the irony is elsewhere in the poem, and is of another kind. Here, +the conclusion is,—that the poem, or any work of art, made in +joy, in sympathy with human life, moved by the love of loveliness +in man or in nature, lives and lasts in beauty, heals and makes +happy the world. And it has its divine origin in the artist's loss +of himself in humanity, and his finding of himself, through union +with humanity, in union with God the eternal poet. In this is +hidden the life of an artist's greatness. And here the little song, +which <a name='Page208' id="Page208"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>208</span>gives joy to a child, and fits in with and +enhances its joy, is greater in the eyes of the immortal judges +than all the glory of the world which Sordello sought so long for +himself alone. It is a truth Browning never failed to record, the +greatness and power of the things of love; for, indeed, love being +infinite and omnipotent, gives to its smallest expression the glory +of all its qualities.</p> +<p>The second of these analogies between Browning and Sordello +relates to Browning's treatment of the English language in the poem +of <i>Sordello</i> and what he pictures Sordello as doing for the +Italian language in the poem. The passage to which I refer is about +half-way in the second book. As there is no real ground for +representing Sordello as working any serious change in the Italian +tongue of literature except a slight phrase in a treatise of +Dante's, the representation is manifestly an invention of +Browning's added to the character of Sordello as conceived by +himself. As such it probably comes out of, and belongs to, his own +experience. The Sordello who acts thus with language represents the +action of Browning himself at the time he was writing the poem. If +so, the passage is full of interest.</p> +<p>All we know about Sordello as a poet is that he wrote some +Italian poems. Those by which he was famous were in +Provençal. In Dante's treatise on the use of his native +tongue, he suggests that Sordello was one of the pioneers of +literary Italian. So, at least, Browning seems to infer from the +passage, for he makes it the motive of his little "excursus" on +Sordello's presumed effort to strike out a new form and method in +poetic language. <a name='Page209' id="Page209"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>209</span>Nothing was more needed than such an effort if +any fine literature were to arise in Italy. In this unformed but +slowly forming thirteenth century the language was in as great a +confusion—and, I may say, as individual (for each poet wrote +in his own dialect) as the life of the century.</p> +<p>What does Browning make Sordello do? He has brought him to +Mantua as the accepted master of song; and Sordello burns to be +fully recognised as the absolute poet. He has felt for some time +that while he cannot act well he can imagine action well. And he +sings his imaginations. But there is at the root of his singing a +love of the applause of the people more than a love of song for +itself. And he fails to please. So Sordello changes his subject and +sings no longer of himself in the action of the heroes he imagines, +but of abstract ideas, philosophic dreams and problems. The very +critics cried that he had left human nature behind him. Vexed at +his failure, and still longing to catch the praise of men, that he +may confirm his belief that he is the loftiest of poets, he makes +another effort to amaze the world. "I'll write no more of imaginary +things," he cries; "I will catch the crowd by reorganising the +language of poetry, by new arrangements of metre and words, by +elaborate phraseology, especially by careful concentration of +thought into the briefest possible frame of words. I will take the +stuff of thought—that is, the common language—beat it +on the anvil into new shapes, break down the easy flow of the +popular poetry, and scarcely allow a tithe of the original words I +have written to see the light,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page210' id="Page210"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>210</p> +<p class='i12'>welding words into the crude</p> +<p>Mass from the new speech round him, till a rude</p> +<p>Armour was hammered out, in time to be</p> +<p>Approved beyond the Roman panoply</p> +<p>Melted to make it."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>That is, he dissolved the Roman dialect to beat out of it an +Italian tongue. And in this new armour of language he clothed his +thoughts. But the language broke away from his thoughts: neither +expressed them nor made them clear. The people failed to understand +his thought, and at the new ways of using language the critics +sneered. "Do get back," they said, "to the simple human heart, and +tell its tales in the simple language of the people."</p> +<p>I do not think that the analogy can be missed. Browning is +really describing—with, perhaps, a half-scornful reference to +his own desire for public appreciation—what he tried to do in +<i>Sordello</i> for the language in which his poetry was to be +written. I have said that when he came to write <i>Sordello</i> his +mind had fallen back from the clear theory of life laid down in +<i>Paracelsus</i> into a tumbled sea of troubled thoughts; and +<i>Sordello</i> is a welter of thoughts tossing up and down, now +appearing, then disappearing, and then appearing again in +conjunction with new matter, like objects in a sea above which a +cyclone is blowing. Or we may say that his mind, before and during +the writing of <i>Sordello</i>, was like the thirteenth century, +pressing blindly in vital disturbance towards an unknown goal. That +partly accounts for the confused recklessness of the language of +the poem. But a great many of the tricks Browning now played with +his poetic language <a name='Page211' id="Page211"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>211</span>were deliberately done. He had tried—like +Sordello at the Court of Love—a love-poem in <i>Pauline</i>. +It had not succeeded. He had tried in <i>Paracelsus</i> to expose +an abstract theory of life, as Sordello had tried writing on +abstract imaginings. That also had failed. Now he +determined—as he represents Sordello doing—to alter his +whole way of writing. "I will concentrate now," he thought, "since +they say I am too loose and too diffuse; cut away nine-tenths of +all I write, and leave out every word I can possibly omit. I will +not express completely what I think; I shall only suggest it by an +illustration. And if anything occur to me likely to illuminate it, +I shall not add it afterwards but insert it in a parenthesis. I +will make a new tongue for my poetry." And the result was the style +and the strange manner in which <i>Sordello</i> was written. This +partly excuses its obscurity, if deliberation can be an excuse for +a bad manner in literature. Malice prepense does not excuse a +murder, though it makes it more interesting. Finally, the manner in +which <i>Sordello</i> was written did not please him. He left it +behind him, and <i>Pippa Passes</i>, which followed +<i>Sordello</i>, is as clear and simple as its predecessor is +obscure in style.</p> +<p>Thirdly, the language of <i>Sordello</i>, and, in a lesser +degree, that of all Browning's poetry, proves—if his whole +way of thought and passion did not also prove it—that +Browning was not a classic, that he deliberately put aside the +classic traditions in poetry. In this he presents a strong contrast +to Tennyson. Tennyson was possessed by those traditions. His +masters were Homer, Vergil, Milton and the rest of those who wrote +with <a name='Page212' id="Page212"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>212</span>measure, purity, and temperance; and from whose +poetry proceeded a spirit of order, of tranquillity, of clearness, +of simplicity; who were reticent in ornament, in illustration, and +stern in rejection of unnecessary material. None of these classic +excellences belong to Browning, nor did he ever try to gain them, +and that was, perhaps, a pity. But, after all, it would have been +of no use had he tried for them. We cannot impose from without on +ourselves that which we have not within; and Browning was, in +spirit, a pure romantic, not a classic. Tennyson never allowed what +romanticism he possessed to have its full swing. It always wore the +classic dress, submitted itself to the classic traditions, used the +classic forms. In the <i>Idylls of the King</i> he took a romantic +story; but nothing could be more unromantic than many of the +inventions and the characters; than the temper, the morality, and +the conduct of the poem. The Arthurian poets, Malory himself, would +have jumped out their skin with amazement, even with indignation, +had they read it. And a great deal of this oddity, this unfitness +of the matter to the manner, arose from the romantic story being +expressed in poetry written in accordance with classic traditions. +Of course, there were other sources for these inharmonies in the +poem, but that was one, and not the least of them.</p> +<p>Browning had none of these classic traditions. He had his own +matter, quite new stuff it was; and he made his own manner. He did +not go back to the old stories, but, being filled with the romantic +spirit, embodied it in new forms, and drenched with it his +subjects, whether he took <a name='Page213' id= +"Page213"></a><span class='pagenum'>213</span>them from ancient, +mediæval, Renaissance, or modern life. He felt, and truly, +that it is of the essence of romanticism to be always arising into +new shapes, assimilating itself, century by century, to the needs, +the thought and the passions of growing mankind; progressive, a +lover of change; in steady opposition to that dull conservatism the +tendency to which besets the classic literature.</p> +<p>Browning had the natural faults of the romantic poet; and these +are most remarkable when such a poet is young. The faults are the +opposites of the classic poet's excellences: want of measure, want +of proportion, want of clearness and simplicity, want of +temperance, want of that selective power which knows what to leave +out or when to stop. And these frequently become positive and end +in actual disorder of composition, huddling of the matters treated +of into ill-digested masses, violence in effects and phrase, +bewildering obscurity, sought-out even desperate strangeness of +subject and expression, uncompromising individuality, crude +ornament, and fierce colour. Many examples of these faults are to +be found in <i>Sordello</i> and throughout the work of Browning. +They are the extremes into which the Romantic is frequently +hurried.</p> +<p>But, then, Browning has the natural gifts and excellences of the +romantic poet, and these elements make him dearer than the mere +Classic to a multitude of imaginative persons. One of them is +endless and impassioned curiosity, for ever unsatisfied, always +finding new worlds of thought and feeling into which to make +dangerous and thrilling voyages of discovery—voyages that are +filled from end to end with incessantly changing adventure, or +<a name='Page214' id="Page214"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>214</span>delight in that adventure. This enchants the +world. And it is not only in his subjects that the romantic poet +shows his curiosity. He is just as curious of new methods of +tragedy, of lyric work, of every mode of poetry; of new ways of +expressing old thoughts; new ways of treating old metres; of the +invention of new metres and new ways of phrasing; of strange and +startling word-combinations, to clothe fittingly the strange and +startling things discovered in human nature, in one's own soul, or +in the souls of others. In ancient days such a temper produced the +many tales of invention which filled the romantic cycles.</p> +<p>Again and again, from century to century, this romantic spirit +has done its re-creating work in the development of poetry in +France, Germany, Italy, Spain, and England. And in 1840, and for +many years afterwards, it produced in Browning, and for our +pleasure, his dramatic lyrics as he called them; his psychological +studies, which I may well call excursions, adventures, battles, +pursuits, retreats, discoveries of the soul; for in the soul of man +lay, for Browning, the forest of Broceliande, the wild country of +Morgan le Fay, the cliffs and moors of Lyonnesse. It was there, +over that unfooted country, that Childe Roland rode to the Dark +Tower. Nor can anything be more in the temper of old spiritual +romance—though with a strangely modern +<i>mise-en-scène</i>—than the great adventure on the +dark common with Christ in <i>Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day</i>.</p> +<p>Another root of the romantic spirit was the sense of, and +naturally the belief in, a world not to be felt of the senses or +analysed by the under<a name='Page215' id= +"Page215"></a><span class='pagenum'>215</span>standing; which was +within the apparent world as its substance or soul, or beyond it as +the power by which it existed; and this mystic belief took, among +poets, philosophers, theologians, warriors and the common people, a +thousand forms, ranging from full-schemed philosophies to the +wildest superstitions. It tended, in its extremes, to make this +world a shadow, a dream; and our life only a real life when it +habitually dwelt in the mystic region mortal eye could not see, +whose voices mortal ear could not receive. Out of this root, which +shot its first fibres into the soul of humanity in the days of the +earliest savage and separated him by an unfathomable gulf from the +brute, arose all the myths and legends and mystic stories which +fill romance. Out of it developed the unquenchable thirst of those +of the romantic temper for communion with the spiritual beings of +this mystic world; a thirst which, however repressed for a time, +always arises again; and is even now arising among the poets of +to-day.</p> +<p>In Browning's view of the natural world some traces of this +element of the romantic spirit may be distinguished, but in his +poetry of Man it scarcely appears. Nor, indeed, is he ever the true +mystic. He had too much of the sense which handles daily life; he +saw the facts of life too clearly, to fall into the vaguer regions +of mysticism. But one part of its region, and of the romantic +spirit, so incessantly recurs in Browning that it may be said to +underlie the whole of his work. It is that into which the thoughts +and passions of the romantic poets in all ages ran up, as into a +goal—the conception of a perfect world, beyond this +visible, in which the <a name='Page216' id= +"Page216"></a><span class='pagenum'>216</span>noble hopes, loves +and work of humanity—baffled, limited, and ruined +here—should be fulfilled and satisfied. The Greeks did not +frame this conception as a people, though Plato outreached towards +it; the Romans had it not, though Vergil seems to have touched it +in hours of inspiration. The Teutonic folk did not possess it till +Christianity invaded them. Of course, it was alive like a beating +heart in Christianity, that most romantic of all religions. But the +Celtic peoples did conceive it before Christianity and with a +surprising fulness, and wherever they went through Europe they +pushed it into the thought, passions and action of human life. And +out of this conception, which among the Irish took form as the Land +of Eternal Youth, love and joy, where human trouble ceased, grew +that element in romance which is perhaps the strongest in +it—the hunger for eternity, for infinite perfection of being, +and, naturally, for unremitting pursuit of it; and among Christian +folk for a life here which should fit them for perfect life to +come. Christian romance threw itself with fervour into that ideal, +and the pursuit, for example, of the Holy Grail is only one of the +forms of this hunger for eternity and perfection.</p> +<p>Browning possessed this element of romance with remarkable +fulness, and expressed it with undiminished ardour for sixty years +of poetic work. From <i>Pauline</i> to <i>Asolando</i> it reigns +supreme. It is the fountain-source of <i>Sordello</i>—by the +pervasiveness of which the poem consists. Immortal life in God's +perfection! Into that cry the Romantic's hunger for eternity had +developed in the soul of Browning. His heroes, in drama and lyric, +in <a name='Page217' id="Page217"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>217</span><i>Paracelsus</i> and <i>Sordello</i>, pass +into the infinite, there to be completed.</p> +<p>And if I may here introduce a kind of note, it is at this moment +that we ought to take up the <i>Purgatorio</i>, and see Sordello as +Dante saw him in that flowery valley of the Ante-Purgatory when he +talked with Dante and Vergil. He is there a very different person +from the wavering creature Browning drew. He is on the way to that +perfect fulfilment in God which Browning desired for him and all +mankind.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, in order to complete this statement, Browning, in +his full idea of life, was not altogether a romantic. He saw there +was a great danger that the romantic mysticism might lead its +pursuers to neglect the duties of life, or lessen their interest in +the drama of mankind. Therefore he added to his cry for eternity +and perfection, his other cry: "Recognise your limitations, and +work within them, while you must never be content with them. Give +yourself in love and patience to the present labour of mankind; but +never imagine for a moment that it ends on earth." He thus combined +with the thirst of the romantic for eternity the full ethical +theory of life, as well as the classic poet's determination to +represent the complete aspect of human life on earth. At this +point, but with many fantastic deviations due to his prevailing +romanticism, he was partly of the classic temper. The poem of +<i>Sordello</i> is not without an image of this temper, set +vigorously in contrast with Sordello himself. This is Salinguerra, +who takes the world as it is, and is only anxious to do what lies +before him day by day. His long soliloquy, in which for the moment +he indulges in dreams, ends in the <a name='Page218' id= +"Page218"></a><span class='pagenum'>218</span>simple resolution to +fight on, hour by hour, as circumstances call on him.</p> +<p>Browning's position, then, is a combination of the romantic and +classical, of the Christian and ethical, of the imaginative and +scientific views of human life; of the temper which says, "Here +only is our life, here only our concern," and that which says, "Not +here, but hereafter is our life." "Here, and hereafter," answered +Browning. "Live within earth's limits with all your force; never +give in, fight on; but always transcend your fullest action in +aspiration, faith and love."</p> +<p>It amuses me sometimes the way he is taken by his readers. The +romantic and the Christian folk often claim him as the despiser of +this world, as one who bids us live wholly for the future, or in +the mystic ranges of thought and passion. The scientific, +humanitarian, and ethical folk accept that side of him which agrees +with their views of human life—views which exclude God, +immortality, and a world beyond—that is, they take as the +whole of Browning the lesser part of his theory of life. This is +not creditable to their understanding, though it is natural enough. +We may accept it as an innocent example of the power of a strong +bias in human nature. But it is well to remember that the romantic, +Christian, mystic elements of human life are more important in +Browning's eyes than the ethical or scientific; that the latter are +nothing to him without the former; that the best efforts of the +latter for humanity are in his belief not only hopeless, but the +stuff that dreams are made of, without the former. In the +combination of both is Browning's message to mankind.</p> +<p><a name='Page219' id="Page219"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>219</span>FOOTNOTES:</p> +<div class='footnote'> +<p><a name='Footnote_9_9' id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href= +'#FNanchor_9_9'>[9]</a> He makes a simile of this in +<i>Sordello</i>. See Book iii. before his waking up in Venice, the +lines beginning</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>"Rather say</p> +<p>My transcendental platan!"</p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='CHAPTER_VIII' id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> +<h3><i>THE DRAMAS</i></h3> +<p>Of the great poets who, not being born dramatists, have +attempted to write dramas in poetry, Browning was the most +persevering. I suppose that, being conscious of his remarkable +power in the representation of momentary action and of states of +the soul, he thought that he could harmonise into a whole the +continuous action of a number of persons, and of their passions in +sword-play with one another; and then conduct to a catastrophe +their interaction. But a man may be capable of writing dramatic +lyrics and dramatic romances without being capable of writing a +drama. Indeed, so different are the two capabilities that I think +the true dramatist could not write such a lyric or romance as +Browning calls dramatic; his genius would carry one or the other +beyond the just limits of this kind of poetry into his own kind. +And the writer of excellent lyrics and romances of this kind will +be almost sure to fail in real drama. I wish, in order to avoid +confusion of thought, that the term "dramatic" were only used of +poetry which belongs to drama itself. I have heard Chaucer called +dramatic. It is a complete misnomer. His genius would have for ever +been unable to produce <a name='Page220' id= +"Page220"></a><span class='pagenum'>220</span>a good drama. Had he +lived in Elizabeth's time, he would, no doubt, have tried to write +one, but he must have failed. The genius for story-telling is just +the genius which is incapable of being a fine dramatist. And the +opposite is also true. Shakespeare, great as his genius was, would +not have been able to write a single one of the Canterbury Tales. +He would have been driven into dramatising them.</p> +<p>Neither Tennyson nor Browning had dramatic genius—that is, +the power to conceive, build, co-ordinate and finish a drama. But +they thought they had, and we may pardon them for trying their +hand. I can understand the hunger and thirst which beset great +poets, who had, like these two men, succeeded in so many different +kinds of poetry, to succeed also in the serious drama, written in +poetry. It is a legitimate ambition; but poets should be acquainted +with their limitations, and not waste their energies or our +patience on work which they cannot do well. That men like Tennyson +and Browning, who were profoundly capable of understanding what a +great drama means, and is; who had read what the master-tragedians +of Greece have done; who knew their Shakespeare, to say nothing of +the other Elizabethan dramatists; who had seen Molière on +the stage; who must have felt how the thing ought to be done, +composed, and versed; that they, having written a play like +<i>Harold</i> or <i>Strafford</i>, should really wish to stage it, +or having heard and seen it on the stage should go on writing more +dramas, would seem incomprehensible, were it not that power to do +one thing very well is so curiously liable to self-deceit.</p> +<p><a name='Page221' id="Page221"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>221</span>The writing of the first drama is not to be +blamed. It would be unnatural not to try one's hand. It is the +writing of the others which is amazing in men like Tennyson and +Browning. They ought to have felt, being wiser than other men in +poetry, that they had no true dramatic capacity. Other poets who +also tried the drama did know themselves better. Byron wrote +several dramas, but he made little effort to have them represented +on the stage. He felt they were not fit for that; and, moreover, +such scenic poems as <i>Manfred</i> and <i>Cain</i> were not +intended for the stage, and do not claim to be dramas in that +sense. To write things of this kind, making no claim to public +representation, with the purpose of painting a situation of the +soul, is a legitimate part of a poet's work, and among them, in +Browning's work, might be classed <i>In a Balcony</i>, which I +suppose his most devoted worshipper would scarcely call a +drama.</p> +<p>Walter Scott, than whom none could conduct a conversation better +in a novel, or make more living the clash of various minds in a +critical event, whether in a cottage or a palace; whom one would +select as most likely to write a drama well—had +self-knowledge enough to understand, after his early attempts, that +true dramatic work was beyond his power. Wordsworth also made one +effort, and then said good-bye to drama. Coleridge tried, and +staged <i>Remorse</i>. It failed and deserved to fail. To read it +is to know that the writer had no sense of an audience in his mind +as he wrote it—a fatal want in a dramatist. Even its purple +patches of fine poetry and its noble melody of verse did not redeem +it. Shelley did better than these brethren <a name='Page222' id= +"Page222"></a><span class='pagenum'>222</span>of his, and that is +curious. One would say, after reading his previous poems, that he +was the least likely of men to write a true drama. Yet the +<i>Cenci</i> approaches that goal, and the fragment of <i>Charles +the First</i> makes so great a grip on the noble passions and on +the intellectual eye, and its few scenes are so well woven, that it +is one of the unfulfilled longings of literature that it should +have been finished. Yet Shelley himself gave it up. He knew, like +the others, that the drama was beyond his power.</p> +<p>Tennyson and Browning did not so easily recognise their limits. +They went on writing dramas, not for the study, which would have +been natural and legitimate, but for the stage. This is a curious +psychological problem, and there is only one man who could have +given us, if he had chosen, a poetic study of it, and that is +Browning himself. I wish, having in his mature age read +<i>Strafford</i> over, and then read his other dramas—all of +them full of the same dramatic weaknesses as +<i>Strafford</i>—he had analysed himself as "the poet who +would be a dramatist and could not." Indeed, it is a pity he did +not do this. He was capable of smiling benignly at himself, and +sketching himself as if he were another man; a thing of which +Tennyson, who took himself with awful seriousness, and walked with +himself as a Druid might have walked in the sacred grove of Mona, +was quite incapable.</p> +<p>However, the three important dramas of Tennyson are better, as +dramas, than Browning's. That is natural enough. For Browning's +dramas were written when he was young, when his knowledge of the +dramatic art was small, and when his <a name='Page223' id= +"Page223"></a><span class='pagenum'>223</span>intellectual powers +were not fully developed. Tennyson wrote his when his knowledge of +the Drama was great, and when his intellect had undergone years of +careful training. He studied the composition and architecture of +the best plays; he worked at the stage situations; he created a +blank verse for his plays quite different from that he used in his +poems, and a disagreeable thing it is; he introduced songs, like +Shakespeare, at happy moments; he imitated the old work, and at the +same time strove hard to make his own original. He laboured at the +history, and <i>Becket</i> and <i>Harold</i> are painfully +historical. History should not master a play, but the play the +history. The poet who is betrayed into historical accuracy so as to +injure the development of his conception in accordance with +imaginative truth, is lost; and <i>Harold</i> and <i>Becket</i> +both suffer from Tennyson falling into the hands of those critical +historians whom Tennyson consulted.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, by dint of laborious intellectual work, but not by +the imagination, not by dramatic genius, Tennyson arrived at a +relative success. He did better in these long dramas than +Coleridge, Wordsworth, Scott or Byron. <i>Queen Mary, Harold</i>, +and <i>Becket</i> get along in one's mind with some swiftness when +one reads them in an armchair by the fire. Some of the characters +are interesting and wrought with painful skill. We cannot forget +the pathetic image of Queen Mary, which dwells in the mind when the +play has disappeared; nor the stately representation in +<i>Becket</i> of the mighty and overshadowing power of Rome, +claiming as its own possession the soul of the world. But the minor +characters; the action; the play of the <a name='Page224' id= +"Page224"></a><span class='pagenum'>224</span>characters, great and +small, and of the action and circumstance together towards the +catastrophe—these things were out of Tennyson's reach, and +still more out of Browning's. They could both build up characters, +and Browning better than Tennyson; they could both set two people +to talk together, and by their talk to reveal their character to +us; but to paint action, and the action of many men and women +moving to a plotted end; to paint human life within the limits of a +chosen subject, changing and tossing and unconscious of its fate, +in a town, on a battlefield, in the forum, in a wild wood, in the +king's palace or a shepherd farm; and to image this upon the stage, +so that nothing done or said should be unmotived, unrelated to the +end, or unnatural; of that they were quite incapable, and Browning +more incapable than Tennyson.</p> +<p>There is another thing to say. The three long dramas of Tennyson +are better as dramas than the long ones of Browning. But the +smaller dramatic pieces of Browning are much better than the +smaller ones of Tennyson. <i>The Promise of May</i> is bad in +dialogue, bad in composition, bad in delineation of character, +worst of all in its subject, in its plot, and in its motives. +<i>The Cup</i>, and <i>The Falcon</i>, a beautiful story +beautifully written by Boccaccio, is strangely dulled, even +vulgarised, by Tennyson. The <i>Robin Hood</i> play has gracious +things in it, but as a drama it is worthless, and it is impossible +to forgive Tennyson for his fairies. All these small plays are +dreadful examples of what a great poet may do when he works in a +vehicle—if I may borrow a term from painting—for which +he has no natural capacity, but for which he thinks <a name= +'Page225' id="Page225"></a><span class='pagenum'>225</span>he has. +He is then like those sailors, and meets justly the same fate, who +think that because they can steer a boat admirably, they can also +drive a coach and four. The love scene in <i>Becket</i> between +Rosamund and Henry illustrates my meaning. It was a subject in +itself that Tennyson ought to have done well, and would probably +have done well in another form of poetry; but, done in a form for +which he had no genius, he did it badly. It is the worst thing in +the play. Once, however, he did a short drama fairly well. <i>The +Cup</i> has some dramatic movement, its construction is clear, its +verse imaginative, its scenery well conceived; and its motives are +simple and easily understood. But then, as in <i>Becket</i>, Irving +stood at his right hand, and advised him concerning dramatic +changes and situations. Its passion is, however, cold; it leaves us +unimpressed.</p> +<p>On the contrary, Browning's smaller dramatic pieces—I +cannot call them dramas—are much better than those of +Tennyson. <i>Pippa Passes, A Soul's Tragedy, In a Balcony</i>, +stand on a much higher level, aim higher, and reach their aim more +fully than Tennyson's shorter efforts. They have not the qualities +which fit them for representation, but they have those which fit +them for thoughtful and quiet reading. No one thinks much of the +separate personalities; our chief interest is in following +Browning's imagination as it invents new phases of his subject, and +plays like a sword in sunlight, in and out of these phases. As +poems of the soul in severe straits, made under a quasi-dramatic +form, they reach a high excellence, but all that we like best in +them, when we follow them as <a name='Page226' id= +"Page226"></a><span class='pagenum'>226</span>situations of the +soul, we should most dislike when represented on the stage.</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p><i>Strafford</i> is, naturally, the most immature of the dramas, +written while he was still writing <i>Paracelsus</i>, and when he +was very young. It is strange to compare the greater part of its +prosaic verse with the rich poetic verse of <i>Paracelsus</i>; and +this further illustrates how much a poet suffers when he writes in +a form which is not in his genius. There are only a very few +passages in <i>Strafford</i> which resemble poetry until we come to +the fifth Act, where Browning passes from the jerky, allusive but +rhythmical prose of the previous acts into that talk between +Strafford and his children which has poetic charm, clearness and +grace. The change does not last long, and when Hollis, Charles and +Lady Carlisle, followed by Pym, come in, the whole Act is in +confusion. Nothing is clear, except absence of the clearness +required for a drama. But the previous Acts are even more obscure; +not indeed for their readers, but for hearers in a theatre +who—since they are hurried on at once to new matter—are +forced to take in on the instant what the dramatist means. It would +be impossible to tell at first hearing what the chopped-up +sentences, the interrupted phrases, the interjected "nots" and +"buts" and "yets" are intended to convey. The conversation is +mangled. This vice does not prevail in the other dramas to the same +extent as in <i>Strafford</i>. Browning had learnt his lesson, I +suppose, when he saw <i>Strafford</i> represented. But it sorely +prevails in <i>Colombe's Birthday</i>.</p> +<p><a name='Page227' id="Page227"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>227</span>Strafford is brought before us as a politician, +as the leader of the king's side in an austere crisis of England's +history. The first scene puts the great quarrel forward as the +ground on which the drama is to be wrought. An attempt is made to +represent the various elements of the popular storm in the +characters of Pym, Hampden, the younger Vane and others, and +especially in the relations between Pym and Strafford, who are set +over, one against the other, with some literary power. But the +lines on which the action is wrought are not simple. No audience +could follow the elaborate network of intrigue which, in Browning's +effort to represent too much of the history, he has made so +confused. Strong characterisation perishes in this effort to write +a history rather than a drama. What we chiefly see of the crisis is +a series of political intrigues at the Court carried out by base +persons, of whom the queen is the basest, to ruin Strafford; the +futility of Strafford's sentimental love of the king, whom he +despises while he loves him; Strafford's blustering weakness and +blindness when he forces his way into the Parliament House, and the +contemptible meanness of Charles. The low intrigues of the Court +leave the strongest impression on the mind, not the mighty +struggle, not the fate of the Monarchy and its dark supporter.</p> +<p>Browning tries—as if he had forgotten that which should +have been first in his mind—to lift the main struggle into +importance in the last Act, but he fails. That which ought to be +tragic is merely sentimental. Indeed, sentimentality is the curse +of the play. Strafford's love of the king is almost maudlin. The +scenes between Strafford and <a name='Page228' id= +"Page228"></a><span class='pagenum'>228</span>Pym in which their +ancient friendship is introduced are over-sentimentalised, not only +for their characters, but for the great destinies at stake. Even at +the last, when Pym and Strafford forgive each other and speak of +meeting hereafter, good sense is violated, and the natural dignity +of the scene, and the characters of the men. Strafford is weaker +here, if that were possible, than he is in the rest of the drama. +Nothing can be more unlike the man.</p> +<p>Pym is intended to be especially strong. He is made a blusterer. +He was a gentleman, but in this last scene he is hateful. As to +Charles, he was always a selfish liar, but he was not a coward, and +a coward he becomes in this play. He, too, is sentimentalised by +his uxoriousness. Lady Carlisle is invented. I wish she had not +been. Stratford's misfortunes were deep enough without having her +in love with him. I do not believe, moreover, that any woman in the +whole world from the very beginning was ever so obscure in her +speech to the man she loves as Lady Carlisle was to Strafford. And +the motive of her obscurity—that if she discloses the King's +perfidy she robs Strafford of that which is dearest to +him—his belief in the King's affection for him—is no +doubt very fine, but the woman was either not in love who argued in +that way, or a fool; for Strafford knew, and lets her understand +that he knew, the treachery of the King. But Browning meant her to +be in love, and to be clever.</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p>The next play Browning wrote, undeterred by the fate of +<i>Strafford</i>, was <i>King Victor and King Charles</i>. The +subject is historical, but it is modified <a name='Page229' id= +"Page229"></a><span class='pagenum'>229</span>by Browning, quite +legitimately, to suit his own purposes. In itself the plot is +uninteresting. King Victor, having brought the kingdom to the verge +of ruin, abdicates and hands the crown to his son, believing him to +be a weak-minded person whose mistakes will bring +him—Victor—back to the throne, when he can throw upon +the young king the responsibility of the mess he has himself made +of the kingdom. Charles turns out to be a strong character, sets +right the foreign affairs of the kingdom, and repairs his father's +misgovernment. Then Victor, envious and longing for power, +conspires to resume the throne, and taken prisoner, begs back the +crown. Charles, touched as a son, and against his better judgment, +restores his father, who immediately and conveniently dies. It is a +play of court intrigue and of politics, and these are not made +interesting by any action, such as we call dramatic, in the play. +From end to end there is no inter-movement of public passion. There +are only four characters. D'Ormea, the minister, is a mere stick in +a prime-minister's robes and serves Victor and Charles with equal +ease, in order to keep his place. He is not even subtle in his +<i>rôle</i>. When we think what Browning would have made of +him in a single poem, and contrast it with what he has made of him +here, we are again impressed with Browning's strange loss of power +when he is writing drama. Victor and Charles are better drawn than +any characters in <i>Strafford</i>; and Polyxena is a great advance +on Lady Carlisle. But this piece is not a drama; it is a study of +soul-situations, and none of them are of any vital importance. +There is far too great an improbability <a name='Page230' id= +"Page230"></a><span class='pagenum'>230</span>in the conception of +Charles. A weak man in private becomes a strong man in public life. +To represent him, having known and felt his strength, as relapsing +into his previous weakness when it endangers all his work, is quite +too foolish. He did not do it in history. Browning, with +astonishing want of insight, makes him do it here, and adds to it a +foolish anger with his wife because she advises him against it. And +the reason he does it and is angry with his wife, is a merely +sentimental one—a private, unreasoning, childish love of his +father, such a love as Strafford is supposed to have for Charles +I.—the kind of love which intruded into public affairs ruins +them, and which, being feeble and for an unworthy object, injures +him who gives it and him who receives it. Even as a study of +characters, much more as a drama, this piece is a failure, and the +absence of poetry in it is amazing.</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p>The Return of the Druses approaches more nearly to a true drama +than its predecessors; it is far better written; it has several +fine motives which are intelligently, but not dramatically, worked +out; and it is with great joy that one emerges at last into a +little poetry. Browning, having more or less invented his subject, +is not seduced, by the desire to be historical, to follow apparent +instead of imaginative truth; nor are we wearied by his unhappy +efforts to analyse, in disconnected conversations, political +intrigue. Things are in this play as the logic of imaginative +passion wills, as Browning's conception drove him. But, +unfortunately for its success as a true drama, Browning <a name= +'Page231' id="Page231"></a><span class='pagenum'>231</span>doubles +and redoubles the motives which impel his characters. Djabal, +Anael, Loys, have all of them, two different and sometimes opposite +aims working in them. They are driven now by one, now by the other, +and the changes of speech and action made by the different motives +surging up, alternately or together, within their will, are so +swift and baffling that an audience would be utterly bewildered. It +is amusing to follow the prestidigitation of Browning's intellect +creating this confused battle in souls as long as one reads the +play at home, though even then we wonder why he cannot, at least in +a drama, make a simple situation. If he loved difficult work, this +would be much more difficult to do well than the confused situation +he has not done well. Moreover, the simplified situation would be +effective on the stage; and it would give a great opportunity for +fine poetry. As it is, imaginative work is replaced by intellectual +exercises, poetry is lost in his analysis of complex states of +feeling. However, this involved in-and-out of thought is +entertaining to follow in one's study if not on the stage. It is +done with a loose power no one else in England possessed, and our +only regret is that he did not bridle and master his power. +Finally, with regard to this play, I should like to isolate from it +certain imaginative representations of characters which embody +types of the men of the time, such as the Prefect and the Nuncio. +The last interview between Loys and the Prefect, taken out of the +drama, would be a little masterpiece of characterisation.</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p><i>The Blot in the Scutcheon</i> is the finest of all these +<a name='Page232' id="Page232"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>232</span>dramas. It might well be represented on the +stage as a literary drama before those who had already read it, and +who would listen to it for its passion and poetry; but its +ill-construction and the unnaturalness of its situations will +always prevent, and justly, its public success as a drama. It is +full of pathetic and noble poetry; its main characters are clearly +outlined and of a refreshing simplicity. It has few obtrusive +metaphysical or intellectual subtleties—things which Browning +could not keep out of his dramas, but which only a genius like +Shakespeare can handle on the stage. It has real intensity of +feeling, and the various passions interlock and clash together with +some true dramatic interaction. Their presentation awakens our +pity, and wonder for the blind fates of men. The close leaves us in +sorrow, yet in love with human nature. The pathos of the +catastrophe is the most pathetic thing in Browning. I do not even +except the lovely record of Pompilia. The torture of the human +heart, different but equal, of Tresham and Mildred in the last +scene, is exceedingly bitter in its cry—too cruel almost to +hear and know, were it not relieved by the beauty of their +tenderness and forgiveness in the hour of death. They die of their +pain, but die loving, and are glad to die. They have all of +them—Mildred, Tresham, and Mertoun—sinned as it were by +error. Death unites them in righteousness, loveliness and love. A +fierce, swift storm sweeps out of a clear heaven upon them, +destroys them, and saves them. It is all over in three days. They +are fortunate; their love deserved that the ruin should be brief, +and the reparation be transferred, in a moment, to the grave +justice of eternity.</p> +<p><a name='Page233' id="Page233"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>233</span>The first two acts bear no comparison with the +third. The first scene, with all the servants, only shows how +Browning failed in bringing a number of characters together, and in +making them talk with ease and connectedly. Then, in two acts, the +plot unfolds itself. It is a marvel of bad construction, grossly +improbable, and offends that popular common sense of what is justly +due to the characters concerned and to human nature itself, to +which a dramatist is bound to appeal.</p> +<p>Mildred and Mertoun have loved and sinned. Mertoun visits her +every night. Gerard, an old gamekeeper, has watched him climbing to +her window, and he resolves to tell this fatal tale to Tresham, +Mildred's brother, whose strongest feeling is pride in the +unblemished honour of his house. Meantime Mertoun has asked Tresham +for Mildred's hand in marriage, and these lovers, receiving his +consent, hope that their sin will be purged. Then Gerard tells his +story. Tresham summons Mildred. She confesses the lover, and +Tresham demands his name. To reveal the name would have saved the +situation, as we guess from Tresham's character. His love would +have had time to conquer his pride. But Mildred will not tell the +name, and when Tresham says: "Then what am I to say to Mertoun?" +she answers, "I will marry him." This, and no wonder, seems the +last and crowning dishonour to Tresham, and he curses, as if she +were a harlot, the sister whom he passionately loves.</p> +<p>This is a horrible situation which Browning had no right to +make. The natural thing would be for Mildred to disclose that her +lover and Lord Mertoun, whom she was to marry, were one and the +same. <a name='Page234' id="Page234"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>234</span>There is no adequate reason, considering the +desperate gravity of the situation, for her silence; it ought to be +accounted for and it is not, nor could it be. Her refusal to tell +her lover's name, her confession of her dishonour and at the same +time her acceptance of Mertoun as a husband at her brother's hands, +are circumstances which shock probability and common human +nature.</p> +<p>Then it is not only this which irritates a reader; it is also +the stupidity of Tresham. That also is most unnatural. He believes +that the girl whom he has loved and honoured all his life, whose +purity was as a star to him, will accept Mertoun while she was +sinning with another! He should have felt that this was incredible, +and immediately understood, as Guendolen does, that her lover and +Mertoun were the same. Dulness and blindness so improbable are +unfitting in a drama, nor does the passion of his overwhelming +pride excuse him. The central situation is a protracted irritation. +Browning was never a good hand at construction, even in his poems. +His construction is at its very worst in this drama.</p> +<p>But now, when we have, with wrath, accepted this revolting +situation—which, of course, Browning made in order to have +his tragic close, but which a good dramatist would have arranged so +differently—we pass into the third act, the tragic close; and +that is simple enough in its lines, quite naturally wrought out, +beautifully felt, and of exquisite tenderness. Rashness of wrath +and pride begin it; Mertoun is slain by Tresham as he climbs to +Mildred's window, though why he should risk her honour any more +when she is <a name='Page235' id="Page235"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>235</span>affianced to him is another of Browning's +maddening improbabilities. And then wrath and pride pass away, and +sorrow and love and the joy of death are woven together in beauty. +If we must go through the previous acts to get to this, we forgive, +for its sake, their wrongness. It has turns of love made +exquisitely fair by inevitable death, unfathomable depths of +feeling. We touch in these last scenes the sacred love beyond the +world in which forgiveness is forgotten.</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p><i>Colombe's Birthday</i> is of all these plays the nearest to a +true drama. It has been represented in America as well as in +England, and its skilful characterisation of Valence, Colombe, and +Berthold has won deserved praise; but it could not hold the stage. +The subject is too thin. Colombe finds out on her birthday that she +is not the rightful heir to the Duchy; but as there is some doubt, +she resolves to fight the question. In her perplexities she is +helped and supported by Valence, an advocate from one of the cities +of the Duchy, who loves her, but whom she believes to serve her +from loyalty alone. Berthold, the true heir, to avoid a quarrel, +offers to marry Colombe, not because he loves her, but as a good +piece of policy. She then finds out that she loves Valence, and +refusing the splendid alliance, leaves the court a private person, +with love and her lover. This slight thing is spun out into five +acts by Browning's metaphysics of love and friendship. There is but +little action, or pressure of the characters into one another. The +intriguing courtiers are dull, and their talk is not knit together. +The only thing alive in them is their <a name='Page236' id= +"Page236"></a><span class='pagenum'>236</span>universal meanness. +That meanness, it is true, enhances the magnanimity of Valence and +Berthold, but its dead level in so many commonplace persons lowers +the dramatic interest of the piece. The play is rather an +interesting conversational poem about the up-growing of love +between two persons of different but equally noble character; who +think love is of more worth than power or wealth, and who are +finally brought together by a bold, rough warrior who despises love +in comparison with policy. Its real action takes place in the +hearts of Valence and Colombe, not in the world of human life; and +what takes place in their hearts is at times so quaintly +metaphysical, so curiously apart from the simplicities of human +love, so complicated, even beyond the complexity of the +situation—for Browning loved to pile complexity on +complexity—that it makes the play unfit for public +representation but all the more interesting for private reading. +But, even in the quiet of our room, we ask why Browning put his +subject into a form which did not fit it; why he overloaded the +story of two souls with a host of characters who have no vital +relation to it, and, having none, are extremely wearisome? It might +have been far more successfully done in the form of <i>In a +Balcony</i>, which Browning himself does not class as a drama.</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p><i>Luria</i>, the last of the dramas in date of composition, may +be said to have no outward action, except in one scene where +Tiburzio breaks in suddenly to defend Luria, who, like a wounded +stag, stands at bay among the dogs and hunters who suspect his +fidelity to Florence. It is a drama of inward action, <a name= +'Page237' id="Page237"></a><span class='pagenum'>237</span>of +changes in the souls of men. The full purification of Luria is its +one aim, and the motive of Luria himself is a single motive. The +play occupies one day only, and passes in one place.</p> +<p>Luria is a noble Moor who commands the armies of Florence +against Pisa, and conquers Pisa. He is in love with the city of +Florence as a man is with a woman. Its beauty, history, great men, +and noble buildings attract his Eastern nature, by their Northern +qualities, as much as they repel his friend and countryman Husain. +He lives for her with unbroken faithfulness, and he dies for her +with piteous tenderness when he finds out that Florence distrusts +him. When he is suspected of treachery, his heart breaks, and to +explain his broken heart, he dies. There is no other way left to +show to Florence that he has always been true to her. And at the +moment of his death, all who spied on him, distrusted and condemned +him, are convinced of his fidelity. Even before he dies, his +devotion to his ideal aim, his absolute unselfishness, have won +over and ennobled all the self-interested characters which surround +him—Puccio, the general who is jealous of him; Domizia, the +woman who desires to use him as an instrument of her hate to +Florence; even Braccio, the Macchiavellian Florentine who thinks +his success must be dangerous to the state. Luria conquers them +all. It is the triumph of self-forgetfulness. And the real aim of +the play is not dramatic. It is too isolated an aim to be dramatic. +It is to build up and image the noble character of Luria, and it +reaches that end with dignity.</p> +<p>The other characters are but foils to enhance the <a name= +'Page238' id="Page238"></a><span class='pagenum'>238</span>solitary +greatness of Luria. Braccio is a mere voice, a theory who talks, +and, at the end, when he becomes more human, he seems to lose his +intelligence. The Secretaries have no individuality. Domizia causes +nothing, and might with advantage be out of the play. However, +when, moved by the nobleness of Luria, she gives up her revenge on +Florence, she speaks well, and her outburst is poetical. Puccio is +a real personage, but a poor fellow. Tiburzio is a pale reflection +of Luria. Husain alone has some personality, but even his +Easternness, which isolates him, is merged in his love of Luria. +All of them only exist to be the scaffolding by means of which +Luria's character is built into magnificence, and they disappear +from our sight, like scaffolding, when the building is +finished.</p> +<p>There are fine things in the poem: the image of Florence; its +men, its streets, its life as seen by the stranger-eyes of Luria; +the contrast between the Eastern and the Latin nature; the picture +of hot war; the sudden friendship of Luria and Tiburzio, the +recognition in a moment of two high hearts by one another; the +picture of Tiburzio fighting at the ford, of Luria tearing the +letter among the shamed conspirators; the drawing of the rough +honest soldier-nature in Puccio, and, chief of all, the vivid +historic painting of the time and the type of Italian character at +the time of the republics.</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p>The first part of <i>A Soul's Tragedy</i> is written in poetry +and the second in prose. The first part is dull but the second is +very lively and amusing; so gay and clever that we begin to wish +that a <a name='Page239' id="Page239"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>239</span>good deal of Browning's dramas had been written +in prose. And the prose itself, unlike his more serious prose in +his letters and essays, is good, clear, and of an excellent style. +The time of the play is in the sixteenth century; but there is +nothing in it which is special to that time: no scenery, no vivid +pictures of street life, no distinct atmosphere of the period. It +might just as well be of the eighteenth or nineteenth century. The +character of Chiappino may be found in any provincial town. This +compound of envy, self-conceit, superficial cleverness and real +silliness is one of our universal plagues, and not uncommon among +the demagogues of any country. And he contrasts him with Ogniben, +the Pope's legate, another type, well known in governments, skilled +in affairs, half mocking, half tolerant of the "foolish people," +the alluring destroyer of all self-seeking leaders of the people. +He also is as common as Chiappino, as modern as he is ancient. Both +are representative types, and admirably drawn. They are done at too +great length, but Browning could not manage them as well in Drama +as he would have done in a short piece such as he placed in <i>Men +and Women</i>. Why this little thing is called <i>A Soul's +Tragedy</i> I cannot quite understand. That title supposes that +Chiappino loses his soul at the end of the play. But it is plain +from his mean and envious talk at the beginning with Eulalia that +his soul is already lost. He is not worse at the end, but perhaps +on the way to betterment. The tragedy is then in the discovery by +the people that he who was thought to be a great soul is a fraud. +But that conclusion was not Browning's intention. Finally, if this +be <a name='Page240' id="Page240"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>240</span>a tragedy it is clothed with comedy. Browning's +humour was never more wise, kindly, worldly and biting than in the +second act, and Ogniben may well be set beside Bishop Blougram. It +would be a privilege to dine with either of them.</p> +<p>Every one is in love with <i>Pippa Passes</i>, which appeared +immediately after <i>Sordello</i>. It may have been a refreshment +to Browning after the complexities and metaphysics of +<i>Sordello</i>, to live for a time with the soft simplicity of +Pippa, with the clear motives of the separate occurrences at Asolo, +with the outside picturesque world, and in a lyric atmosphere. It +certainly is a refreshment to us. It is a pity so little was done +by Browning in this pleasant, graceful, happy way. The substance of +thought in it and its intellectual force are just as strong as in +<i>Sordello</i> or <i>Paracelsus</i>, and are concerned, especially +in the first two pieces, with serious and weighty matters of human +life. Beyond the pleasure the poem gives, its indirect teaching is +full of truth and beauty; and the things treated of belong to many +phases of human life, and touch their problems with poetic light +and love. Pippa herself, in her affectionate, natural goodness, +illuminates the greater difficulties of life in a single day more +than Sordello or Paracelsus could in the whole course of their +lives.</p> +<p>It may be that there are persons who think lightly of <i>Pippa +Passes</i> in comparison with <i>Fifine at the Fair</i>, persons +who judge poetry by the difficulties they find in its perusal. But +<i>Pippa Passes</i> fulfils the demands of the art of poetry, and +produces in the world the high results of lovely and noble poetry. +The other only does these things in part; <a name='Page241' id= +"Page241"></a><span class='pagenum'>241</span>and when <i>Fifine at +the Fair</i> and even <i>Sordello</i> are in the future only the +study of pedants, <i>Pippa Passes</i> will be an enduring strength +and pleasure to all who love tenderly and think widely. And those +portions of it which belong to Pippa herself, the most natural, +easy and simplest portions, will be the sources of the greatest +pleasure and the deepest thought. Like Sordello's song, they will +endure for the healing, comforting, exalting and impelling of the +world.</p> +<p>I have written of her and of other parts of the poem elsewhere. +It only remains to say that nowhere is the lyric element in +Browning's genius more delightfully represented than in this little +piece of mingled song and action. There is no better love-lyric in +his work than</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>You'll love me yet!—and I can tarry</p> +<p class='i2'>Your love's protracted growing;</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>and the two snatches of song which Pippa sings when she is +passing under Ottima's window and the Monsignore's—"The +year's at the spring" and "Overhead the tree-tops +meet"—possess, independent of the meaning of the words and +their poetic charm, a freshness, dewiness, morning ravishment to +which it is difficult to find an equal. They are filled with youth +and its delight, alike of the body and the soul. What Browning's +spirit felt and lived when he was young and his heart beating with +the life of the universe, is in them, and it is their greatest +charm.</p> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page242' id="Page242"></a><span class='pagenum'>242</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_IX' id="CHAPTER_IX"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> +<h3><i>POEMS OF THE PASSION OF LOVE</i></h3> +<p>When we leave <i>Paracelsus, Sordello</i> and the <i>Dramas</i> +behind, and find ourselves among the host of occasional poems +contained in the <i>Dramatic Lyrics</i> and <i>Romances</i>, in +<i>Men and Women</i>, in <i>Dramatis Personæ</i>, and in the +later volumes, it is like leaving an unencumbered sea for one +studded with a thousand islands. Every island is worth a visit and +different from the rest. Their variety, their distinct scenery, +their diverse inhabitants, the strange surprises in them, are as +continual an enchantment for the poetic voyager as the summer isles +of the Pacific. But while each of them is different from the rest, +yet, like the islands in the Pacific, they fall into groups; and to +isolate these groups is perhaps the best way to treat so varied a +collection of poems. To treat them chronologically would be a task +too long and wearisome for a book. To treat them zoologically, if I +may borrow that term, is possible, and may be profitable. This +chapter is dedicated to the poems which relate to Love.</p> +<p>Commonly speaking, the term <i>Love Poems</i> does not mean +poems concerning the absolute Love, or the love of Ideas, such as +Truth or Beauty, or Love of <a name='Page243' id= +"Page243"></a><span class='pagenum'>243</span>mankind or one's own +country, or the loves that belong to home, or the love of friends, +or even married love unless it be specially bound up, as it is in +Browning's poem of <i>By the Fireside</i>, with ante-nuptial +love—but poems expressing the isolating passion of one sex +for the other; chiefly in youth, or in conditions which resemble +those of youth, whether moral or immoral. These celebrate the joys +and sorrows, rapture and despair, changes and chances, moods, +fancies, and imaginations, quips and cranks and wanton wiles, all +the tragedy and comedy, of that passion, which is half of the sense +and half of the spirit, sometimes wholly of the senses and +sometimes wholly of the spirit. It began, in one form of it, among +the lower animals and still rules their lives; it has developed +through many thousand years of humanity into myriads of shapes in +and outside of the soul; into stories whose varieties and +multitudes are more numerous than the stars of heaven or the sand +of the seashore; and yet whose multitudinous changes and histories +have their source in two things only—in the desire to +generate, which is physical; in the desire to forget self in +another, which is spiritual. The union of both these desires into +one passion of thought, act and feeling is the fine quintessence of +this kind of love; but the latter desire alone is the primal motive +of all the other forms of love, from friendship and maternal love +to love of country, of mankind, of ideas, and of God.</p> +<p>With regard to love-poems of the sort we now discuss, the times +in history when they are most written are those in which a nation +or mankind renews its youth. Their production in the days of +<a name='Page244' id="Page244"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>244</span>Elizabeth was enormous, their passion various +and profound, their fancy elaborate, their ornament extravagant +with the extravagance of youth; and, in the hands of the greater +men, their imagination was as fine as their melody. As that age +grew older they were not replaced but were dominated by more +serious subjects; and though love in its fantasies was happily +recorded in song during the Caroline period, passion in English +love-poetry slowly decayed till the ideas of the Revolution, before +the French outbreak, began to renew the youth of the world. The +same career is run by the individual poet. The subject of his youth +is the passion of love, as it was in Browning's <i>Pauline</i>. The +subjects of his manhood are serious with other thought and feeling, +sad with another sadness, happy with another happiness. They +traverse a wider range of human feeling and thought, and when they +speak of love, it is of love in its wiser, steadier, graver and +less selfish forms. It was so with Browning, who far sooner than +his comrades, escaped from the tangled wilderness of youthful +passion. It is curious to think that so young a creature as he was +in 1833 should have left the celebration of the love of woman +behind him, and only written of the love which his +<i>Paracelsus</i> images in Aprile. It seems a little insensitive +in so young a man. But I do not think Browning was ever quite young +save at happy intervals; and this falls in with the fact that his +imagination was more intellectual than passionate; that while he +felt love, he also analysed, even dissected it, as he wrote about +it; that it scarcely ever carried him away so far as to make him +forget everything but itself. Perhaps once or twice, as <a name= +'Page245' id="Page245"></a><span class='pagenum'>245</span>in +<i>The Last Ride Together</i>, he may have drawn near to this +absorption, but even then the man is thinking more of his own +thoughts than of the woman by his side, who must have been somewhat +wearied by so silent a companion. Even in <i>By the Fireside</i>, +when he is praising the wife whom he loved with all his soul, and +recalling the moment of early passion while yet they looked on one +another and felt their souls embrace before they spoke—it is +curious to find him deviating from the intensity of the +recollection into a discussion of what might have been if she had +not been what she was—a sort of <i>excursus</i> on the +chances of life which lasts for eight verses—before he +returns to that immortal moment. Even after years of married life, +a poet, to whom passion has been in youth supreme, would scarcely +have done that. On the whole, his poetry, like that of Wordsworth, +but not so completely, is destitute of the love-poem in the +ordinary sense of the word; and the few exceptions to which we +might point want so much that exclusiveness of a lover which shuts +out all other thought but that of the woman, that it is difficult +to class them in that species of literature. However, this is not +altogether true, and the main exception to it is a curious-piece of +literary and personal history. Those who read <i>Asolando</i>, the +last book of poems he published, were surprised to find with what +intensity some of the first poems in it described the passion of +sexual love. They are fully charged with isolated emotion; other +thoughts than those of love do not intrude upon them. Moreover, +they have a sincere lyric note. It is impossible, unless by a +miracle of imagination, that <a name='Page246' id= +"Page246"></a><span class='pagenum'>246</span>these could have been +written when he was about eighty years of age. I believe, though I +do not know, that he wrote them when he was quite a young man; that +he found them on looking over his portfolios, and had a dim and +scented pleasure in reading and publishing them in his old age. He +mentions in the preface that the book contains both old and new +poems. The new are easily isolated, and the first poem, the +introduction to the collection, is of the date of the book. The +rest belong to different periods of his life. The four poems to +which I refer are <i>Now, Summum Bonum, A Pearl—A Girl</i>, +and <i>Speculative</i>. They are beautiful with a beauty of their +own; full of that natural abandonment of the whole world for one +moment with the woman loved, which youth and the hours of youth in +manhood feel. I should have been sorry if Browning had not shaped +into song this abandonment. He loved the natural, and was convinced +of its rightness; and he had, as I might prove, a tenderness for it +even when it passed into wrong. He was the last man in the world to +think that the passion of noble sexual love was to be despised. And +it is pleasant to find, at the end of his long poetic career, that, +in a serious and wise old age, he selected, to form part of his +last book, poems of youthful and impassioned love, in which the +senses and the spirit met, each in their pre-eminence.</p> +<p>The two first of these, <i>Now</i> and <i>Summum Bonum</i>, must +belong to his youth, though from certain turns of expression and +thought in them, it seems that Browning worked on them at the time +he published them. I quote the second for its lyric charm, even +though the melody is ruthlessly broken,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page247' id="Page247"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>247</p> +<p>All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one +bee:</p> +<p class='i2'>All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of +one gem:</p> +<p>In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the +sea:</p> +<p class='i2'>Breath and bloom, shade and shine,—wonder, +wealth, and</p> +<p class='i4'>—how far above them—</p> +<p class='i6'>Truth, that's brighter than gem,</p> +<p class='i6'>Trust, that's purer than pearl,—</p> +<p>Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe—all were for +me</p> +<p class='i6'>In the kiss of one girl.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The next two poems are knit to this and to <i>Now</i> by the +strong emotion of earthly love, of the senses as well as of the +spirit, for one woman; but they differ in the period at which they +were written. The first, <i>A Pearl—A Girl</i>, recalls that +part of the poem <i>By the Fireside</i>, when one look, one word, +opened the infinite world of love to Browning. If written when he +was young, it has been revised in after life.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>A simple ring with a single stone</p> +<p class='i2'>To the vulgar eye no stone of price:</p> +<p>Whisper the right word, that alone—</p> +<p class='i2'>Forth starts a sprite, like fire from ice,</p> +<p>And lo, you are lord (says an Eastern scroll)</p> +<p>Of heaven and earth, lord whole and sole</p> +<p class='i2'>Through the power in a pearl.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>A woman ('tis I this time that say)</p> +<p class='i2'>With little the world counts worthy praise</p> +<p>Utter the true word—out and away</p> +<p class='i2'>Escapes her soul: I am wrapt in blaze,</p> +<p>Creation's lord, of heaven and earth</p> +<p>Lord whole and sole—by a minute's birth—</p> +<p class='i2'>Through the love in a girl!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The second—<i>Speculative</i>—also describes a +moment of love-longing, but has the characteristics of his later +poetry. It may be of the same date as the book, or not much +earlier. It may be of his <a name='Page248' id= +"Page248"></a><span class='pagenum'>248</span>later manhood, of the +time when he lost his wife. At any rate, it is intense enough. It +looks back on the love he has lost, on passion with the woman he +loved. And he would surrender all—Heaven, Nature, Man, +Art—in this momentary fire of desire; for indeed such passion +is momentary. Momentariness is the essence of the poem. "Even in +heaven I will cry for the wild hours now gone by—Give me back +the Earth and Thyself." <i>Speculative</i>, he calls it, in an +after irony.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Others may need new life in Heaven—</p> +<p class='i2'>Man, Nature, Art—made new, assume!</p> +<p>Man with new mind old sense to leaven,</p> +<p class='i2'>Nature—new light to clear old gloom,</p> +<p>Art that breaks bounds, gets soaring-room.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>I shall pray: "Fugitive as precious—</p> +<p class='i2'>Minutes which passed,—return, remain!</p> +<p>Let earth's old life once more enmesh us,</p> +<p class='i2'>You with old pleasure, me—old pain,</p> +<p class='i2'>So we but meet nor part again!"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Nor was this reversion to the passion of youthful love +altogether a new departure. The lyrics in <i>Ferishtah's +Fancies</i> are written to represent, from the side of emotion, the +intellectual and ethical ideas worked out in the poems. The greater +number of them are beautiful, and they would gain rather than lose +if they were published separately from the poems. Some are plainly +of the same date as the poems. Others, I think, were written in +Browning's early time, and the preceding poems are made to fit +them. But whatever be their origin, they nearly all treat of love, +and one of them with a crude claim on the love of the senses alone, +as if that—as if the love of the body, even alone—were +<a name='Page249' id="Page249"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>249</span>not apart from the consideration of a poet who +wished to treat of the whole of human nature. Browning, when he +wished to make a thought or a fact quite plain, frequently stated +it without any of its modifications, trusting to his readers not to +mistake him; knowing indeed, that if they cared to find the other +side—in this case the love which issues from the senses and +the spirit together, or from the spirit alone—they would find +it stated just as soundly and clearly. He meant us to combine both +statements, and he has done so himself with regard to love.</p> +<p>When, however, we have considered these exceptions, it still +remains curious how little the passionate Love-poem, with its +strong personal touch, exists in Browning's poetry. One reason may +be that Love-poems of this kind are naturally lyrical, and demand a +sweet melody in the verse, and Browning's genius was not especially +lyrical, nor could he inevitably command a melodious movement in +his verse. But the main reason is that he was taken up with other +and graver matters, and chiefly with the right theory of life; with +the true relation of God and man; and with the picturing—for +absolute Love's sake, and in order to win men to love one another +by the awakening of pity—of as much of humanity as he could +grasp in thought and feeling. Isolated and personal love was only a +small part of this large design.</p> +<p>One personal love, however, he possessed fully and intensely. It +was his love for his wife, and three poems embody it. The first is +<i>By the Fireside</i>. It does not take rank as a true love lyric; +it is too long, too many-motived for a lyric. It is a <a name= +'Page250' id="Page250"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>250</span>meditative poem of recollective tenderness +wandering through the past; and no poem written on married love in +England is more beautiful. The poet, sitting silent in the room +where his wife sits with him, sees all his life with her unrolled, +muses on what has been, and is, since she came to bless his life, +or what will be, since she continues to bless it; and all the +fancies and musings which, in a usual love lyric, would not +harmonise with the intensity of love-passion in youth, exactly fit +in with the peace and satisfied joy of a married life at home with +God and nature and itself. The poem is full of personal charm. +Quiet thought, profound feeling and sweet memory like a sunlit +mist, soften the aspect of the room, the image of his wife, and all +the thoughts, emotions and scenery described. It is a finished +piece of art.</p> +<p>The second of these poems is the Epilogue to the volumes of +<i>Men and Women</i>, entitled <i>One Word More</i>. It also is a +finished piece of art, carefully conceived, upbuilded stone by +stone, touch by touch, each separate thought with its own emotion, +each adding something to the whole, each pushing Browning's emotion +and picture into our souls, till the whole impression is received. +It is full, and full to the brim, with the long experience of +peaceful joy in married love. And the subtlety of the close of it, +and of Browning's play with his own fancy about the moon, do not +detract from the tenderness of it; for it speaks not of transient +passion but of the love of a whole life lived from end to end in +music.</p> +<p>The last of these is entitled <i>Prospice</i>. When he wrote it +he had lost his wife. It tells what she <a name='Page251' id= +"Page251"></a><span class='pagenum'>251</span>had made of him; it +reveals alike his steadfast sadness that she had gone from him and +the steadfast resolution, due to her sweet and enduring power, with +which, after her death, he promised, bearing with him his sorrow +and his memory of joy, to stand and withstand in the battle of +life, ever a fighter to the close—and well he kept his word. +It ends with the expression of his triumphant certainty of meeting +her, and breaks forth at last into so great a cry of pure passion +that ear and heart alike rejoice. Browning at his best, Browning in +the central fire of his character, is in it.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,</p> +<p class='i2'>The mist in my face,</p> +<p>When the snows begin, and the blasts denote</p> +<p class='i2'>I am nearing the place,</p> +<p>The power of the night, the press of the storm,</p> +<p class='i2'>The post of the foe;</p> +<p>Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,</p> +<p class='i2'>Yet the strong man must go:</p> +<p>For the journey is done and the summit attained</p> +<p class='i2'>And the barriers fall,</p> +<p>Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,</p> +<p class='i2'>The reward of it all.</p> +<p>I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,</p> +<p class='i2'>The best and the last!</p> +<p>I would hate that Death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,</p> +<p class='i2'>And bade me creep past.</p> +<p>No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers</p> +<p class='i2'>The heroes of old,</p> +<p>Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears</p> +<p class='i2'>Of pain, darkness and cold.</p> +<p>For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,</p> +<p class='i2'>The black minute's at end,</p> +<p>And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,</p> +<p class='i2'>Shall dwindle, shall blend,</p> +<p>Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,</p> +<p class='i2'>Then a light, then thy breast,</p> +<p>O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,</p> +<p class='i2'>And with God be the rest!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page252' id="Page252"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>252</span>Leaving now these personal poems on Love, we +come to those we may call impersonal. They are poems about love, +not in its simplicities, but in its subtle moments—moments +that Browning loved to analyse, and which he informed not so much +with the passion of love, as with his profound love of human +nature. He describes in them, with the seriousness of one who has +left youth behind, the moods of love, its changes, vagaries, +certainties, failures and conquests. It is a man writing, not of +the love of happy youth, but of love tossed on the stormy seas of +manhood and womanhood, and modified from its singular personal +intensity by the deeper thought, feeling and surprising chances of +our mortal life. Love does not stand alone, as in the true love +lyric, but with many other grave matters. As such it is a more +interesting subject for Browning. For Love then becomes full of +strange turns, unexpected thoughts, impulses unknown before +creating varied circumstances, and created by them; and these his +intellectual spirituality delighted to cope with, and to follow, +labyrinth after labyrinth. I shall give examples of these separate +studies, which have always an idea beyond the love out of which the +poem arises. In some of them the love is finally absorbed in the +idea. In all of them their aim is beyond the love of which they +speak.</p> +<p><i>Love among the Ruins</i> tells of a lover going to meet his +sweetheart. There are many poems with this expectant motive in the +world of song, and no motive has been written of with greater +emotion. If we are to believe these poems, or have ever waited +ourselves, the hour contains nothing but her <a name='Page253' id= +"Page253"></a><span class='pagenum'>253</span>presence, what she is +doing, how she is coming, why she delays, what it will be when she +comes—a thousand things, each like white fire round her +image. But Browning's lover, through nine verses, cares only for +the wide meadows over which he makes his way and the sheep +wandering over them, and their flowers and the ruins in the midst +of them; musing on the changes and contrasts of the world—the +lonely land and the populous glory which was of old in the vast +city. It is only then, and only in two lines, that he thinks of the +girl who is waiting for him in the ruined tower. Even then his +imagination cannot stay with her, but glances from her +instantly—thinking that the ancient king stood where she is +waiting, and looked, full of pride, from the high tower on his +splendid city. When he has elaborated this second excursion of +thought he comes at last to the girl. Then is the hour of passion, +but even in its fervour he draws a conclusion, belonging to a +higher world than youthful love, as remote from it as his +description of the scenery and the ruins. "Splendour of arms, +triumph of wealth, centuries of glory and pride, they are nothing +to love. Love is best." It is a general, not a particular +conclusion. In a true Love-poem it would be particular.</p> +<p>Another poem of waiting love is <i>In Three Days</i>. And this +has the spirit of a true love lyric in it. It reads like a personal +thing; it breathes exaltation; it is quick, hurried, and thrilled. +The delicate fears of chance and change in the three days, or in +the years to come, belong of right and nature to the waiting, and +are subtly varied and condensed. It is, however, the thoughtful +love of a <a name='Page254' id="Page254"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>254</span>man who can be metaphysical in love, not the +excluding mastery of passion.</p> +<p><i>Two in the Campagna</i> is another poem in which love passes +away into a deeper thought than love—a strange and +fascinating poem of twofold desire. The man loves a woman and +desires to be at peace with her in love, but there is a more +imperative passion in his soul—to rest in the infinite, in +accomplished perfection. And his livelong and vain pursuit of this +has wearied him so much that he has no strength left to realise +earthly love. Is it possible that she who now walks with him in the +Campagna can give him in her love the peace of the infinite which +he desires, and if not, why—where is the fault? For a moment +he seems to catch the reason, and asks his love to see it with him +and to grasp it. In a moment, like the gossamer thread he traces +only to see it vanish, it is gone—and nothing is left, +save</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Infinite passion, and the pain</p> +<p>Of finite hearts that yearn.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Least of all is the woman left. She has quite disappeared. This +is not a Love-poem at all, it is the cry of Browning's hunger for +eternity in the midst of mortality, in which all the hunger for +earthly love is burnt to dust.</p> +<p>The rest are chiefly studies of different kinds of love, or of +crises in love; moments in its course, in its origin or its +failure. There are many examples in the shorter dramatic pieces, as +<i>In a Balcony</i>; and even in the longer dramas certain sharp +climaxes of love are recorded, not as if they belonged to the +drama, but as if they were distinct studies introduced by chance or +caprice. In the <a name='Page255' id="Page255"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>255</span>short poems called "dramatic" these studies are +numerous, and I group a few of them together according to their +motives, leaving out some which I shall hereafter treat of when I +come to discuss the women in Browning. <i>Evelyn Hope</i> has +nothing to do with the passion of love. The physical element of +love is entirely excluded by the subject. It is a beautiful +expression of a love purely spiritual, to be realised in its +fulness only after death, spirit with spirit, but yet to be kept as +the master of daily life, to whose law all thought and action are +referred. The thought is noble, the expression of it simple, fine, +and clear. It is, moreover, close to truth—there are hundreds +of men who live quietly in love of that kind, and die in its +embrace.</p> +<p>In <i>Cristina</i> the love is just as spiritual, but the motive +of the poem is not one, as in <i>Evelyn Hope</i>, but two. The +woman is not dead, and she has missed her chance. But the lover has +not. He has seen her and in a moment loved her. She also looked on +him and felt her soul matched by his as they "rushed together." But +the world carried her away and she lost the fulness of life. He, on +the contrary, kept the moment for ever, and with it, her and all +she might have been with him.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Her soul's mine: and thus grown perfect,</p> +<p>I shall pass my life's remainder.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is not the usual Love-poem. It is a love as spiritual, as +mystic, even more mystic, since the woman lives, than the lover +felt for Evelyn Hope.</p> +<p>The second motive in <i>Cristina</i> of the lover who meets the +true partner of his soul or hers, and either seizes the happy hour +and possesses joy for ever, or misses it and loses all, is a +favourite with <a name='Page256' id="Page256"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>256</span>Browning. He repeats it frequently under +diverse circumstances, for it opened out so many various endings, +and afforded so much opportunity for his beloved analysis. +Moreover, optimist as he was in his final thought of man, he was +deeply conscious of the ironies of life, of the ease with which +things go wrong, of the impossibility of setting them right from +without. And in the matter of love he marks in at least four poems +how the moment was held and life was therefore conquest. Then in +<i>Youth and Art</i>, in <i>Dis Aliter Visum</i>, in +<i>Bifurcation</i>, in <i>The Lost Mistress</i>, and in <i>Too +Late</i>, he records the opposite fate, and in characters so +distinct that the repetition of the motive is not monotonous. These +are studies of the Might-have-beens of love.</p> +<p>Another motive, used with varied circumstance in three or four +poems, but fully expanded in <i>James Lee's Wife</i>, is the +discovery, after years of love, that love on one side is lost +irretrievably. Another motive is, that rather than lose love men or +women will often sacrifice their conscience, their reason, or their +liberty. This sacrifice, of all that makes our nobler being for the +sake of personal love alone, brings with it, because the whole +being is degraded, the degradation, decay, and death of personal +love itself.</p> +<p>Another set of poems describes with fanciful charm, sometimes +with happy gaiety, love at play with itself. True love makes in the +soul an unfathomable ocean in whose depths are the imaginations of +love, serious, infinite, and divine. But on its surface the light +of jewelled fancies plays—a thousand thousand sunny memories +and hopes, <a name='Page257' id="Page257"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>257</span>flying thoughts and dancing feelings. A poet +would be certain to have often seen this happy crowd, and to desire +to trick them out in song. So Browning does in his poem, <i>In a +Gondola</i>. The two lovers, with the dark shadow of fate brooding +over them, sing and muse and speak alternately, imaging in swift +and rival pictures made by fancy their deep-set love; playing with +its changes, creating new worlds in which to place it, but always +returning to its isolated individuality; recalling how it began, +the room where it reached its aim, the pictures, the furniture, the +balcony, her dress, all the scenery, in a hundred happy and +glancing pictures; while interlaced through their gaiety—and +the gaiety made keener by the nearness of dark fate—is coming +death, death well purchased by an hour of love. Finally, the lover +is stabbed and slain, and the pity of it throws back over the +sunshine of love's fancies a cloud of tears. This is the stuff of +life that Browning loved to paint—interwoven darkness and +brightness, sorrow and joy trembling each on the edge of the other, +life playing at ball, as joyous as Nausicaa and her maids, on a +thin crust over a gulf of death.</p> +<p>Just such another poem—of the sportiveness of love, only +this time in memory, not in present pleasure, is to be found in +<i>A Lovers' Quarrel</i>, and the quarrel is the dark element in +it. Browning always feels that mighty passion has its root in +tragedy, and that it seeks relief in comedy. The lover sits by the +fireside alone, and recalls, forgetting pain for a moment, the +joyful play they two had together, when love expressed its depth of +pleasure in dramatic fancies. Every separate picture is done +<a name='Page258' id="Page258"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>258</span>in Browning's impressionist way. And when the +glad memories are over, and the sorrow returns, passion leaps +out—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i2'>It is twelve o'clock:</p> +<p class='i2'>I shall hear her knock</p> +<p>In the worst of a storm's uproar,</p> +<p class='i2'>I shall pull her through the door,</p> +<p>I shall have her for evermore!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is partly a study of the memory of love; and Browning has +represented, without any sorrow linked to it, memorial love in a +variety of characters under different circumstances, so that, +though the subject is the same, the treatment varies. A charming +instance of this is <i>The Flowers Name</i>; easy to read, happy in +its fancy, in its scenery, in the subtle play of deep affection, in +the character of its lover, in the character of the girl who is +remembered—a good example of Browning's power to image in a +few verses two human souls so clearly that they live in our world +for ever. <i>Meeting at Night—Parting at Morning</i> is +another reminiscence, mixed up with the natural scenery of the +meeting and parting, a vivid recollection of a fleeting night of +passion, and then the abandonment of its isolation for a wider, +fuller life with humanity. I quote it for the fine impassioned way +in which human feeling and natural scenery are fused together.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>MEETING AT NIGHT.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>The grey sea and the long black land;</p> +<p class='i2'>And the yellow half-moon large and low;</p> +<p>And the startled little waves that leap</p> +<p>In fiery ringlets from their sleep,</p> +<p class='i2'>As I gain the cove with pushing prow.</p> +<p>And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.</p> +<a name='Page259' id="Page259"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>259</p> +<p>Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;</p> +<p class='i2'>Three fields to cross till a farm appears;</p> +<p>A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch</p> +<p>And blue spurt of a lighted match,</p> +<p class='i2'>And a voice less loud, through its joys and +fears.</p> +<p>Than the two hearts beating each to each!</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>PARTING AT MORNING.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,</p> +<p class='i2'>And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:</p> +<p class='i2'>And straight was a path of gold for him,</p> +<p>And the need of a world of men for me.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The poem entitled <i>Confessions</i> is another of these +memories, in which a dying man, careless of death, careless of the +dull conventions of the clergyman, cares for nothing but the memory +of his early passion for a girl one happy June, and dies in comfort +of the sweetness of the memory, though he thinks—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>How sad and bad and mad it was.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Few but Browning would have seen, and fewer still have recorded, +this vital piece of truth. It represents a whole type of +character—those who in a life of weary work keep their day of +love, even when it has been wrong, as their one poetic, ideal +possession, and cherish it for ever. The wrong of it disappears in +the ideal beauty which now has gathered round it, and as it was +faithful, unmixed with other love, it escapes degradation. We see, +when the man images the past and its scenery out of the bottles of +physic on the table, how the material world had been idealised to +him all his life long by this passionate memory—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Do I view the world as a vale of tears?</p> +<p class='i2'>Ah, reverend sir, not I.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page260' id="Page260"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>260</span>It might be well to compare with this another +treatment of the memory of love in <i>St. Martin's Summer</i>. A +much less interesting and natural motive rules it than +<i>Confessions</i>; and the characters, though more "in society" +than the dying man, are grosser in nature; gross by their inability +to love, or by loving freshly to make a new world in which the old +sorrow dies or is transformed. There is no humour in the thing, +though there is bitter irony. But there is humour in an earlier +poem—<i>A Serenade at the Villa</i>, where, in the last +verse, the bitterness of wrath and love together (a very different +bitterness from that of <i>St. Martin's Summer</i>), breaks out, +and is attributed to the garden gate. The night-watch and the +singing is over; she must have heard him, but she gave no sign. He +wonders what she thought, and then, because he was only half in +love, flings away—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Oh how dark your villa was,</p> +<p class='i2'>Windows fast and obdurate!</p> +<p>How the garden grudged me grass</p> +<p class='i2'>Where I stood—the iron gate</p> +<p>Ground its teeth to let me pass!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>It is impossible to notice all these studies of love, but they +form, together, a book of transient phases of the passion in almost +every class of society. And they show how Browning, passing through +the world, from the Quartier Latin to London drawing-rooms, was +continually on the watch to catch, store up, and reproduce a crowd +of motives for poetry which his memory held and his imagination +shaped.</p> +<p>There is only one more poem, which I cannot pass by in this +group of studies. It is one of <a name='Page261' id= +"Page261"></a><span class='pagenum'>261</span>sacred and personal +memory, so much so that it is probable the loss of his life lies +beneath it. It rises into that highest poetry which fuses together +into one form a hundred thoughts and a hundred emotions, and which +is only obscure from the mingling of their multitude. I quote it, I +cannot comment on it.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i4'>Never the time and the place</p> +<p class='i6'>And the loved one all together!</p> +<p class='i4'>This path—how soft to pace!</p> +<p class='i6'>This May—what magic weather!</p> +<p class='i4'>Where is the loved one's face?</p> +<p>In a dream that loved one's face meets mine</p> +<p class='i2'>But the house is narrow, the place is bleak</p> +<p>Where, outside, rain and wind combine</p> +<p class='i2'>With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak,</p> +<p class='i2'>With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek,</p> +<p>With a malice that marks each word, each sign!</p> +<p class='i4'>O enemy sly and serpentine,</p> +<p class='i4'>Uncoil thee from the waking man!</p> +<p class='i6'>Do I hold the Past</p> +<p class='i6'>Thus firm and fast</p> +<p class='i4'>Yet doubt if the Future hold I can?</p> +<p class='i2'>This path so soft to pace shall lead</p> +<p class='i2'>Through the magic of May to herself indeed!</p> +<p class='i2'>Or narrow if needs the house must be,</p> +<p class='i2'>Outside are the storms and strangers: we—</p> +<p class='i2'>Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she,</p> +<p class='i1'>—I and she!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>That, indeed, is passionate enough.</p> +<p>Then there is another group—tales which embody phases of +love. <i>Count Gismond</i> is one of these. It is too long, and +wants Browning's usual force. The outline of the story was, +perhaps, too simple to interest his intellect, and he needed in +writing poetry not only the emotional subject, but that there +should be something in or behind the <a name='Page262' id= +"Page262"></a><span class='pagenum'>262</span>emotion through the +mazes of which his intelligence might glide like a serpent.<a name= +'FNanchor_10_10' id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href= +'#Footnote_10_10'>[10]</a></p> +<p><i>The Glove</i> is another of these tales—a good example +of the brilliant fashion in which Browning could, by a strange +kaleidoscopic turn of his subject, give it a new aspect and a new +ending. The world has had the tale before it for a very long time. +Every one had said the woman was wrong and the man right; but here, +poetic juggler as he is, Browning makes the woman right and the man +wrong, reversing the judgment of centuries. The best of it is, that +he seems to hold the truth of the thing. It is amusing to think +that only now, in the other world, if she and Browning meet, will +she find herself comprehended.</p> +<p>Finally, as to the mightier kinds of love, those supreme forms +of the passion, which have neither beginning nor end; to which time +and space are but names; which make and fill the universe; the +least grain of which predicates the whole; the spirit of which is +God Himself; the breath of whose life is immortal joy, or sorrow +which means joy; whose vision is Beauty, and whose activity is +Creation—these, united in God, or divided among men into +their three great entities—love of ideas for their truth and +beauty; love of the natural universe, which is God's garment; love +of humanity, which is God's child—these pervade the whole of +Browning's poetry as the heat of the sun pervades the earth and +every little grain upon it. They make its warmth <a name='Page263' +id="Page263"></a><span class='pagenum'>263</span>and life, strength +and beauty. They are too vast to be circumscribed in a lyric, +represented in a drama, bound up even in a long story of spiritual +endeavour like <i>Paracelsus</i>. But they move, in dignity, +splendour and passion, through all that he deeply conceived and +nobly wrought; and their triumph and immortality in his poetry are +never for one moment clouded with doubt or subject to death. This +is the supreme thing in his work. To him Love is the Conqueror, and +Love is God.</p> +<p><a name='Page264' id="Page264"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>264</span>FOOTNOTES:</p> +<div class='footnote'> +<p><a name='Footnote_10_10' id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href= +'#FNanchor_10_10'>[10]</a> There is one simple story at least which +he tells quite admirably, <i>The Pied Piper of Hamelin</i>. But +then, that story, if it is not troubled by intellectual matter, is +also not troubled by any deep emotion. It is told by a poet who +becomes a child for children.</p> +</div> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='CHAPTER_X' id="CHAPTER_X"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> +<h3><i>THE PASSIONS OTHER THAN LOVE</i></h3> +<p>The poems on which I have dwelt in the last chapter, though they +are mainly concerned with love between the sexes, illustrate the +other noble passions, all of which, such as joy, are forms of, or +rather children of, self-forgetful love. They do not illustrate the +evil or ignoble passions—envy, jealousy, hatred, base fear, +despair, revenge, avarice and remorse—which, driven by the +emotion that so fiercely and swiftly accumulates around them, +master the body and soul, the intellect and the will, like some +furious tyrant, and in their extremes hurry their victim into +madness. Browning took some of these terrible powers and made them +subjects in his poetry. Short, sharp-outlined sketches of them +occur in his dramas and longer poems. There is no closer image in +literature of long-suppressed fear breaking out into its agony of +despair than in the lines which seal Guido's pleading in the <i>The +Ring and the Book</i>.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>Life is all!</p> +<p>I was just stark mad,—let the madman live</p> +<p>Pressed by as many chains as you please pile!</p> +<p>Don't open! Hold me from them! I am yours,</p> +<p>I am the Grand Duke's—no, I am the Pope's!</p> +<p>Abate,—Cardinal,—Christ,—Maria,—God, +...</p> +<p>Pompilia, will you let them murder me?</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page265' id="Page265"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>265</span>But there is no elaborate, long-continued study +of these sordid and evil things in Browning. He was not one of our +modern realists who love to paddle and splash in the sewers of +humanity. Not only was he too healthy in mind to dwell on them, but +he justly held them as not fit subjects for art unless they were +bound up with some form of pity, as jealousy and envy are in +Shakespeare's treatment of the story of Othello; or imaged along +with so much of historic scenery that we lose in our interest in +the decoration some of the hatefulness of the passion. The +combination, for example, of envy and hatred resolved on vengeance +in <i>The Laboratory</i> is too intense for any pity to intrude, +but Browning realises not only the evil passions in the woman but +the historical period also and its temper; and he fills the poem +with scenery which, though it leaves the woman first in our eyes, +yet lessens the malignant element. The same, but of course with the +difference Browning's variety creates, may be said of the story of +the envious king, where envy crawls into hatred, hatred almost +motiveless—the <i>Instans Tyrannus</i>. A faint vein of +humour runs through it. The king describes what has been; his +hatred has passed. He sees how small and fanciful it was, and the +illustrations he uses to express it tell us that; though they carry +with them also the contemptuous intensity of his past hatred. The +swell of the hatred remains, though the hatred is past. So we are +not left face to face with absolute evil, with the corruption hate +engenders in the soul. God has intervened, and the worst of it has +passed away.</p> +<p>Then there is the study of hatred in the <i>Soliloquy <a name= +'Page266' id="Page266"></a><span class='pagenum'>266</span>of the +Spanish Cloister</i>. The hatred is black and deadly, the +instinctive hatred of a brutal nature for a delicate one, which, +were it unrelieved, would be too vile for the art of poetry. But it +is relieved, not only by the scenery, the sketch of the monks in +the refectory, the garden of flowers, the naughty girls seated on +the convent bank washing their black hair, but also by the +admirable humour which ripples like laughter through the hopes of +his hatred, and by the brilliant sketching of the two men. We see +them, know them, down to their little tricks at dinner, and we end +by realising hatred, it is true, but in too agreeable a fashion for +just distress.</p> +<p>In other poems of the evil passions the relieving element is +pity. There are the two poems entitled <i>Before</i> and +<i>After</i>, that is, before and after the duel. <i>Before</i> is +the statement of one of the seconds, with curious side-thoughts +introduced by Browning's mental play with the subject, that the +duel is absolutely necessary. The challenger has been deeply +wronged; and he cannot and will not let forgiveness intermit his +vengeance. The man in us agrees with that; the Christian in us +says, "Forgive, let God do the judgment." But the passion for +revenge has here its way and the guilty falls. And now let Browning +speak—Forgiveness is right and the vengeance-fury wrong. The +dead man has escaped, the living has not escaped the wrath of +conscience; pity is all.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Take the cloak from his face, and at first</p> +<p class='i2'>Let the corpse do its worst!</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>How he lies in his rights of a man!</p> +<p class='i2'>Death has done all death can.</p> +<p>And, absorbed in the new life he leads,</p> +<p class='i2'>He recks not, he heeds</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page267' id="Page267"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>267</p> +<p>Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike</p> +<p class='i2'>On his senses alike,</p> +<p>And are lost in the solemn and strange</p> +<p class='i2'>Surprise of the change.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Ha, what avails death to erase</p> +<p class='i2'>His offence, my disgrace?</p> +<p>I would we were boys as of old</p> +<p class='i2'>In the field, by the fold:</p> +<p>His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn</p> +<p class='i2'>Were so easily borne!</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>I stand here now, he lies in his place;</p> +<p class='i2'>Cover the face.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Again, there are few studies in literature of contempt, hatred +and revenge more sustained and subtle than Browning's poem entitled +<i>A Forgiveness</i>; and the title marks how, though the justice +of revenge was accomplished on the woman, yet that pity, even love +for her, accompanied and followed the revenge. Our natural revolt +against the cold-blooded work of hatred is modified, when we see +the man's heart and the woman's soul, into pity for their fate. The +man tells his story to a monk in the confessional, who has been the +lover of his wife. He is a statesman absorbed in his work, yet he +feels that his wife makes his home a heaven, and he carries her +presence with him all the day. His wife takes the first lover she +meets, and, discovered, tells her husband that she hates him. "Kill +me now," she cries. But he despises her too much to hate her; she +is not worth killing. Three years they live together in that +fashion, till one evening she tells him the truth. "I was jealous +of your work. I took my revenge by taking a lover, but I loved you, +you only, all the time, and lost you—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page268' id="Page268"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>268</p> +<p class='i12'>I thought you gave</p> +<p>Your heart and soul away from me to slave</p> +<p>At statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost,</p> +<p>I stung myself to teach you, to your cost,</p> +<p>What you rejected could be prized beyond</p> +<p>Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fond</p> +<p>Look on, a fatal word to.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>"Ah, is that true, you loved and still love? Then contempt +perishes, and hate takes its place. Write your confession, and die +by my hand. Vengeance is foreign to contempt, you have risen to the +level at which hate can act. I pardon you, for as I slay hate +departs—and now, sir," and he turns to the monk—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>She sleeps, as erst</p> +<p>Beloved, in this your church: ay, yours!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>and drives the poisoned dagger through the grate of the +confessional into the heart of her lover.</p> +<p>This is Browning's closest study of hate, contempt, and revenge. +But bitter and close as it is, what is left with us is pity for +humanity, pity for the woman, pity for the lover, pity for the +husband.</p> +<p>Again, in the case of Sebald and Ottima in <i>Pippa Passes</i>, +pity also rules. Love passing into lust has led to hate, and these +two have slaked their hate and murdered Luca, Ottima's husband. +They lean out of the window of the shrub-house as the morning +breaks. For the moment their false love is supreme. Their crime +only creeps like a snake, half asleep, about the bottom of their +hearts; they recall their early passion and try to brazen it forth +in the face of their murder, which now rises, dreadful and more +dreadful, into threatening life in their soul. They reanimate their +hate of Luca to <a name='Page269' id="Page269"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>269</span>lower their remorse, but at every instant his +blood stains their speech. At last, while Ottima loves on, Sebald's +dark horror turns to hatred of her he loved, till she lures him +back into desire of her again. The momentary lust cannot last, but +Browning shoots it into prominence that the outburst of horror and +repentance may be the greater.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now and now!</p> +<p>This way? Will you forgive me—be once more</p> +<p>My great queen?</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>At that moment Pippa passes by, singing:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>The year's at the spring</p> +<p>And day's at the morn;</p> +<p>Morning's at seven;</p> +<p>The hill-side's dew-pearled;</p> +<p>The lark's on the wing;</p> +<p>The snail's on the thorn;</p> +<p>God's in his heaven—</p> +<p>All's right with the world!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Something in it smites Sebald's heart like a hammer of God. He +repents, but in the cowardice of repentance curses her. That +baseness I do not think Browning should have introduced, no, nor +certain carnal phrases which, previously right, now jar with the +spiritual passion of repentance. But his fury with her passes away +into the passion of despair—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>My brain is drowned now—quite drowned: all I feel</p> +<p>Is ... is, at swift recurring intervals,</p> +<p>A hurry-down within me, as of waters</p> +<p>Loosened to smother up some ghastly pit:</p> +<p>There they go—whirls from a black fiery sea!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>lines which must have been suggested to Browning by verses, +briefer and more intense, in Webster's</p> +<p><a name='Page270' id="Page270"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>270</span><i>Duchess of Malfi</i>. Even Ottima, lifted by +her love, which purifies itself in wishing to die for her lover, +repents.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Not me,—to him, O God, be merciful!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Thus into this cauldron of sin Browning steals the pity of God. +We know they will be saved, so as by fire.</p> +<p>Then there is the poem on the story of <i>Cristina and +Monaldeschi</i>; a subject too odious, I think, to be treated +lyrically. It is a tale of love turned to hatred, and for good +cause, and of the pitiless vengeance which followed. Browning has +not succeeded in it; and it may be so because he could get no pity +into it. The Queen had none. Monaldeschi deserved none—a +coward, a fool, and a traitor! Nevertheless, more might have been +made of it by Browning. The poem is obscure and wandering, and the +effort he makes to grip the subject reveals nothing but the +weakness of the grip. It ought not to have been published.</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p>And now I turn to passions more delightful, that this chapter +may close in light and not in darkness—passions of the +imagination, of the romantic regions of the soul. There is, first, +the longing for the mystic world, the world beneath appearance, +with or without reference to eternity. Secondly, bound up with +that, there is the longing for the unknown, for following the gleam +which seems to lead us onward, but we know not where. Then, there +is the desire, the deeper for its constant suppression, for escape +from the prison of a worldly society, from its conventions and +maxims <a name='Page271' id="Page271"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>271</span>of morality, its barriers of custom and rule, +into liberty and unchartered life. Lastly, there is that longing to +discover and enjoy the lands of adventure and romance which +underlies and wells upwards through so much of modern life, and +which has never ceased to send its waters up to refresh the world. +These are romantic passions. On the whole, Browning does not often +touch them in their earthly activities. His highest romance was +beyond this world. It claimed eternity, and death was the entrance +into its enchanted realm. When he did bring romantic feeling into +human life, it was for the most part in the hunger and thirst, +which, as in <i>Abt Vogler</i>, urged men beyond the visible into +the invisible. But now and again he touched the Romantic of Earth. +<i>Childe Roland</i>, <i>The Flight of the Duchess</i>, and some +others, are alive with the romantic spirit.</p> +<p>But before I write of these, there are a few lyrical poems, +written in the freshness of his youth, which are steeped in the +light of the story-telling world; and might be made by one who, in +the morning of imagination, sat on the dewy hills of the childish +world. They are full of unusual melody, and are simple and wise +enough to be sung by girls knitting in the sunshine while their +lovers bend above them. One of these, a beautiful thing, with that +touch of dark fate at its close which is so common in folk-stories, +is hidden away in <i>Paracelsus</i>. "Over the sea," it begins:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i2'>Over the sea our galleys went,</p> +<p>With cleaving prows in order brave</p> +<p>To a speeding wind and a bounding wave,</p> +<p class='i2'>A gallant armament:</p> +<a name='Page272' id="Page272"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>272</p> +<p>Each bark built out of a forest-tree</p> +<p class='i2'>Left leafy and rough as first it grew,</p> +<p>And nailed all over the gaping sides,</p> +<p>Within and without, with black bull-hides,</p> +<p>Seethed in fat, and suppled with flame,</p> +<p>To bear the playful billows' game.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>It is made in a happy melody, and the curious mingling in the +tale, as it continues, of the rudest ships, as described above, +with purple hangings, cedar tents, and noble statues,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>A hundred shapes of lucid stone,</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>and with gentle islanders from Græcian seas, is +characteristic of certain folk-tales, especially those of Gascony. +That it is spoken by Paracelsus as a parable of the state of mind +he has reached, in which he clings to his first fault with haughty +and foolish resolution, scarcely lessens the romantic element in +it. That is so strong that we forget that it is meant as a +parable.</p> +<p>There is another song which touches the edge of romance, in +which Paracelsus describes how he will bury in sweetness the ideal +aims he had in youth, building a pyre for them of all perfumed +things; and the last lines of the verse I quote leave us in a +castle of old romance—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>And strew faint sweetness from some old</p> +<p class='i2'>Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud</p> +<p>Which breaks to dust when once unrolled;</p> +<p class='i2'>Or shredded perfume, like a cloud</p> +<p>From closet long to quiet vowed,</p> +<p>With mothed and dropping arras hung,</p> +<p>Mouldering her lute and books among,</p> +<p>As when a queen, long dead, was young.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The other is a song, more than a song, in <i>Pippa Passes</i>, a +true piece of early folk-romance, with a <a name='Page273' id= +"Page273"></a><span class='pagenum'>273</span>faint touch of Greek +story, wedded to Eastern and mediæval elements, in its roving +imaginations. It is admirably pictorial, and the air which broods +over it is the sunny and still air which, in men's fancy, was +breathed by the happy children of the Golden Age. I quote a great +part of it:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>A King lived long ago,</p> +<p>In the morning of the world,</p> +<p>When earth was nigher heaven than now:</p> +<p>And the King's locks curled,</p> +<p>Disparting o'er a forehead full</p> +<p>As the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn</p> +<p>Of some sacrificial bull—</p> +<p>Only calm as a babe new-born:</p> +<p>For he was got to a sleepy mood,</p> +<p>So safe from all decrepitude,</p> +<p>Age with its bane, so sure gone by,</p> +<p>(The gods so loved him while he dreamed)</p> +<p>That, having lived thus long, there seemed</p> +<p>No need the King should ever die.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>LUIGI. No need that sort of King should ever die!</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Among the rocks his city was:</p> +<p>Before his palace, in the sun,</p> +<p>He sat to see his people pass,</p> +<p>And judge them every one</p> +<p>From its threshold of smooth stone</p> +<p>They haled him many a valley-thief</p> +<p>Caught in the sheep-pens, robber chief</p> +<p>Swarthy and shameless, beggar, cheat,</p> +<p>Spy-prowler, or rough pirate found</p> +<p>On the sea-sand left aground;</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p>These, all and every one,</p> +<p>The King judged, sitting in the sun.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>LUIGI. That King should still judge sitting in the sun!</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>His councillors, on left and right,</p> +<p>Looked anxious up,—but no surprise</p> +<p>Disturbed the King's old smiling eyes</p> +<p>Where the very blue had turned to white.</p> +<a name='Page274' id="Page274"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>274</p> +<p>'Tis said, a Python scared one day</p> +<p>The breathless city, till he came,</p> +<p>With forty tongue and eyes on flame,</p> +<p>Where the old King sat to judge alway;</p> +<p>But when he saw the sweepy hair</p> +<p>Girt with a crown of berries rare</p> +<p>Which the god will hardly give to wear</p> +<p>To the maiden who singeth, dancing bare</p> +<p>In the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights,</p> +<p>At his wondrous forest rites,—</p> +<p>Seeing this, he did not dare</p> +<p>Approach the threshold in the sun,</p> +<p>Assault the old king smiling there.</p> +<p>Such grace had kings when the world begun!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Then there are two other romantic pieces, not ringing with this +early note, but having in them a wafting scent of the +Provençal spirit. One is the song sung by Pippa when she +passes the room where Jules and Phene are talking—the song of +Kate, the Queen. The other is the cry Rudel, the great troubadour, +sent out of his heart to the Lady of Tripoli whom he never saw, but +loved. The subject is romantic, but that, I think, is all the +romance in it. It is not Rudel who speaks but Browning. It is not +the twelfth but the nineteenth century which has made all that +analysis and over-worked illustration.</p> +<p>There remain, on this matter, <i>Childe Roland</i> and the +<i>Flight of the Duchess</i>. I believe that <i>Childe Roland</i> +emerged, all of a sudden and to Browning's surprise, out of the +pure imagination, like the Sea-born Queen; that Browning did not +conceive it beforehand; that he had no intention in it, no reason +for writing it, and no didactic or moral aim in it. It was not even +born of his will. Nor does he seem to be acquainted with the old +story <a name='Page275' id="Page275"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>275</span>on the subject which took a ballad form in +Northern England. The impulse to write it was suddenly awakened in +him by that line out of an old song the Fool quotes in <i>King +Lear</i>. There is another tag of a song in <i>Lear</i> which stirs +a host of images in the imagination; and out of which some poet +might create a romantic lyric:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>But it does not produce so concrete a set of images as <i>Childe +Roland to the Dark Tower came</i>. Browning has made that his own, +and what he has done is almost romantic. Almost romantic, I say, +because the peculiarities of Browning's personal genius appear too +strongly in <i>Childe Roland</i> for pure romantic story, in which +the idiosyncrasy of the poet, the personal element of his fancy, +are never dominant. The scenery, the images, the conduct of the +tales of romance, are, on account of their long passage through the +popular mind, impersonal.</p> +<p>Moreover, Browning's poem is too much in the vague. The romantic +tales are clear in outline; this is not. But the elements in the +original story entered, as it were of their own accord, into +Browning. There are several curious, unconscious reversions to +folk-lore which have crept into his work like living things which, +seeing Browning engaged on a story of theirs, entered into it as +into a house of their own, and without his knowledge. The wretched +cripple who points the way; the blind and wicked horse; the +accursed stream; the giant mountain range, all the peaks alive, as +if in a nature myth; the crowd of Roland's pre<a name='Page276' id= +"Page276"></a><span class='pagenum'>276</span>decessors turned to +stone by their failure; the sudden revealing of the tower where no +tower had been, might all be matched out of folk-stories. I think I +have heard that Browning wrote the poem at a breath one morning; +and it reads as if, from verse to verse, he did not know what was +coming to his pen. This is very unlike his usual way; but it is +very much the way in which tales of this kind are unconsciously +up-built.</p> +<p>Men have tried to find in the poem an allegory of human life; +but Browning had no allegorising intention. However, as every story +which was ever written has at its root the main elements of human +nature, it is always possible to make an allegory out of any one of +them. If we like to amuse ourselves in that fashion, we may do so; +but we are too bold and bad if we impute allegory to Browning. +<i>Childe Roland</i> is nothing more than a gallop over the +moorlands of imagination; and the skies of the soul, when it was +made, were dark and threatening storm. But one thing is plain in +it: it is an outcome of that passion for the mystical world, for +adventure, for the unknown, which lies at the root of the romantic +tree.</p> +<p>The <i>Flight of the Duchess</i> is full of the passion of +escape from the conventional; and no where is Browning more +original or more the poet. Its manner is exactly right, exactly +fitted to the character and condition of the narrator, who is the +Duke's huntsman. Its metrical movement is excellent, and the +changes of that movement are in harmony with the things and +feelings described. It is astonishingly swift, alive, and leaping; +and it delays, as a stream, with great charm, when <a name= +'Page277' id="Page277"></a><span class='pagenum'>277</span>the +emotion of the subject is quiet, recollective, or deep. The +descriptions of Nature in the poem are some of the most vivid and +true in Browning's work. The sketches of animal life—so +natural on the lips of the teller of the story—are done from +the keen observation of a huntsman, and with his love for the +animals he has fed, followed and slain. And, through it all, there +breathes the romantic passion—to be out of the world of +custom and commonplace, set free to wander for ever to an unknown +goal; to drink the air of adventure and change; not to know to-day +what will take place to-morrow, only to know that it will be +different; to ride on the top of the wave of life as it runs before +the wind; to live with those who live, and are of the same mind; to +be loved and to find love the best good in the world; to be the +centre of hopes and joys among those who may blame and give pain, +but who are never indifferent; to have many troubles, but always to +pursue their far-off good; to wring the life out of them, and, at +the last, to have a new life, joy and freedom in another and a +fairer world. But let Browning tell the end:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>So, at the last shall come old age.</p> +<p>Decrepit as befits that stage;</p> +<p>How else would'st thou retire apart</p> +<p>With the hoarded memories of thy heart,</p> +<p>And gather all to the very least</p> +<p>Of the fragments of life's earlier feast,</p> +<p>Let fall through eagerness to find</p> +<p>The crowning dainties yet behind?</p> +<p>Ponder on the entire past</p> +<p>Laid together thus at last,</p> +<p>When the twilight helps to fuse</p> +<p>The first fresh with the faded hues.</p> +<p>And the outline of the whole</p> +<p>Grandly fronts for once thy soul.</p> +<p>And then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam</p> +<a name='Page278' id="Page278"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>278</p> +<p>Of yet another morning breaks,</p> +<p>And, like the hand which ends a dream,</p> +<p>Death, with the might of his sunbeam,</p> +<p>Touches the flesh, and the soul awakes,</p> +<p>Then——</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Then the romance of life sweeps into the world beyond. But even +in that world the duchess will never settle down to a fixed life. +She will be, like some of us, a child of the wandering tribes of +eternity.</p> +<p>This romantic passion which never dies even in our modern +society, is embodied in the gipsy crone who, in rags and scarcely +clinging to life, suddenly lifts into youth and queenliness, just +as in a society, where romance seems old or dead, it springs into +fresh and lovely life. This is the heart of the poem, and it is +made to beat the more quickly by the wretched attempt of the duke +and his mother to bring back the observances of the Middle Ages +without their soul. Nor even then does Browning leave his motive. +The huntsman has heard the gipsy's song; he has seen the light on +his mistress' face as she rode away—the light which is not +from sun or star—and the love of the romantic world is born +in him. He will not leave his master; there his duty lies. "I must +see this fellow his sad life through." But then he will go over the +mountains, after his lady, leaving the graves of his wife and +children, into the unknown, to find her, or news of her, in the +land of the wanderers. And if he never find her, if, after pleasant +journeying, earth cannot give her to his eyes, he will still pursue +his quest in a world where romance and formality are not married +together.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page279' id="Page279"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>279</p> +<p>So I shall find out some snug corner,</p> +<p>Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight,</p> +<p>Turn myself round and bid the world Good Night;</p> +<p>And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's blowing</p> +<p>Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen)</p> +<p>To a world where will be no further throwing</p> +<p>Pearls before swine that can't value them. Amen.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page280' id="Page280"></a><span class='pagenum'>280</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_XI' id="CHAPTER_XI"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> +<h3><i>IMAGINATIVE REPRESENTATIONS</i></h3> +<p>All poems might be called "imaginative representations." But the +class of poems in Browning's work to which I give that name stands +apart. It includes such poems as <i>Cleon, Caliban on Setebos, Fra +Lippo Lippi</i>, the <i>Epistle of Karshish</i>, and they isolate +themselves, not only in Browning's poetry, but in English poetry. +They have some resemblance in aim and method to the monologues of +Tennyson, such as the <i>Northern Farmer</i> or <i>Rizpah</i>, but +their aim is much wider than Tennyson's, and their method far more +elaborate and complex.</p> +<p>What do they represent? To answer this is to define within what +limits I give them the name of "imaginative representations." They +are not only separate studies of individual men as they breathed +and spoke; face, form, tricks of body recorded; intelligence, +character, temper of mind, spiritual aspiration made +clear—Tennyson did that; they are also studies of these +individual men—Cleon, Karshish and the rest—as general +types, representative images, of the age in which they lived; or of +the school of art to which they belonged; or of the crisis in +theology, religion, art, or the <a name='Page281' id= +"Page281"></a><span class='pagenum'>281</span>social movement which +took place while the men they paint were alive, and which these men +led, on formed, or followed. That is their main element, and it +defines them.</p> +<p>They are not dramatic. Their action and ideas are confined to +one person, and their circumstance and scenery to one time and +place. But Browning, unlike Tennyson, filled the background of the +stage on which he placed his single figure with a multitude of +objects, or animals, or natural scenery, or figures standing round +or in motion; and these give additional vitality and interest to +the representation. Again, they are short, as short as a soliloquy +or a letter or a conversation in a street. Shortness belongs to +this form of poetic work—a form to which Browning gave a +singular intensity. It follows that they must not be argumentative +beyond what is fitting. Nor ought they to glide into the support of +a thesis, or into didactic addresses, as <i>Bishop Blougram</i> and +<i>Mr. Sludge</i> do. These might be called treatises, and are +apart from the kind of poem of which I speak. They begin, indeed, +within its limits, but they soon transgress those limits; and are +more properly classed with poems which, also representative, have +not the brevity, the scenery, the lucidity, the objective +representation, the concentration of the age into one man's mind, +which mark out these poems from the rest, and isolate them into a +class of their own.</p> +<p>The voice we hear in them is rarely the voice of Browning; nor +is the mind of their personages his mind, save so far as he is +their creator. There are a few exceptions to this, but, on the +whole, Brown<a name='Page282' id="Page282"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>282</span>ing has, in writing these poems, stripped +himself of his own personality. He had, by creative power, made +these men; cast them off from himself, and put them into their own +age. They talk their minds out in character with their age. +Browning seems to watch them, and to wonder how they got out of his +hands and became men. That is the impression they make, and it +predicates a singular power of imagination. Like the Prometheus of +Goethe, the poet sits apart, moulding men and then endowing them +with life. But he cannot tell, any more than Prometheus, what they +will say and do after he has made them. He does tell, of course, +but that is not our impression. Our impression is that they live +and talk of their own accord, so vitally at home they are in the +country, the scenery, and the thinking of the place and time in +which he has imagined them.</p> +<p>Great knowledge seems required for this, and Browning had indeed +an extensive knowledge not so much of the historical facts, as of +the tendencies of thought which worked in the times wherein he +placed his men. But the chief knowledge he had, through his curious +reading, was of a multitude of small intimate details of the +customs, clothing, architecture, dress, popular talk and scenery of +the towns and country of Italy from the thirteenth century up to +modern times. To every one of these details—such as are found +in <i>Sordello</i>, in <i>Fra Lippo Lippi</i>, in the <i>Bishop +orders his Tomb at St. Praxed's Church</i>—his vivid and +grasping imagination gave an uncommon reality.</p> +<p>But even without great knowledge such poems may be written, if +the poet have imagination, and <a name='Page283' id= +"Page283"></a><span class='pagenum'>283</span>the power to execute +in metrical words what has been imagined. <i>Theology in the +Island</i> and the prologue to a <i>Death in the Desert</i> are +examples of this. Browning knew nothing of that island in the +undiscovered seas where Prosper dwelt, but he made all the scenery +of it and all its animal life, and he re-created Caliban. He had +never seen the cave in the desert where he placed John to die, nor +the sweep of rocky hills and sand around it, nor the Bactrian +waiting with the camels. Other poets, of course, have seen unknown +lands and alien folks, but he has seen them more vividly, more +briefly, more forcibly. His imagination was objective enough.</p> +<p>But it was as subjective as it was objective. He saw the soul of +Fra Lippo Lippi and the soul of his time as vividly as he saw the +streets of Florence at night, the watch, the laughing girls, and +the palace of the Medici round the corner. It was a remarkable +combination, and it is by this combination of the subjective and +objective imagination that he draws into some dim approach to +Shakespeare; and nowhere closer than in these poems.</p> +<p>Again, not only the main character of each of these poems, but +all the figures introduced (sometimes only in a single line) to +fill up the background, are sketched with as true and vigorous a +pencil as the main figure; are never out of place or harmony with +the whole, and are justly subordinated. The young men who stand +round the Bishop's bed when he orders his tomb, the watchmen in +<i>Fra Lippo Lippi</i>, the group of St. John's disciples, are as +alive, and as much in tune with the whole, as the servants and +tenants of Justice <a name='Page284' id="Page284"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>284</span>Shallow. Again, it is not only the lesser +figures, but the scenery of these poems which is worth our study. +That also is closely fitted to the main subject. The imagination +paints it for that, and nothing else. It would not fit any other +subject. For imagination, working at white heat, cannot do what is +out of harmony; no more than a great musician can introduce a false +chord. All goes together in these poems—scenery, characters, +time, place and action.</p> +<p>Then, also, the extent of their range is remarkable. Their +subjects begin with savage man making his god out of himself. They +pass through Greek mythology to early Christian times; from Artemis +and Pan to St. John dying in the desert. Then, still in the same +period, while Paul was yet alive, he paints another aspect of the +time in Cleon the rich artist, the friend of kings, who had reached +the top of life, included all the arts in himself, yet dimly craved +for more than earth could give. From these times the poems pass on +to the early and late Renaissance, and from that to the struggle +for freedom in Italy, and from that to modern life in Europe. This +great range illustrates the penetration and the versatility of his +genius. He could place us with ease and truth at Corinth, Athens or +Rome, in Paris, Vienna or London; and wherever we go with him we +are at home.</p> +<p>One word more must be said about the way a great number of these +poems arose. They leaped up in his imagination full-clad and +finished at a single touch from the outside. <i>Caliban upon +Setebos</i> took its rise from a text in the Bible which darted +into his mind as he read the <i>Tempest</i>. <i>Cleon</i> arose +<a name='Page285' id="Page285"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>285</span>as he read that verse in St. Paul's speech at +Athens, "As certain also of your own poets have said." I fancy that +<i>An Epistle of Karshish</i> was born one day when he read those +two stanzas in <i>In Memoriam</i> about Lazarus, and imagined how +the subject would come to him. <i>Fra Lippo Lippi</i> slipped into +his mind one day at the Belle Arti at Florence as he stood before +the picture described in the poem, and walked afterwards at night +through the streets of Florence. These fine things are born in a +moment, and come into our world from poet, painter, and musician, +full-grown; built, like Aladdin's palace, with all their jewels, in +a single night. They are inexplicable by any scientific +explanation, as inexplicable as genius itself. When have the +hereditarians explained Shakespeare, Mozart, Turner? When has the +science of the world explained the birth of a lyric of Burns, a +song of Beethoven's, or a drawing of Raffaelle? Let these gentlemen +veil their eyes, and confess their inability to explain the facts. +For it is fact they touch. "Full fathom five thy father +lies"—that song of Shakespeare exists. The overture to Don +Giovanni is a reality. We can see the Bacchus and Ariadne at the +National Gallery and the Theseus at the Museum. These are facts; +but they are a million million miles beyond the grasp of any +science. Nay, the very smallest things of their kind, the slightest +water-colour sketch of Turner, a half-finished clay sketch of +Donatello, the little song done in the corner of a provincial paper +by a working clerk in a true poetic hour, are not to be fathomed by +the most far-descending plummet of the scientific understanding. +These things are in that super<a name='Page286' id= +"Page286"></a><span class='pagenum'>286</span>physical world into +which, however closely he saw and dealt with his characters in the +world of the senses, the conscience, or the understanding, Browning +led them all at last.</p> +<p>The first of these poems is <i>Natural Theology on the Island; +or, Caliban upon Setebos</i>. Caliban, with the instincts and +intelligence of an early savage, has, in an hour of holiday, set +himself to conceive what Setebos, his mother's god, is like in +character. He talks out the question with himself, and because he +is in a vague fear lest Setebos, hearing him soliloquise about him, +should feel insulted and swing a thunder-bolt at him, he not only +hides himself in the earth, but speaks in the third person, as if +it was not he that spoke; hoping in that fashion to trick his +God.</p> +<p>Browning, conceiving in himself the mind and temper of an +honest, earthly, imaginative savage—who is developed far +enough to build nature-myths in their coarse early +forms—architectures the character of Setebos out of the +habits, caprices, fancies, likes and dislikes, and thoughts of +Caliban; and an excellent piece of penetrative imagination it is. +Browning has done nothing better, though he has done as well.</p> +<p>But Browning's Caliban is not a single personage. No one savage, +at no one time, would have all these thoughts of his God. He is the +representative of what has been thought, during centuries, by many +thousands of men; the concentration into one mind of the +ground-thoughts of early theology. At one point, as if Browning +wished to sketch the beginning of a new theological period, Caliban +represents a more advanced thought than savage man conceives. +<a name='Page287' id="Page287"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>287</span>This is Caliban's imagination of a higher being +than Setebos who is the capricious creator and power of the +earth—of the "Quiet," who is master of Setebos and whose +temper is quite different; who also made the stars, things which +Caliban, with a touch of Browning's subtle thought, separates from +the sun and moon and earth. It is plain from this, and from the +whole argument which is admirably conducted, that Caliban is an +intellectual personage, too long neglected; and Prospero, could he +have understood his nature, would have enjoyed his conversation. +Renan agreed with Browning in this estimate of his intelligence, +and made him the foundation of a philosophical play.</p> +<p>There is some slight reason for this in Shakespeare's invention. +He lifts Caliban in intellect, even in feeling, far above Trinculo, +Stephano, the Boatswain and the rest of the common men. The +objection, however, has been made that Browning makes him too +intelligent. The answer is that Browning is not drawing Caliban +only, but embodying in an imagined personage the thoughts about God +likely to be invented by early man during thousands of +years—and this accounts for the insequences in Caliban's +thinking. They are not the thoughts of one but of several men. Yet +a certain poetic unity is given to them by the unity of place. The +continual introduction of the landscape to be seen from his refuge +knits the discursive thinking of the savage into a kind of unity. +We watch him lying in the thick water-slime of the hollow, his head +on the rim of it propped by his hands, under the cave's mouth, +hidden by the gadding gourds and vines; looking <a name='Page288' +id="Page288"></a><span class='pagenum'>288</span>out to sea and +watching the wild animals that pass him by—and out of this +place he does not stir.</p> +<p>In Shakespeare's <i>Tempest</i> Caliban is the gross, brutal +element of the earth and is opposed to Ariel, the light, swift, +fine element of the air. Caliban curses Prospero with the evils of +the earth, with the wicked dew of the fen and the red plague of the +sea-marsh. Browning's Caliban does not curse at all. When he is not +angered, or in a caprice, he is a good-natured creature, full of +animal enjoyment. He loves to lie in the cool slush, like a +lias-lizard, shivering with earthy pleasure when his spine is +tickled by the small eft-things that course along it,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The poem is full of these good, close, vivid realisations of the +brown prolific earth.</p> +<p>Browning had his own sympathy with Caliban Nor does Shakespeare +make him altogether brutish. He has been so educated by his close +contact with nature that his imagination has been kindled. His very +cursing is imaginative:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>As wicked dew as e'er my mother brushed</p> +<p>With raven's feather from unwholesome fen</p> +<p>Drop on you both; a south-west blow on you</p> +<p>And blister you all o'er.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Stephano and Trinculo, vulgar products of civilisation, could +never have said that. Moreover, Shakespeare's Caliban, like +Browning's, has the poetry of the earth-man in him. When Ariel +plays, Trinculo and Stephano think it must be the devil, and +Trinculo is afraid: but Caliban loves and enjoys the music for +itself:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page289' id="Page289"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>289</p> +<p>Be not afear'd; the isle is full of noises,</p> +<p>Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.</p> +<p>Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments</p> +<p>Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices</p> +<p>That, if I then had waked after long sleep.</p> +<p>Will make me sleep again.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Stephano answers, like a modern millionaire:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>This will prove a brave kingdom for me, where I shall have</p> +<p>my music for nothing.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Browning's Caliban is also something of a poet, and loves the +Nature of whom he is a child. We are not surprised when he</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross</p> +<p>And recross till they weave a spider web</p> +<p>(Meshes of fire some great fish breaks at times)</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>though the phrase is full of a poet's imagination, for so the +living earth would see and feel the sea. It belongs also to +Caliban's nearness to the earth that he should have the keenest of +eyes for animals, and that poetic pleasure in watching their life +which, having seen them vividly, could describe them vividly. I +quote one example from the poem; there are many others:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle,</p> +<p>Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing.</p> +<p>Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech;</p> +<p>Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam,</p> +<p>That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown</p> +<p>He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye</p> +<p>By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue</p> +<p>That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm,</p> +<p>And says a plain word when she finds her prize,</p> +<p>But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves</p> +<p>That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks</p> +<p>About their hole—</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>There are two more remarks to make about this <a name='Page290' +id="Page290"></a><span class='pagenum'>290</span>poem. First, that +Browning makes Caliban create a dramatic world in which Miranda, +Ariel, and he himself play their parts, and in which he assumes the +part of Prosper. That is, Caliban invents a new world out of the +persons he knows, but different from them, and a second self +outside himself. No lower animal has ever conceived of such a +creation. Secondly, Browning makes Caliban, in order to exercise +his wit and his sense of what is beautiful, fall to making +something—a bird, an insect, or a building which he +ornaments, which satisfies him for a time, and which he then +destroys to make a better. This is art in its beginning; and the +highest animal we know of is incapable of it. We know that the men +of the caves were capable of it. When they made a drawing, a piece +of carving, they were unsatisfied until they had made a better. +When they made a story out of what they knew and saw, they went on +to make more. Creation, invention, art—this, independent +entirely of the religious desire, makes the infinite gulf which +divides man from the highest animals.</p> +<p>I do not mean, in this book, to speak of the theology of +Caliban, though the part of the poem which concerns the origin of +sacrifice is well worth our attention. But the poem may be +recommended to those theological persons who say there is no God; +and to that large class of professional theologians, whose idea of +a capricious, jealous, suddenly-angered God, without any conscience +except his sense of power to do as he pleases, is quite in harmony +with Caliban's idea of Setebos.</p> +<p>The next of these "imaginative representations" is the poem +called <i>Cleon</i>. Cleon is a rich and <a name='Page291' id= +"Page291"></a><span class='pagenum'>291</span>famous artist of the +Grecian isles, alive while St. Paul was still making his missionary +journeys, just at the time when the Græco-Roman culture had +attained a height of refinement, but had lost originating power; +when it thought it had mastered all the means for a perfect life, +but was, in reality, trembling in a deep dissatisfaction on the +edge of its first descent into exhaustion. Then, as everything good +had been done in the art of the past, cultivated men began to ask +"Was there anything worth doing?" "Was life itself worth living?"; +questions never asked by those who are living. Or "What is life in +its perfection, and when shall we have it?"; a question also not +asked by those who live in the morning of a new æra, when the +world—as in Elizabeth's days, as in 1789, as perhaps it may +be in a few years—is born afresh; but which is asked +continually in the years when a great movement of life has passed +its culminating point and has begun to decline. Again and again the +world has heard these questions; in Cleon's time, and when the +Renaissance had spent its force, and at the end of the reign of +Louis XIV., and before Elizabeth's reign had closed, and about 1820 +in England, and of late years also in our society. This is the +temper and the time that Browning embodies in Cleon, who is the +incarnation of a culture which is already feeling that life is +going out of it.</p> +<p>Protus, the king, has written to him, and the poem is Cleon's +answer to the king. Browning takes care, as usual, to have his +background of scenery quite clear and fair. It is a courtyard to +Cleon's house in one of the sprinkled isles—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page292' id="Page292"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>292</p> +<p>Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea,</p> +<p>And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>I quote it; it marks the man and the age of luxurious +culture.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>They give thy letter to me, even now;</p> +<p>I read and seem as if I heard thee speak.</p> +<p>The master of thy galley still unlades</p> +<p>Gift after gift; they block my court at last</p> +<p>And pile themselves along its portico</p> +<p>Royal with sunset, like a thought of thee;</p> +<p>And one white she-slave from the group dispersed</p> +<p>Of black and white slaves (like the chequer work</p> +<p>Pavement, at once my nation's work and gift,</p> +<p>Now covered with this settle-down of doves),</p> +<p>One lyric woman, in her crocus vest</p> +<p>Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands</p> +<p>Commends to me the strainer and the cup</p> +<p>Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>But he is more than luxurious. He desires the highest life, and +he praises the king because he has acknowledged by his gifts the +joy that Art gives to life; and most of all he praises him, because +he too aspires, building a mighty tower, not that men may look at +it, but that he may gaze from its height on the sun, and think what +higher he may attain. The tower is the symbol of the cry of the +king's soul.</p> +<p>Then he answers the king's letter. "It is true, O king, I am +poet, sculptor, painter, architect, philosopher, musician; all arts +are mine. Have I done as well as the great men of old? No, but I +have combined their excellences into one man, into myself.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>"I have not chanted verse like Homer, no—</p> +<p>Nor swept string like Terpander—no—nor carved</p> +<p>And painted men like Phidias and his friend:</p> +<p>I am not great as they are, point by point.</p> +<a name='Page293' id="Page293"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>293</p> +<p>But I have entered into sympathy</p> +<p>With these four, running these into one soul,</p> +<p>Who, separate, ignored each other's art.</p> +<p>Say, is it nothing that I know them all?</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>"This, since the best in each art has already been done, was the +only progress possible, and I have made it. It is not unworthy, +king!</p> +<p>"Well, now thou askest, if having done this, 'I have not +attained the very crown of life; if I cannot now comfortably and +fearlessly meet death?' 'I, Cleon, leave,' thou sayest, 'my life +behind me in my poems, my pictures; I am immortal in my work. What +more can life desire?'"</p> +<p>It is the question so many are asking now, and it is the answer +now given. What better immortality than in one's work left behind +to move in men? What more than this can life desire? But Cleon does +not agree with that. "If thou, O king, with the light now in thee, +hadst looked at creation before man appeared, thou wouldst have +said, 'All is perfect so far.' But questioned if anything more +perfect in joy might be, thou wouldst have said, 'Yes; a being may +be made, unlike these who do not know the joy they have, who shall +be conscious of himself, and know that he is happy. Then his life +will be satisfied with daily joy.'" O king, thou wouldst have +answered foolishly. The higher the soul climbs in joy the more it +sees of joy, and when it sees the most, it perishes. Vast +capabilities of joy open round it; it craves for all it presages; +desire for more deepening with every attainment. And then the body +intervenes. Age, sickness, decay, forbid attainment. Life is +inadequate to joy. What have the gods done? It cannot be <a name= +'Page294' id="Page294"></a><span class='pagenum'>294</span>their +malice, no, nor carelessness; but—to let us see oceans of +joy, and only give us power to hold a cupful—is that to live? +It is misery, and the more of joy my artist nature makes me capable +of feeling, the deeper my misery.</p> +<p>"But then, O king, thou sayest 'that I leave behind me works +that will live; works, too, which paint the joy of life.' Yes, but +to show what the joy of life is, is not to have it. If I carve the +young Phoebus, am I therefore young? I can write odes of the +delight of love, but grown too grey to be beloved, can I have its +delight? That fair slave of yours, and the rower with the muscles +all a ripple on his back who lowers the sail in the bay, can write +no love odes nor can they paint the joy of love; but they can have +it—not I."</p> +<p>The knowledge, he thinks, of what joy is, of all that life can +give, which increases in the artist as his feebleness increases, +makes his fate the deadlier. What is it to him that his works live? +He does not live. The hand of death grapples the throat of life at +the moment when he sees most clearly its infinite possibilities. +Decay paralyses his hand when he knows best how to use his tools. +It is accomplished wretchedness.</p> +<p>I quote his outburst. It is in the soul of thousands who have no +hope of a life to come.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>"But," sayest thou—(and I marvel, I repeat,</p> +<p>To find thee trip on such a mere word) "what</p> +<p>Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die:</p> +<p>Sappho survives, because we sing her songs,</p> +<p>And Æschylus, because we read his plays!"</p> +<p>Why, if they live still, let them come and take</p> +<p>Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup,</p> +<p>Speak in my place! "Thou diest while I survive?"—</p> +<a name='Page295' id="Page295"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>295</p> +<p>Say rather that my fate is deadlier still,</p> +<p>In this, that every day my sense of joy</p> +<p>Grows more acute, my soul (intensified</p> +<p>By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen;</p> +<p>While every day my hairs fall more and more,</p> +<p>My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase—</p> +<p>The horror quickening still from year to year,</p> +<p>The consummation coming past escape</p> +<p>When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy—</p> +<p>When all my works wherein I prove my worth,</p> +<p>Being present still to mock me in men's mouths,</p> +<p>Alive still, in the praise of such as thou,</p> +<p>I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man,</p> +<p>The man who loved his life so overmuch,</p> +<p>Sleep in my urn. It is so horrible</p> +<p>I dare at times imagine to my need</p> +<p>Some future state revealed to us by Zeus,</p> +<p>Unlimited in capability</p> +<p>For joy, as this is in desire of joy,</p> +<p>—To seek which the joy-hunger forces us:</p> +<p>That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait</p> +<p>On purpose to make prized the life at large—</p> +<p>Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death,</p> +<p>We burst there as the worm into the fly.</p> +<p>Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no!</p> +<p>Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas,</p> +<p>He must have done so, were it possible!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is one only of Browning's statements of what he held to be +the fierce necessity for another life. Without it, nothing is left +for humanity, having arrived at full culture, knowledge, at +educated love of beauty, at finished morality and +unselfishness—nothing in the end but Cleon's +cry—sorrowful, somewhat stern, yet gentle—to +Protus,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Live long and happy, and in that thought die,</p> +<p>Glad for what was. Farewell.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>But for those who are not Cleon and Protus, not kings in comfort +or poets in luxury, who have had no gladness, what end—what +is to be said of them? <a name='Page296' id= +"Page296"></a><span class='pagenum'>296</span>I will not stay to +speak of <i>A Death in the Desert</i>, which is another of these +poems, because the most part of it is concerned with questions of +modern theology. St. John awakes into clear consciousness just +before his death in the cave where he lies tended by a few +disciples. He foresees some of the doubts of this century and meets +them as he can. The bulk of this poem, very interesting in its way, +is Browning's exposition of his own belief, not an imaginative +representation of what St. John actually would have said. It does +not therefore come into my subject. What does come into it is the +extraordinary naturalness and vitality of the description given by +John's disciple of the place where they were, and the fate of his +companions. This is invented in Browning's most excellent way. It +could not be better done.</p> +<p>The next poem is the <i>Epistle of Karshish, the Arab +Physician</i>, to his master, concerning his strange medical +experience. The time is just before the last siege of Jerusalem, +and Karshish, journeying through Jericho, and up the pass, stays +for a few days at Bethany and meets Lazarus. His case amazes him, +and though he thinks his interest in it unworthy of a man of +science in comparison with the new herbs and new diseases he has +discovered, yet he is carried away by it and gives a full account +of it to his master.</p> +<p>I do not think that Browning ever wrote a poem the writing of +which he more enjoyed. The creation of Karshish suited his humour +and his quaint play with recondite knowledge. He describes the +physician till we see him alive and thinking, in body and soul. The +creation of Lazarus is even a <a name='Page297' id= +"Page297"></a><span class='pagenum'>297</span>higher example of the +imaginative power of Browning; and that it is shaped for us through +the mind of Karshish, and in tune with it, makes the imaginative +effort the more remarkable. Then the problem—how to express +the condition of a man's body and soul, who, having for three days +according to the story as Browning conceives it lived consciously +in the eternal and perfect world, has come back to dwell in this +world—was so difficult and so involved in metaphysical +strangenesses, that it delighted him.</p> +<p>Of course, he carefully prepares his scenery to give a true +semblance to the whole. Karshish comes up the flinty pass from +Jericho; he is attacked by thieves twice and beaten, and the wild +beasts endanger his path;</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear,</p> +<p>Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls;</p> +<p>I cried and threw my staff and he was gone,</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>and then, at the end of the pass, he met Lazarus. See how +vividly the scenery is realised—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>I crossed a ridge of short, sharp, broken hills</p> +<p>Like an old lion's cheek-teeth. Out there came</p> +<p>A moon made like a face with certain spots,</p> +<p>Multiform, manifold and menacing:</p> +<p>Then a wind rose behind me. So we met</p> +<p>In this old sleepy town at unaware</p> +<p>The man and I.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And the weird evening, Karshish thinks, had something to do with +the strange impression the man has made on him. Then we are placed +in the dreamy village of Bethany. We hear of its elders, its +diseases, its flowers, its herbs and gums, of the insects which may +help medicine—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page298' id="Page298"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>298</p> +<p class='i12'>There is a spider here</p> +<p>Weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs,</p> +<p>Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-grey back;</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>and then, how the countryside is all on fire with news of +Vespasian marching into Judæa. So we have the place, the +village, the hills, the animals, and the time, all clear, and half +of the character of Karshish. The inner character of the man +emerges as clearly when he comes to deal with Lazarus. This is not +a case of the body, he thinks, but of the soul. "The Syrian," he +tells his master, "has had catalepsy, and a learned leech of his +nation, slain soon afterwards, healed him and brought him back to +life after three days. He says he was dead, and made alive again, +but that is his madness; though the man seems sane enough. At any +rate, his disease has disappeared, he is as well as you and I. But +the mind and soul of the man, that is the strange matter, and in +that he is entirely unlike other men. Whatever he has gone through +has rebathed him as in clear water of another life, and penetrated +his whole being. He views the world like a child, he scarcely +listens to what goes on about him, yet he is no fool. If one could +fancy a man endowed with perfect knowledge beyond the fleshly +faculty, and while he has this heaven in him forced to live on +earth, such a man is he. His heart and brain move there, his feet +stay here. He has lost all sense of our values of things. Vespasian +besieging Jerusalem and a mule passing with gourds awaken the same +interest. But speak of some little fact, little as we think, and he +stands astonished with its prodigious import. If his child sicken +to death it does not seem to matter <a name='Page299' id= +"Page299"></a><span class='pagenum'>299</span>to him, but a +gesture, a glance from the child, starts him into an agony of fear +and anger, as if the child were undoing the universe. He lives like +one between two regions, one of distracting glory, of which he is +conscious but must not enter yet; and the other into which he has +been exiled back again—and between this region where his soul +moves and the earth where his body is, there is so little harmony +of thought or feeling that he cannot undertake any human activity, +nor unite the demands of the two worlds. He knows that what ought +to be cannot be in the world he has returned to, so that his life +is perplexed; but in this incessant perplexity he falls back on +prone submission to the heavenly will. The time will come when +death will restore his being to equilibrium; but now he is out of +harmony, for the soul knows more than the body and the body clouds +the soul."</p> +<p>"I probed this seeming indifference. 'Beast, to be so still and +careless when Rome is at the gates of thy town.' He merely looked +with his large eyes at me. Yet the man is not apathetic, but loves +old and young, the very brutes and birds and flowers of the field. +His only impatience is with wrongdoing, but he curbs that +impatience."</p> +<p>At last Karshish tells, with many apologies for his foolishness, +the strangest thing of all. Lazarus thinks that his curer was God +himself who came and dwelt in flesh among those he had made, and +went in and out among them healing and teaching, and then died. "It +is strange, but why write of trivial matters when things of price +call every moment for remark? Forget it, my master, pardon me and +farewell."</p> +<p><a name='Page300' id="Page300"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>300</span>Then comes the postscript, that impression +which, in spite of all his knowledge, is left in Karshish's +mind—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think?</p> +<p>So, the All-Great were the All-Loving too—</p> +<p>So, through the thunder comes a human voice</p> +<p>Saying: "O heart I made, a heart beats here!</p> +<p>Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself!</p> +<p>Thou hast no power, nor may'st conceive of mine,</p> +<p>But love I gave thee, with myself to love,</p> +<p>And thou must love me who have died for thee!"—</p> +<p>The madman saith He said so; it is strange.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page301' id="Page301"></a><span class='pagenum'>301</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_XII' id="CHAPTER_XII"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> +<h3><i>IMAGINATIVE REPRESENTATIONS<br /> +RENAISSANCE</i></h3> +<p>The Imaginative Representations to be discussed in this chapter +are those which belong to the time of the Renaissance. We take a +great leap when we pass from Karshish and Cleon to Fra Lippo Lippi, +from early Christian times to the early manhood of the Renaissance. +But these leaps are easy to a poet, and Browning is even more at +his ease and in his strength in the fifteenth century than in the +first.</p> +<p>We have seen with what force in <i>Sordello</i> he realised the +life and tumult of the thirteenth century. The fourteenth century +does not seem to have attracted him much, though he frequently +refers to its work in Florence; but when the Renaissance in the +fifteenth century took its turn with decision towards a more open +freedom of life and thought, abandoning one after another the +conventions of the past; when the moral limits, which the Church +still faintly insisted on, were more and more withdrawn and finally +blotted out; when, as the century passed into the next, the Church +led the revolt against decency, order, and morality; when +scepticism took the place of faith, even of duty, and criticism the +place <a name='Page302' id="Page302"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>302</span>of authority, then Browning became interested, +not of course in the want of faith and in immorality, but in the +swift variety and intensity of the movement of intellectual and +social life, and in the interlacing changes of the movement. This +was an enchanting world for him, and as he was naturally most +interested in the arts, he represented the way in which the main +elements of the Renaissance appeared to him in poems which were +concerned with music, poetry, painting and the rest of the arts, +but chiefly with painting. Of course, when the Renaissance began to +die down into senile pride and decay, Browning, who never ceased to +choose and claim companionship with vigorous life, who abhorred +decay either in Nature or nations, in societies or in cliques of +culture, who would have preferred a blood-red pirate to the +daintiest of decadents—did not care for it, and in only one +poem, touched with contemptuous pity and humour, represented its +disease and its disintegrating elements, with so much power, +however, with such grasping mastery, that it is like a painting by +Velasquez. Ruskin said justly that the <i>Bishop orders his Tomb at +St. Praxed's Church</i> concentrated into a few lines all the evil +elements of the Renaissance. But this want of care for the decaying +Renaissance was contrasted by the extreme pleasure with which he +treated its early manhood in <i>Fra Lippo Lippi</i>.</p> +<p>The Renaissance had a life and seasons, like those of a human +being. It went through its childhood and youth like a boy of genius +under the care of parents from whose opinions and mode of life he +is sure to sever himself in the end; but <a name='Page303' id= +"Page303"></a><span class='pagenum'>303</span>who, having made a +deep impression on his nature, retain power over, and give +direction to, his first efforts at creation. The first art of the +Renaissance, awakened by the discovery of the classic remnants, +retained a great deal of the faith and superstition, the +philosophy, theology, and childlike <i>naïveté</i> of +the middle ages. Its painting and sculpture, but chiefly the first +of these, gave themselves chiefly to the representation of the soul +upon the face, and of the untutored and unconscious movements of +the body under the influence of religious passion; that is, such +movements as expressed devotion, fervent love of Christ, horror of +sin, were chosen, and harmonised with the expression of the face. +Painting dedicated its work to the representation of the heavenly +life, either on earth in the story of the gospels and in the lives +of the saints, or in its glory in the circles of heaven. Then, too, +it represented the thought, philosophy, and knowledge of its own +time and of the past in symbolic series of quiet figures, in +symbolic pictures of the struggle of good with evil, of the Church +with the world, of the virtues with their opposites. Naturally, +then, the expression on the face of secular passions, the movement +of figures in war and trade and social life and the whole vast +field of human life in the ordinary world, were neglected as +unworthy of representation; and the free, full life of the body, +its beauty, power and charm, the objects which pleased its senses, +the frank representation of its movement under the influence of the +natural as contrasted with the spiritual passions, were looked upon +with religious dismay. Such, but less in sculpture than in +painting, was the art <a name='Page304' id= +"Page304"></a><span class='pagenum'>304</span>of the Renaissance in +its childhood and youth, and Browning has scarcely touched that +time. He had no sympathy with a neglect of the body, a contempt of +the senses or of the beauty they perceived. He claimed the physical +as well as the intellectual and spiritual life of man as by origin +and of right divine. When, then, in harmony with a great change in +social and literary life, the art of the Renaissance began to turn, +in its early manhood, from the representation of the soul to the +representation of the body in natural movement and beauty; from the +representation of saints, angels and virtues to the representation +of actual men and women in the streets and rooms of Florence; from +symbolism to reality—Browning thought, "This suits me; this +is what I love; I will put this mighty change into a poem." And he +wrote <i>Fra Lippo Lippi</i>.</p> +<p>As long as this vivid representation of actual human life +lasted, the art of the Renaissance was active, original, and +interesting; and as it moved on, developing into higher and finer +forms, and producing continually new varieties in its development, +it reached its strong and eager manhood. In its art then, as well +as in other matters, the Renaissance completed its new and clear +theory of life; it remade the grounds of life, of its action and +passion; and it reconstituted its aims. Browning loved this summer +time of the Renaissance, which began with the midst of the +fifteenth century. But he loved its beginnings even more than its +fulness. That was characteristic. I have said that even when he was +eighty years old, his keenest sympathies were with spring rather +than <a name='Page305' id="Page305"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>305</span>summer, with those times of vital change when +fresh excitements disturbed the world, when its eyes were smiling +with hope, and its feet eager with the joy of pursuit. He rejoiced +to analyse and embody a period which was shaking off the past, +living intensely in the present, and prophesying the future. It +charms us, as we read him, to see his intellect and his soul like +two hunting dogs, and with all their eagerness, questing, roving, +quartering, with the greatest joy and in incessant movement, over a +time like this, where so many diverse, clashing, and productive +elements mingled themselves into an enchanting confusion and glory +of life. Out of that pleasure of hunting in a morning-tide of +humanity, was born <i>Fra Lippo Lippi</i>; and there is scarcely an +element of the time, except the political elements, which it does +not represent; not dwelt on, but touched for the moment and left; +unconsciously produced as two men of the time would produce them in +conversation. The poem seems as easy as a chat in Pall Mall last +night between some intelligent men, which, read two hundred years +hence, would inform the reader of the trend of thought and feeling +in this present day. But in reality to do this kind of thing well +is to do a very difficult thing. It needs a full knowledge, a full +imagination and a masterly execution. Yet when we read the poem, it +seems as natural as the breaking out of blossoms. This is that +divine thing, the ease of genius.</p> +<p>The scenery of the poem is as usual clear. We are in +fifteenth-century Florence at night. There is no set description, +but the slight touches are enough to make us see the silent lonely +streets, the churches, the high walls of the monastic gardens, +<a name='Page306' id="Page306"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>306</span>the fortress-palaces. The sound of the +fountains is in our ears; the little crowds of revelling men and +girls appear and disappear like ghosts; the surly watch with their +weapons and torches bustle round the corner. Nor does Browning +neglect to paint by slight enlivening touches, introduced into +Lippo Lippi's account of himself as a starving boy, the aspect by +day and the character of the Florence of the fifteenth century. +This painting of his, slight as it is, is more alive than all the +elaborate descriptions in <i>Romola</i>.</p> +<p>As to the poem itself, Browning plunges at once into his matter; +no long approaches, no elaborate porches belong to his work. The +man and his character are before us in a moment—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave!</p> +<p>You need not clap your torches to my face.</p> +<p>Zooks, what's to blame? You think you see a monk!</p> +<p>What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds,</p> +<p>And here you catch me at an alley's end</p> +<p>Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar?</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>For three weeks he has painted saints, and saints, and saints +again, for Cosimo in the Medici Palace; but now the time of +blossoms has come. Florence is now awake at nights; the secret of +the spring moves in his blood; the man leaps up, the monk +retires.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air.</p> +<p>There came a hurry of feet and little feet,</p> +<p>A sweep of lute-strings, laughs and whifts of song,—</p> +<p class='i2'><i>Flower o' the broom.</i></p> +<p class='i2'><i>Take away love, and our earth is a tomb!</i></p> +<p class='i2'><i>Flower of the quince</i>,</p> +<p class='i2'><i>I let Lisa go, and what good in life +since?</i></p> +<p class='i2'><i>Flower of the thyme</i>—and so on. Round +they went.</p> +<a name='Page307' id="Page307"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>307</p> +<p>Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter,</p> +<p>Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight,—three slim +shapes,</p> +<p>And a face that looked up ... zooks, sir, flesh and blood,</p> +<p>That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went,</p> +<p>Curtain and counterpane and coverlet,</p> +<p>All the bed furniture—a dozen knots,</p> +<p>There was a ladder! Down I let myself,</p> +<p>Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped,</p> +<p>And after them. I came up with the fun</p> +<p>Hard by St. Laurence, hail fellow, well met,—</p> +<p class='i2'><i>Flower o' the rose,</i></p> +<p class='i2'><i>If I've been merry, what matter who knows?</i></p> +</div> +</div> +<p>It is a picture, not only of the man, but of the time and its +temper, when religion and morality, as well as that simplicity of +life which Dante describes, had lost their ancient power over +society in Florence; when the claim to give to human nature all it +desired had stolen into the Church itself. Even in the monasteries, +the long seclusion from natural human life had produced a reaction, +which soon, indulging itself as Fra Lippo Lippi did, ran into an +extremity of licence. Nevertheless, something of the old religious +life lasted at the time of this poem. It stretched one hand back to +the piety of the past, and retained, though faith and devotion had +left them, its observances and conventions; so that, at first, when +Lippo was painting, the new only peeped out of the old, like the +saucy face of a nymph from the ilexes of a sacred grove. This is +the historical moment Browning illustrates. Lippo Lippi was forced +to paint the worn religious subjects: Jerome knocking his breast, +the choirs of angels and martyrs, the scenes of the Gospel; but out +of all he did the eager modern life began to glance! Natural, +quaint, original faces and attitudes appeared; the angels smiled +like Florentine <a name='Page308' id="Page308"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>308</span>women; the saints wore the air of Bohemians. +There is a picture by Lippo Lippi in the National Gallery of some +nine of them sitting on a bench under a hedge of roses, and it is +no paradox to say that they might fairly represent the Florentines +who tell the tales of the <i>Decameron</i>.</p> +<p>The transition as it appeared in art is drawn in this poem. +Lippo Lippi became a monk by chance; it was not his vocation. A +starving boy, he roamed the streets of Florence; and the widespread +intelligence of the city is marked by Browning's account of the way +in which the <i>boy</i> observed all the life of the streets for +eight years. Then the coming change of the aims of art is indicated +by the way in which, when he was allowed to paint, he covered the +walls of the Carmine, not with saints, virgins, and angels, but +with the daily life of the streets—the boy patting the dog, +the murderer taking refuge at the altar, the white wrath of the +avenger coming up the aisle, the girl going to market, the crowd +round the stalls in the market, the monks, white, grey, and +black—things as they were, as like as two peas to the +reality; flesh and blood now painted, not skin and bone; not the +expression on the face alone, but the whole body in speaking +movement; nothing conventional, nothing imitative of old models, +but actual life as it lay before the painter's eyes. Into this +fresh æra of art Lippo Lippi led the way with the joy of +youth. But he was too soon. The Prior, all the representatives of +the conservative elements in the convent, were sorely troubled. +"Why, this will never do: faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the +true; life as it is; nature as she is; quite impossible." And +Browning, in <a name='Page309' id="Page309"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>309</span>Lippo's defence of himself, paints the conflict +of the past with the coming art in a passage too long to quote, too +admirable to shorten.</p> +<p>The new art conquered the old. The whole life of Florence was +soon painted as it was: the face of the town, the streets, the +churches, the towers, the winding river, the mountains round about +it; the country, the fields and hills and hamlets, the peasants at +work, ploughing, sowing, and gathering fruit, the cattle feeding, +the birds among the trees and in the sky; nobles and rich burghers +hunting, hawking; the magistrates, the citizens, the street-boys, +the fine ladies, the tradesmen's wives, the heads of the guilds; +the women visiting their friends; the interior of the houses. We +may see this art of human life in the apse of Santa Maria Novella, +painted by the hand of Ghirlandajo: in the Riccardi Palace, painted +by Benozzo Gozzoli; in more than half the pictures of the painters +who succeeded Fra Lippo Lippi. Only, so much of the old clings that +all this actual Florentine life is painted into the ancient +religious subjects—the life of the Baptist and the Virgin, +the embassage of the Wise Men, the life of Christ, the legends of +the saints, the lives of the virgins and martyrs, Jerusalem and its +life painted as if it were Florence and its life—all the +spiritual religion gone out of it, it is true, but yet, another +kind of religion budding in it—the religion, not of the +monastery, but of daily common life.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>the world</p> +<p>—The beauty and the wonder and the power,</p> +<p>The shapes of things, their colours, lights, and shades.</p> +<p>Changes, surprises—and God made it all!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page310' id="Page310"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>310</span>Who paints these things as if they were alive, +and loves them while he paints, paints the garment of God; and men +not only understand their own life better because they see, through +the painting, what they did not see before; but also the movement +of God's spirit in the beauty of the world and in the life of men. +Art interprets to man all that is, and God in it.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>Oh, oh,</p> +<p>It makes me mad to think what men shall do</p> +<p>And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us,</p> +<p>No blank; it means intensely, and means good:</p> +<p>To find its meaning is my meat and drink.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>He could not do it; the time was not ripe enough. But he began +it. And the spirit of its coming breaks out in all he did.</p> +<p>We take a leap of more than half a century when we pass from +<i>Fra Lippo Lippi</i> to <i>Andrea del Sarto</i>. That advance in +art to which Lippo Lippi looked forward with a kind of rage at his +own powerlessness had been made. In its making, the art of the +Renaissance had painted men and women, both body and soul, in every +kind of life, both of war and peace; and better than they had ever +been painted before. Having fulfilled that, the painters asked, +"What more? What new thing shall we do? What new aim shall we +pursue?" And there arose among them a desire to paint all that was +paintable, and especially the human body, with scientific +perfection. "In our desire to paint the whole of life, we have +produced so much that we were forced to paint carelessly or +inaccurately. In our desire to be original, we have neglected +technique. In our desire to paint the passions <a name='Page311' +id="Page311"></a><span class='pagenum'>311</span>on the face and in +the movements of men, we have lost the calm and harmony of the +ancient classic work, which made its ethical impression of the +perfect balance of the divine nature by the ideal arrangement, in +accord with a finished science, of the various members of the body +to form a finished whole. Let the face no longer then try to +represent the individual soul. One type of face for each class of +art-representation is enough. Let our effort be to represent beauty +by the perfect drawing of the body in repose and in action, and by +chosen attitudes and types. Let our composition follow certain +guiding lines and rules, in accordance with whose harmonies all +pictures shall be made. We will follow the Greek; compose as he +did, and by his principles; and for that purpose make a scientific +study of the body of man; observing in all painting, sculpture, and +architecture the general forms and proportions that ancient art, +after many experiments, selected as the best. And, to match that, +we must have perfect drawing in all we do."</p> +<p>This great change, which, as art's adulterous connection with +science deepened, led to such unhappy results, Browning represents, +when its aim had been reached, in his poem, <i>Andrea del +Sarto</i>; and he tells us—through Andrea's talk with his +wife Lucretia—what he thought of it; and what Andrea himself, +whose broken life may have opened his eyes to the truth of things, +may himself have thought of it. On that element in the poem I have +already dwelt, and shall only touch on the scenery and tragedy, of +the piece:</p> +<p>We sit with Andrea, looking out to Fiesole.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page312' id="Page312"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>312</p> +<p class='i12'>sober, pleasant Fiesole.</p> +<p>There's the bell clinking from the chapel top;</p> +<p>That length of convent-wall across the way</p> +<p>Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside;</p> +<p>The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease,</p> +<p>And autumn grows, autumn in everything.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>As the poem goes on, the night falls, falls with the deepening +of the painter's depression; the owls cry from the hill, Florence +wears the grey hue of the heart of Andrea; and Browning weaves the +autumn and the night into the tragedy of the painter's life.</p> +<p>That tragedy was pitiful. Andrea del Sarto was a faultless +painter and a weak character; and it fell to his lot to love with +passion a faithless woman. His natural weakness was doubled by the +weakness engendered by unconquerable passion; and he ruined his +life, his art, and his honour, to please his wife. He wearied her, +as women are wearied, by passion unaccompanied by power; and she +endured him only while he could give her money and pleasures. She +despised him for that endurance, and all the more that he knew she +was guilty, but said nothing lest she should leave him. Browning +fills his main subject—his theory of the true aim of +art—with this tragedy; and his treatment of it is a fine +example of his passionate humanity; and the passion of it is +knitted up with close reasoning and illuminated by his intellectual +play.</p> +<p>It is worth a reader's while to read, along with this poem, +Alfred de Musset's short play, <i>André del Sarto</i>. The +tragedy of the situation is deepened by the French poet, and the +end is told. Unlike Browning, only a few lines sketch the time, its +temper, and its art. It is the depth of the tragedy which De Musset +paints, and that alone; <a name='Page313' id= +"Page313"></a><span class='pagenum'>313</span>and in order to +deepen it, Andrea is made a much nobler character than he is in +Browning's poem. The betrayal is also made more complete, more +overwhelming. Lucretia is false to Andrea with his favourite pupil, +with Cordiani, to whom he had given all he had, whom he loved +almost as much as he loved his wife. Terrible, inevitable Fate +broods over this brief and masterly little play.</p> +<p>The next of these imaginative representations of the Renaissance +is, <i>The Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed's Church</i>. We +are placed in the full decadence of the Renaissance. Its total loss +of religion, even in the Church; its immorality—the bishop's +death-bed is surrounded by his natural sons and the wealth he +leaves has been purchased by every kind of iniquity—its pride +of life; its luxury; its semi-Paganism; its imitative classicism; +its inconsistency; its love of jewels, and fine stones, and rich +marbles; its jealousy and envy; its pleasure in the adornment of +death; its delight in the outsides of things, in mere workmanship; +its loss of originality; its love of scholarship for scholarship's +sake alone; its contempt of the common people; its +exhaustion—are one and all revealed or suggested in this +astonishing poem.</p> +<p>These are the three greater poems dedicated to this period; but +there are some minor poems which represent different phases of its +life. One of these is the <i>Pictor Ignotus</i>. There must have +been many men, during the vital time of the Renaissance, who, born, +as it were, into the art-ability of the period, reached without +trouble a certain level in painting, but who had no genius, who +could not create; or who, if they had some touch of genius, had no +<a name='Page314' id="Page314"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>314</span>boldness to strike it into fresh forms of +beauty; shy, retiring men, to whom the criticism of the world was a +pain they knew they could not bear. These men are common at a +period when life is racing rapidly through the veins of a vivid +city like Florence. The general intensity of the life lifts them to +a height they would never reach in a dull and sleepy age. The life +they have is not their own, but the life of the whole town. And +this keen perception of life outside of them persuades them that +they can do all that men of real power can do. In reality, they can +do nothing and make nothing worth a people's honour. Browning, who +himself was compact of boldness, who loved experiment in what was +new, and who shaped what he conceived without caring for criticism, +felt for these men, of whom he must have met many; and, asking +himself "How they would think; what they would do; and how life +would seem to them," wrote this poem. In what way will poor human +nature excuse itself for failure? How will the weakness in the man +try to prove that it was power? How, having lost the joy of life, +will he attempt to show that his loss is gain, his failure a +success; and, being rejected of the world, approve himself +within?</p> +<p>This was a subject to please Browning; meat such as his soul +loved: a nice, involved, Dædalian, labyrinthine sort of +thing, a mixture of real sentiment and self-deceit; and he +surrounded it with his pity for its human weakness.</p> +<p>"I could have painted any picture that I pleased," cries this +painter; "represented on the face any passion, any virtue." If he +could he would have done it, or tried it. Genius cannot hold itself +in.</p> +<p>"<a name='Page315' id="Page315"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>315</span>I have dreamed of sending forth some picture +which should enchant the world (and he alludes to Cimabue's +picture)—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>"Bound for some great state,</p> +<p>Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went—</p> +<p>Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight,</p> +<p>Through old streets named afresh from the event.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>"That would have been, had I willed it. But mixed with the +praisers there would have been cold, critical faces; judges who +would press on me and mock. And I—I could not bear it." Alas! +had he had genius, no fear would have stayed his hand, no judgment +of the world delayed his work. What stays a river breaking from its +fountain-head?</p> +<p>So he sank back, saying the world was not worthy of his labours. +"What? Expose my noble work (things he had conceived but not done) +to the prate and pettiness of the common buyers who hang it on +their walls! No, I will rather paint the same monotonous round of +Virgin, Child, and Saints in the quiet church, in the sanctuary's +gloom. No merchant then will traffic in my heart. My pictures will +moulder and die. Let them die. I have not vulgarised myself or +them." Brilliant and nobly wrought as the first three poems are of +which I have written, this quiet little piece needed and received a +finer workmanship, and was more difficult than they.</p> +<p>Then there is <i>How it strikes a Contemporary</i>—the +story of the gossip of a Spanish town about a poor poet, who, +because he wanders everywhere about the streets observing all +things, is mistaken for a spy of the king. The long pages he writes +are said to be letters to the king; the misfortunes <a name= +'Page316' id="Page316"></a><span class='pagenum'>316</span>of this +or that man are caused by his information. The world thinks him a +wonder of cleverness; he is but an inferior poet. It imagines that +he lives in Assyrian luxury; he lives and dies in a naked garret. +This imaginative representation might be of any time in a +provincial town of an ignorant country like Spain. It is a slight +study of what superstitious imagination and gossip will work up +round any man whose nature and manners, like those of a poet, +isolate him from the common herd. Force is added to this study by +its scenery. The Moorish windows, the shops, the gorgeous +magistrates pacing down the promenade, are touched in with a flying +pencil; and then, moving through the crowd, the lean, black-coated +figure, with his cane and dog and his peaked hat, clear flint eyes +and beaked nose, is seen, as if alive, in the vivid sunshine of +Valladolid. But what Browning wished most to describe in this poem +was one of the first marks of a poet, even of a poor one like this +gentleman—the power of seeing and observing everything. +Nothing was too small, nothing uninteresting in this man's eyes. +His very hat was scrutinising.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade,</p> +<p>The man who slices lemons into drink,</p> +<p>The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys</p> +<p>That volunteer to help him turn its winch.</p> +<p>He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye,</p> +<p>And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string,</p> +<p>And broad-edged bold-print posters by the wall.</p> +<p>He took such cognisance of man and things,</p> +<p>If any beat a horse you felt he saw;</p> +<p>If any cursed a woman, he took note;</p> +<p>Yet stared at nobody, you stared at him,</p> +<p>And found, less to your pleasure than surprise,</p> +<p>He seemed to know you and expect as much.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page317' id="Page317"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>317</span>That is the artist's way. It was Browning's +way. He is describing himself. In that fashion he roamed through +Venice or Florence, stopping every moment, attracted by the +smallest thing, finding a poem in everything, lost in himself yet +seeing all that surrounded him, isolated in thinking, different +from and yet like the rest of the world.</p> +<p>Another poem—<i>My Last Duchess</i>—must be +mentioned. It is plainly placed in the midst of the period of the +Renaissance by the word <i>Ferrara</i>, which is added to its +title. But it is rather a picture of two temperaments which may +exist in any cultivated society, and at any modern time. There are +numbers of such men as the Duke and such women as the Duchess in +our midst. Both are, however, drawn with mastery. Browning has +rarely done his work with more insight, with greater keenness of +portraiture, with happier brevity and selection. As in <i>The +Flight of the Duchess</i>, untoward fate has bound together two +temperaments sure to clash with each other—and no gipsy comes +to deliver the woman in this case. The man's nature kills her. It +happens every day. The Renaissance society may have built up more +men of this type than ours, but they are not peculiar to it.</p> +<p>Germany, not Italy, is, I think, the country in which Browning +intended to place two other poems which belong to the time of the +Renaissance—<i>Johannes Agricola in Meditation</i> and <i>A +Grammarian's Funeral</i>. Their note is as different from that of +the Italian poems as the national temper of Germany is from that of +Italy. They have no sense of beauty for beauty's sake alone. Their +atmosphere is not soft or gay but somewhat stern. The logical +<a name='Page318' id="Page318"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>318</span>arrangement of them is less one of feeling than +of thought. There is a stronger manhood in them, a grimmer view of +life. The sense of duty to God and Man, but little represented in +the Italian poems of the Renaissance, does exist in these two +German poems. Moreover, there is in them a full representation of +aspiration to the world beyond. But the Italian Renaissance lived +for the earth alone, and its loveliness; too close to earth to care +for heaven.</p> +<p>It pleased Browning to throw himself fully into the soul of +Johannes Agricola; and he does it with so much personal fervour +that it seems as if, in one of his incarnations, he had been the +man, and, for the moment of his writing, was dominated by him. The +mystic-passion fills the poetry with keen and dazzling light, and +it is worth while, from this point of view, to compare the poem +with Tennyson's <i>Sir Galahad</i>, and on another side, with +<i>St. Simeon Stylites</i>.</p> +<p>Johannes Agricola was one of the products of the reforming +spirit of the sixteenth century in Germany, one of its wild +extremes. He believes that God had chosen him among a few to be his +for ever and for his own glory from the foundation of the world. He +did not say that all sin was permitted to the saints, that what the +flesh did was no matter, like those wild fanatics, one of whom +Scott draws in <i>Woodstock</i>; but he did say, that if he sinned +it made no matter to his election by God. Nay, the immanence of God +in him turned the poison to health, the filth to jewels. Goodness +and badness make no matter; God's choice is all. The martyr for +truth, the righteous man whose life has saved the world, but who is +not elected, is damned for <a name='Page319' id= +"Page319"></a><span class='pagenum'>319</span>ever in burning hell. +"I am eternally chosen; for that I praise God. I do not understand +it. If I did, could I praise Him? But I know my settled place in +the divine decrees." I quote the beginning. It is pregnant with +superb spiritual audacity, and kindled with imaginative pride.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>There's heaven above, and night by night</p> +<p class='i2'>I look right through its gorgeous roof;</p> +<p>No suns and moons though e'er so bright</p> +<p class='i2'>Avail to stop me; splendour-proof</p> +<p class='i2'>Keep the broods of stars aloof:</p> +<p>For I intend to get to God,</p> +<p class='i2'>For 'tis to God I speed so fast,</p> +<p>For in God's breast, my own abode,</p> +<p class='i2'>Those shoals of dazzling glory, passed,</p> +<p class='i2'>I lay my spirit down at last.</p> +<p>I lie where I have always lain,</p> +<p class='i2'>God smiles as he has always smiled;</p> +<p>Ere suns and moons could wax and wane,</p> +<p class='i2'>Ere stars were thunder-girt, or piled</p> +<p class='i2'>The heavens, God thought on me his child;</p> +<p>Ordained a life for me, arrayed</p> +<p class='i2'>Its circumstances every one</p> +<p>To the minutest; ay, God said</p> +<p class='i2'>This head this hand should rest upon</p> +<p class='i2'>Thus, ere he fashioned star or sun.</p> +<p>And having thus created me,</p> +<p class='i2'>Thus rooted me, he bade me grow,</p> +<p>Guiltless for ever, like a tree</p> +<p class='i2'>That buds and blooms, nor seeks to know</p> +<p class='i2'>The law by which it prospers so:</p> +<p>But sure that thought and word and deed</p> +<p class='i2'>All go to swell his love for me,</p> +<p>Me, made because that love had need</p> +<p class='i2'>Of something irreversibly</p> +<p class='i2'>Pledged solely its content to be.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>As to <i>A Grammarian's Funeral</i>, that poem also belongs to +the German rather than to the Italian spirit. The Renaissance in +Italy lost its religion; at the same time, in Germany, it added a +reformation <a name='Page320' id="Page320"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>320</span>of religion to the New Learning. The +Renaissance in Italy desired the fulness of knowledge in this +world, and did not look for its infinities in the world beyond. In +Germany the same desire made men call for the infinities of +knowledge beyond the earth. A few Italians, like Savonarola, like +M. Angelo, did the same, and failed to redeem their world; but +eternal aspiration dwelt in the soul of every German who had gained +a religion. In Italy, as the Renaissance rose to its luxury and +trended to its decay, the pull towards personal righteousness made +by belief in an omnipotent goodness who demands the subjection of +our will to his, ceased to be felt by artists, scholars and +cultivated society. A man's will was his only law. On the other +hand, the life of the New Learning in Germany and England was +weighted with a sense of duty to an eternal Righteousness. The love +of knowledge or beauty was modified into seriousness of life, +carried beyond this life in thought, kept clean, and, though filled +with incessant labour on the earth, aspired to reach its fruition +only in the life to come.</p> +<p>This is the spirit and the atmosphere of the <i>Grammarian's +Funeral</i>, and Browning's little note at the beginning says that +its time "was shortly after the revival of learning in Europe." I +have really no proof that Browning laid the scene of his poem in +Germany, save perhaps the use of such words as "thorp" and "croft," +but there is a clean, pure morning light playing through the verse, +a fresh, health-breathing northern air, which does not fit in with +Italy; a joyous, buoyant youthfulness in the song and march of the +students who carry their <a name='Page321' id= +"Page321"></a><span class='pagenum'>321</span>master with gay +strength up the mountain to the very top, all of them filled with +his aspiring spirit, all of them looking forward with gladness and +vigour to life—which has no relation whatever to the temper +of Florentine or Roman life during the age of the Medici. The bold +brightness, moral earnestness, pursuit of the ideal, spiritual +intensity, reverence for good work and for the man who did it, +which breathe in the poem, differ by a whole world from the +atmosphere of life in <i>Andrea del Sarto</i>. This is a crowd of +men who are moving upwards, who, seizing the Renaissance elements, +knitted them through and through with reformation of life, faith in +God, and hope for man. They had a future and knew it. The +semi-paganism of the Renaissance had not, and did not know it had +not.</p> +<p>We may close this series of Renaissance representations by <i>A +Toccata of Galuppi's</i>. It cannot take rank with the others as a +representative poem. It is of a different class; a changeful dream +of images and thoughts which came to Browning as he was playing a +piece of eighteenth-century Venetian music. But in the dream there +is a sketch of that miserable life of fruitless pleasure, the other +side of which was dishonourable poverty, into which Venetian +society had fallen in the eighteenth century. To this the pride, +the irreligion, the immorality, the desire of knowledge and beauty +for their own sake alone, had brought the noblest, wisest, and most +useful city in Italy. That part of the poem is representative. It +is the end of such a society as is drawn in <i>The Bishop orders +his Tomb at St. Praxed's Church</i>. That tomb is placed in Rome, +but it is in Venice that <a name='Page322' id= +"Page322"></a><span class='pagenum'>322</span>this class of tombs +reached their greatest splendour of pride, opulence, folly, +debasement and irreligion.</p> +<p>Finally, there are a few poems which paint the thoughts, the +sorrows, the pleasures, and the political passions of modern Italy. +There is the <i>Italian in England</i>, full of love for the +Italian peasant and of pity for the patriot forced to live and die +far from his motherland. Mazzini used to read it to his +fellow-exiles to show them how fully an English poet could enter +into the temper of their soul. So far it may be said to represent a +type. But it scarcely comes under the range of this chapter. But +<i>Up in a Villa, down in the City</i>, is so vivid a +representation of all that pleased a whole type of the city-bred +and poor nobles of Italy at the time when Browning wrote the +<i>Dramatic Lyrics</i> that I cannot omit it. It is an admirable +piece of work, crowded with keen descriptions of nature in the +Casentino, and of life in the streets of Florence. And every piece +of description is so filled with the character of the "Italian +person of quality" who describes them—a petulant, humorous, +easily angered, happy, observant, ignorant, poor +gentleman—that Browning entirely disappears. The poem retains +for us in its verse, and indeed in its light rhythm, the +childlikeness, the <i>naïveté</i>, the simple +pleasures, the ignorance, and the honest boredom with the solitudes +of nature—of a whole class of Italians, not only of the time +when it was written, but of the present day. It is a delightful, +inventive piece of gay and pictorial humour.</p> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page323' id="Page323"></a><span class='pagenum'>323</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_XIII' id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> +<h3><i>WOMANHOOD IN BROWNING</i></h3> +<p>The first woman we meet in Browning's poetry is Pauline; a +twofold person, exceedingly unlike the woman usually made by a +young poet. She is not only the Pauline idealised and also +materialised by the selfish passion of her lover, but also the real +woman whom Browning has conceived underneath the lover's image of +her. This doubling of his personages, as seen under two diverse +aspects or by two different onlookers, in the same poem, is not +unfrequent in his poetry, and it pleased his intellect to make +these efforts. When the thing was well done, its cleverness was +amazing, even imaginative; when it was ill done, it was confusing. +Tennyson never did this; he had not analytic power enough. What he +sees of his personages is all one, quite clearly drawn and easy to +understand. But we miss in them, and especially in his women, the +intellectual play, versatility and variety of Browning. Tennyson's +women sometimes border on dulness, are without that movement, +change and surprises, which in women disturb mankind for evil or +for good. If Tennyson had had a little more of Browning's +imaginative analysis, and Browning a little less of it, both would +have been better artists.</p> +<p><a name='Page324' id="Page324"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>324</span>The Pauline of the lover is the commonplace +woman whom a young man so often invents out of a woman for his use +and pleasure. She is to be his salvation, to sympathise with his +ideals, joys and pains, to give him everything, with herself, and +to live for him and him alone. Nothing can be more <i>naïf</i> +and simple than this common selfishness which forgets that a woman +has her own life, her own claim on the man, and her own +individuality to develop; and this element in the poem, which never +occurs again in Browning's poetry, may be the record of an early +experience. If so, he had escaped from this youthful error before +he had finished the poem, and despised it, perhaps too much. It is +excusable and natural in the young. His contempt for this kind of +love is embodied in the second Pauline. She is not the woman her +lover imagines her to be, but far older and more experienced than +her lover; who has known long ago what love was; who always liked +to be loved, who therefore suffers her lover to expatiate as wildly +as he pleases; but whose life is quite apart from him, enduring him +with pleasurable patience, criticising him, wondering how he can be +so excited. There is a dim perception in the lover's phrases of +these elements in his mistress' character; and that they are in her +character is quite plain from the patronising piece of criticism in +French which Browning has put into her mouth. The first touch of +his humour appears in the contrast of the gentle and lofty boredom +of the letter with the torrents of love in the poem. And if we may +imagine that the lover is partly an image of what Browning once +felt in a youthful love, we <a name='Page325' id= +"Page325"></a><span class='pagenum'>325</span>may also think that +the making of the second and critical Pauline was his record, when +his love had passed, of what he thought about it all.</p> +<p>This mode of treatment, so much more analytic than imaginative, +belongs to Browning as an artist. He seems, while he wrote, as if +half of him sat apart from the personages he was making, +contemplating them in his observant fashion, discussing them coolly +in his mind while the other half of him wrote about them with +emotion; placing them in different situations and imagining what +they would then do; inventing trials for them and recombining, +through these trials, the elements of their characters; arguing +about and around them, till he sometimes loses the unity of their +personality. This is a weakness in his work when he has to create +characters in a drama who may be said, like Shakespeare's, to have, +once he has created them, a life of their own independent of the +poet. His spinning of his own thoughts about their characters makes +us often realise, in his dramas, the individuality of Browning more +than the individuality of the characters. We follow him at this +work with keen intellectual pleasure, but we do not always follow +him with a passionate humanity.</p> +<p>On the contrary, this habit, which was one cause of his weakness +as an artist in the drama, increased his strength as an artist when +he made single pictures of men and women at isolated crises in +their lives; or when he pictured them as they seemed at the moment +to one, two, or three differently tempered persons—pictorial +sketches and studies which we may hang up in the chambers of the +mind for meditation or discussion. Their <a name='Page326' id= +"Page326"></a><span class='pagenum'>326</span>intellectual power +and the emotional interest they awaken, the vivid imaginative +lightning which illuminates them in flashes, arise out of that part +of his nature which made him a weak dramatist.</p> +<p>Had he chosen, for example, to paint Lady Carlisle as he +conceived her, in an isolated portrait, and in the same +circumstances as in his drama of <i>Strafford</i>, we should have +had a clear and intimate picture of her moving, alive at every +point, amidst the decay and shipwreck of the Court. But in the play +she is a shade who comes and goes, unoutlined, confused and +confusing, scarcely a woman at all. The only clear hints of what +Browning meant her to be are given in the <i>asides</i> of +Strafford.</p> +<p>Browning may have been content with <i>Strafford</i> as a whole, +but, with his passion for vitality, he could not have been content +with either Lady Carlisle or the Queen as representatives of women. +Indeed, up to this point, when he had written <i>Pauline</i>, +<i>Paracelsus</i> and <i>Strafford</i>, he must have felt that he +had left out of his poetry one half of the human race; and his +ambition was to represent both men and women. Pauline's chief +appearance is in French prose. Michel, in <i>Paracelsus</i>, is a +mere silhouette of the sentimental German Frau, a soft sympathiser +with her husband and with the young eagle Paracelsus, who longs to +leave the home she would not leave for the world—an excellent +and fruitful mother. She is set in a pleasant garden landscape. +Twice Browning tries to get more out of her and to lift her into +reality. But the men carry him away from her, and she remains +undrawn. These mere images, with the exception of the woman in +<i>Porphyria's Lover</i>, who, with a <a name='Page327' id= +"Page327"></a><span class='pagenum'>327</span>boldness which might +have astonished even Byron but is characteristic of Browning in his +audacious youth, leaves the ball to visit her lover in the cottage +in the garden—are all that he had made of womanhood in 1837, +four years after he had begun to publish poetry.</p> +<p>It was high time he should do something better, and he had now +begun to know more of the variousness of women and of their +resolute grip on life and affairs. So, in <i>Sordello</i>, he +created Palma. She runs through the poem, and her appearances mark +turning points in Sordello's development; but thrice she appears in +full colour and set in striking circumstances—first, in the +secret room of the palace at Verona with Sordello when she expounds +her policy, and afterwards leans with him amid a gush of torch-fire +over the balcony, whence the grey-haired councillors spoke to the +people surging in the square and shouting for the battle. The +second time is in the streets of Ferrara, full of camping men and +fires; and the third is when she waits with Taurello in the vaulted +room below the chamber where Sordello has been left to decide what +side he shall take, for the Emperor or the Pope. He dies while they +wait, but there is no finer passage in the poem than this of Palma +and Taurello talking in the dim corridor of the new world they +would make for North Italy with Sordello. It is not dramatic +characterisation, but magnificent individualisation of the woman +and the man.</p> +<p>We see Palma first as a girl at Goito, where she fills Sordello +with dreams, and Browning gives her the beauty of the Venetians +Titian painted.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page328' id="Page328"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>328</p> +<p class='i12'>How the tresses curled</p> +<p>Into a sumptuous swell of gold and wound</p> +<p>About her like a glory! even the ground</p> +<p>Was bright as with spilt sunbeams:</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Full consciousness of her beauty is with her, frank triumph in +it; but she is still a child. At the Court of Love she is a woman, +not only conscious of her loveliness, but able to use it to bind +and loose, having sensuous witchery and intellectual power, that +terrible combination. She lays her magic on Sordello.</p> +<p>But she is not only the woman of personal magic and beauty. +Being of high rank and mixed with great events, she naturally +becomes the political woman, a common type in the thirteenth +century. And Browning gives her the mental power to mould and +direct affairs. She uses her personal charm to lure Sordello into +politics.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>Her wise</p> +<p>And lulling words are yet about the room,</p> +<p>Her presence wholly poured upon the gloom</p> +<p>Down even to her vesture's creeping stir.</p> +<p>And so reclines he, saturate with her.</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p>But when she felt she held her friend indeed</p> +<p>Safe, she threw back her curls, began implant</p> +<p>Her lessons;</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Her long discourse on the state of parties, and how Sordello +may, in mastering them, complete his being, fascinates him and us +by the charm of her intelligence.</p> +<p>But the political woman has often left love behind. Politics, +like devotion, are a woman's reaction from the weariness of loving +and being loved. But Palma is young, and in the midst of <a name= +'Page329' id="Page329"></a><span class='pagenum'>329</span>her +politics she retains passion, sentiment, tenderness and charm. She +dreams of some soul beyond her own, who, coming, should call on all +the force in her character; enable her, in loving him, to give +consummation to her work for Italy; and be himself the hand and +sword of her mind. Therefore she held herself in leash till the +right man came, till she loved. "Waits he not," her heart cries, +and mixes him with coming Spring:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>Waits he not the waking year?</p> +<p>His almond blossoms must be honey-ripe</p> +<p>By this; to welcome him, fresh runnels stripe</p> +<p>The thawed ravines; because of him, the wind</p> +<p>Walks like a herald. I shall surely find</p> +<p>Him now.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>She finds him in Sordello, and summons him, when the time is +ripe, to Verona. Love and ambition march together in her now. In +and out of all her schemes Sordello moves. The glory of her vision +of North Italian rule is like a halo round his brow. Not one +political purpose is lost, but all are transfigured in her by love. +Softness and strength, intellect and feeling meet in her. This is a +woman nobly carved, and the step from Michel, Pauline and Lady +Carlisle to her is an immense one.</p> +<p>By exercise of his powers Browning's genius had swiftly +developed. There comes a time, sooner or later, to a great poet +when, after many experiments, the doors of his intellect and soul +fly open, and his genius is flooded with the action and thought of +what seems a universe. And with this revelation of Man and Nature, +a tidal wave of creative power, new and impelling, carries the poet +far beyond the station where last he rested. It came to Browning +<a name='Page330' id="Page330"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>330</span>now. The creation of Palma would be enough to +prove it, but there is not a character or scene in <i>Sordello</i> +which does not also prove it.</p> +<hr class='short' /> +<p>In this new outrush of his genius he created a very different +woman from Palma. He created Pippa, the Asolan girl, at the other +end of society from Palma, at the other end of feminine character. +Owing to the host of new thoughts which in this early summer of +genius came pouring into his soul—all of which he tried to +express, rejecting none, choosing none out of the rest, expressing +only half of a great number of them; so delighted with them all +that he could leave none out—he became obscure in +<i>Sordello</i>. Owing also to the great complexity of the +historical <i>mise-en-scène</i> in which he placed his +characters in that poem, he also became obscure. Had he been an +experienced artist he would have left out at least a third of the +thoughts and scenes he inserted. As it was, he threw all his +thoughts and all the matters he had learnt about the politics, +cities, architecture, customs, war, gardens, religion and poetry of +North Italy in the thirteenth century, pell-mell into this poem, +and left them, as it were, to find their own places. This was very +characteristic of a young man when the pot of his genius was +boiling over. Nothing bolder, more incalculable, was ever done by a +poet in the period of his storm and stress. The boundless and to +express it, was never sought with more audacity. It was impossible, +in this effort, for him to be clear, and we need not be vexed with +him. The daring, the rush, the unconsciousness and the youth of it +all, are his excuse, but not his praise. And when the <a name= +'Page331' id="Page331"></a><span class='pagenum'>331</span>public +comes to understand that the dimness and complexity of +<i>Sordello</i> arise from plenteousness not scarcity of thought, +and that they were not a pose of the poet's but the natural leaping +of a full fountain just let loose from its mountain chamber, it +will have a personal liking, not perhaps for the poem but for +Browning. "I will not read the book," it will say, "but I am glad +he had it in him."</p> +<p>Still it was an artistic failure, and when Browning understood +that the public could not comprehend him—and we must remember +that he desired to be comprehended, for he loved mankind—he +thought he would use his powers in a simpler fashion, and please +the honest folk. So, in the joy of having got rid in +<i>Sordello</i> of so many of his thoughts by expression and of +mastering the rest; and determined, since he had been found +difficult, to be the very opposite—loving contrast like a +poet—he wrote <i>Pippa Passes</i>. I need not describe its +plan. Our business is with the women in it.</p> +<p>Ottima, alive with carnal passion, in the fire of which the +murder of her husband seems a mere incident, is an audacious +sketch, done in splashes of ungradated colour. Had Browning been +more in the woman's body and soul he would not have done her in +jerks as he has done. Her trick of talking of the landscape, as if +she were on a holiday like Pippa, is not as subtly conceived or +executed as it should be, and is too far away from her dominant +carnality to be natural. And her sensualism is too coarse for her +position. A certain success is attained, but the imagination is +frequently jarred. The very outburst of unsensual love at the end, +when her love passes from the <a name='Page332' id= +"Page332"></a><span class='pagenum'>332</span>flesh into the +spirit, when self-sacrifice dawns upon her and she begins to suffer +the first agonies of redemption, is plainly more due to the poet's +pity than to the woman's spirit. Again, Sebald is the first to feel +remorse after the murder. Ottima only begins to feel it when she +thinks her lover is ceasing to love her. I am not sure that to +reverse the whole situation would not be nearer to the truth of +things; but that is matter of discussion. Then the subject-matter +is sordid. Nothing relieves the coarseness of Sebald, Ottima and +Luca and their relations to one another but the few descriptions of +nature and the happy flash of innocence when Pippa passes by. Nor +are there any large fates behind the tale or large effects to +follow which might lift the crime into dignity. This mean, +commonplace, ugly kind of subject had a strange attraction for +Browning, as we see in <i>The Inn Album</i>, in <i>Red Cotton +Nightcap Country</i>, and elsewhere. I may add that it is curious +to find him, in 1841, writing exactly like a modern realist, nearly +fifty years before realism of this kind had begun. And this +illustrates what I have said of the way in which he anticipated by +so many years the kind of work to which the literary world should +come. The whole scene between Sebald and Ottima might have been +written by a powerful, relentless modern novelist.</p> +<p>We have more of this realism, but done with great skill, +humanity, even tenderness, in the meeting and talk of the young +harlotry on the steps of the Duomo near the fountain. When we think +of this piece of bold, clear, impressionist reality cast into the +midst of the proprieties of literature in <a name='Page333' id= +"Page333"></a><span class='pagenum'>333</span>1841, it is +impossible not to wonder and smile. The girls are excellently drawn +and varied from each other. Browning's pity gathers round them, and +something of underlying purity, of natural grace of soul, of +tenderness in memory of their youth emerges in them; and the charm +of their land is round their ways. There was also in his mind, I +think, a sense of picturesqueness in their class when they were +young, which, mingling with his pity for them, attracted his +imagination, or touched into momentary life that roving element in +a poet which resents the barriers made by social and domestic +purity. <i>Fifine at the Fair</i> is partly a study of that temper +which comes and goes, goes and comes in the life not only of poets +but of ordinary men and women.</p> +<p>Then, to illustrate this further, there is in <i>Sordello</i> a +brilliant sketch of girls of this kind at Venice, full of sunlight, +colour and sparkling water, in which he has seen these butterflies +of women as a painter would see them, or as a poet who, not +thinking then of moral questions or feeling pity for their fate, is +satisfied for the flying moment with the picture they make, with +the natural freedom of their life.</p> +<p>But he does not leave that picture without a representation of +the other side of this class of womanhood. It was a daring thing, +when he wished to say that he would devote his whole work to the +love and representation of humanity to symbolise it by a sorrowful +street-girl in Venice who wistfully asks an alms; worn and broken +with sorrow and wrong; whose eyes appeal for pity, for +comprehension of her good and for his <a name='Page334' id= +"Page334"></a><span class='pagenum'>334</span>love; and whose +fascination and beauty are more to him than those of her +unsuffering companions. The other side of that class of women is +here given with clear truth and just compassion, and the +representation is lifted into imaginative strength, range and +dignity of thought and feeling by her being made the image of the +whole of humanity. "This woman," he thought, "is humanity, whom I +love, who asks the poet in me to reveal her as she is, a divine +seed of God to find some day its flowering—the broken harlot +of the universe, who will be, far off, the Magdalen redeemed by her +ineradicable love. That, and with every power I have, I will, as +poet, love and represent."</p> +<p>This is the imagination working at its best, with its most +penetrative and passionate power, and Browning is far greater as a +poet in this Thing of his, where thought and love are knit into +union to give birth to moral, intellectual and spiritual beauty, +than he is in those lighter and cleverer poems in which he sketches +with a facile but too discursive a pencil, the transient moments, +grave or light, of the lives of women. Yet this and they show his +range, his variety, the embracing of his sympathy.</p> +<p>Over against these girls in the market-place, against Ottima in +her guilt, and Phene who is as yet a nonentity (her speech to the +sculptor is too plainly Browning's analysis of the moment, not her +own thinking—no girl of fourteen brought up by Natalia would +talk in that fashion) is set Pippa, the light, life and love of the +day, the town, the people and the poem. She passes like an angel by +and touches with her wing events and persons and changes them to +good. She has some natural <a name='Page335' id= +"Page335"></a><span class='pagenum'>335</span>genius, and is as +unconscious of her genius as she is of the good she does. In her +unconsciousness is the fountain of her charm. She lives like a +flower of the field that knows not it has blest and comforted with +its beauty the travellers who have passed it by. She has only one +day in the whole year for her own, and for that day she creates a +fresh personality for herself. She clothes her soul, intellect, +imagination, and spiritual aspiration in holiday garments for the +day, becoming for the time a new poetic self, and able to choose +any other personality in Asolo from hour to hour—the queen +and spirit of the town; not wishing to be, actually, the folk she +passes by, but only, since she is so isolated, to be something in +their lives, to touch them for help and company.</p> +<p>The world of nature speaks to her and loves her. She sees all +that is beautiful, feeds on it, and grasps the matter of thought +that underlies the beauty. And so much is she at home with nature +that she is able to describe with ease in words almost as noble as +the thing itself the advent of the sun. When she leaps out of her +bed to meet the leap of the sun, the hymn of description she sings +might be sung by the Hours themselves as they dance round the car +of the god. She can even play with the great Mother as with an +equal, or like her child. The charming gaiety with which she speaks +to the sunlights that dance in her room, and to the flowers which +are her sisters, prove, however isolated her life may be, that she +is never alone. Along with this brightness she has seriousness, the +sister of her gaiety; the deep seriousness of imagination, the +seriousness also of the evening <a name='Page336' id= +"Page336"></a><span class='pagenum'>336</span>when meditation +broods over the day and its doings before sleep. These, with her +sweet humanity, natural piety, instinctive purity, compose her of +soft sunshine and soft shadow. Nor does her sadness at the close, +which is overcome by her trust in God, make her less but more dear +to us. She is a beautiful creation. There are hosts of happy women +like her. They are the salt of the earth. But few poets have made +so much of them and so happily, or sung about these birds of God so +well as Browning has in <i>Pippa Passes</i>.</p> +<p>That was in 1841. Pleased with his success in this half-lyrical, +half-dramatic piece, he was lured towards the drama again, and also +to try his hand at those short lyrics—records of transient +emotion on fanciful subjects—or records of short but intense +moments of thought or feeling. It is a pity that he did not give to +dramatic lyrics (in which species of poetry he is quite our first +master) the time he gave to dramas, in which he is not much better +than an amateur. Nevertheless, we cannot omit the women in the +dramas. I have already written of Lady Carlisle. Polyxena, in +<i>King Victor and King Charles</i>, is partly the political woman +and partly the sensible and loving wife of a strangely tempered +man. She is fairly done, but is not interesting. Good womanly +intelligence in affairs, good womanly support of her man; clear +womanly insight into men and into intrigue—a woman of whom +there are hundreds of thousands in every rank of life. In her, as +in so much of Browning's work, the intellect of the woman is of a +higher quality than the intellect of the man.</p> +<p>Next, among his women, is Anael in the <i>Return <a name= +'Page337' id="Page337"></a><span class='pagenum'>337</span>of the +Druses</i>, She is placed in too unnatural a situation to allow her +nature to have fair play. In the preternatural world her +superstition creates, she adores Djabal, murders the Prefect, and +dies by her own hand. She is, in that world, a study of a young +girl's enthusiasm for her faith and her country, and for the man +she thinks divine; and were the subject, so far as it relates to +her character, well or clearly wrought, she might be made +remarkable. As it is wrought, it is so intertwisted with complex +threads of thought and passion that any clear outline of her +character is lost. Both Djabal and she are like clouds illuminated +by flashes of sheet lightning which show an infinity of folds and +shapes of vapour in each cloud, but show them only for an instant; +and then, when the flashes come again, show new folds, new +involutions. The characters are not allowed by Browning to develop +themselves.</p> +<p>Anael, when she is in the preternatural world, loves Djabal as +an incarnation of the divine, but in the natural world of her +girlhood her heart goes out to the Knight of Malta who loves her. +The in-and-out of these two emotional states—one in the world +of religious enthusiasm, and one in her own womanhood, as they +cross and re-cross one another—is elaborated with merciless +analysis; and Anael's womanhood appears, not as a whole, but in +bits and scraps. How will this young girl, divided by two +contemporaneous emotions, one in the supernatural and one in the +natural world, act in a crisis of her life? Well, the first, +conquering the second, brings about her death the moment she tries +to transfer the second into the world of the <a name='Page338' id= +"Page338"></a><span class='pagenum'>338</span>first—her dim, +half-conscious love for Lois into her conscious adoration of +Djabal.</p> +<p>Mildred and Guendolen are the two women in <i>A Blot in the +'Scutcheon</i>. Guendolen is the incarnation of high-hearted +feminine commonsense, of clear insight into the truth of things, +born of the power of love in her. Amid all the weaknesses of the +personages and the plot; in the wildered situation made by a +confused clashing of pride and innocence and remorse, in which +Browning, as it were on purpose to make a display of his +intellectual ability, involves those poor folk—Guendolen is +the rock on which we can rest in peace; the woman of the world, yet +not worldly; full of experience, yet having gained by every +experience more of love; just and strong yet pitiful, and with a +healthy but compassionate contempt for the intelligence of the men +who belong to her.</p> +<p>Contrasted with her, and the quality of her love contrasted +also, is Mildred, the innocent child girl who loves for love's +sake, and continues to be lost in her love. But Browning's +presentation of her innocence, her love, is spoiled by the +over-remorse, shame and fear under whose power he makes her so +helpless. They are in the circumstances so unnaturally great that +they lower her innocence and love, and the natural courage of +innocence and love. These rise again to their first level, but it +is only the passion of her lover's death which restores them. And +when they recur, she is outside of girlhood. One touch of the +courage she shows in the last scene would have saved in the +previous scene herself, her lover, and her brother. The lie she +lets her brother infer when she allows him to think <a name= +'Page339' id="Page339"></a><span class='pagenum'>339</span>that the +lover she has confessed to is not the Earl, yet that she will marry +the Earl, degrades her altogether and justly in her brother's eyes, +and is so terribly out of tune with her character that I repeat I +cannot understand how Browning could invent that situation. It +spoils the whole presentation of the girl. It is not only out of +her character, it is out of nature. Indeed, in spite of the poetry, +in spite of the pathetic beauty of the last scene, Mildred and +Tresham are always over-heightened, over-strained beyond the +concert-pitch of nature. But the drawing of the woman's character +suffers more from this than the man's, even though Tresham, in the +last scene, is half turned into a woman. Sex seems to disappear in +that scene.</p> +<p>A different person is Colombe, the Duchess in <i>Colombe's +Birthday</i>. That play, as I have said, gets on, but it gets on +because Colombe moves every one in the play by her own motion. From +beginning to end of the action she is the fire and the soul of it. +Innocent, frank and brave, simple and constant among a group of +false and worldly courtiers, among whom she moves like the white +Truth, untouched as yet by love or by the fates of her position, +she is suddenly thrown into a whirlpool of affairs and of love; and +her simplicity, clearness of intelligence, unconscious rightness of +momentary feeling, which comes of her not thinking about her +feelings—that rare and precious element in +character—above all, her belief in love as the one worthy +thing in the world, bring her out of the whirlpool, unshipwrecked, +unstained by a single wave of ill-feeling or mean thinking, into a +quiet <a name='Page340' id="Page340"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>340</span>harbour of affection and of power. For she will +influence Berthold all his life long.</p> +<p>She is herself lovely. Valence loves her at sight. Her love for +Valence is born before she knows it, and the touch of jealousy, +which half reveals it to her, is happily wrought by Browning. When +she finds out that Valence did for love of her what she thought was +done for loyalty alone to her, she is a little revolted; her +single-heartedness is disappointed. She puts aside her growing +love, which she does not know as yet is love, and says she will +find out if Berthold wishes to marry her because he loves her, or +for policy. Berthold is as honest as she is, and tells her love has +nothing to do with the matter. The thought of an untrue life with +Berthold then sends her heart with a rush back to Valence, and she +chooses love and obscurity with Valence. It is the portrait of +incarnate truth, in vivid contrast to Constance, who is a liar in +grain.</p> +<p>Constance is the heroine of the fragment of a drama called <i>In +a Balcony</i>. Norbert, a young diplomat, has served the Queen, who +is fifty years old, for a year, all for the love of Constance, a +cousin and dependent of the Queen. He tells Constance he will now, +as his reward, ask the Queen for her hand. Constance says, "No; +that will ruin us both; temporise; tell the Queen, who is hungry +for love, that you love her; and that, as she cannot marry a +subject, you will be content with me, whom the Queen loves." +Norbert objects, and no wonder, to this lying business, but he does +it; and the Queen runs to Constance, crying, "I am loved, thank +God! I will throw everything <a name='Page341' id= +"Page341"></a><span class='pagenum'>341</span>aside and marry him. +I thought he loved you, but he loves me." Then Constance, wavering +from truth again, says that the Queen is right. Norbert does love +her. And this is supposed by some to be a noble self-sacrifice, +done in pity for the Queen. It is much more like jealousy.</p> +<p>Then, finding that all Norbert's future depends on the Queen, +she is supposed to sacrifice herself again, this time for Norbert's +sake. She will give him up to the Queen, for the sake of his +career; and she tells the Queen, before Norbert, that he has +confessed to her his love for the Queen—another lie! Norbert +is indignant—he may well be—and throws down all this +edifice of falsehood. The Queen knows then the truth, and leaves +them in a fury. Constance and Norbert fly into each other's arms, +and the tramp of the soldiers who come to arrest them is heard as +the curtain falls.</p> +<p>I do not believe that Browning meant to make self-sacrifice the +root of Constance's doings. If he did, he has made a terrible mess +of the whole thing. He was much too clear-headed a moralist to link +self-sacrifice to systematic lying. Self-sacrifice is not +self-sacrifice at all when it sacrifices truth. It may wear the +clothes of Love, but, in injuring righteousness, it injures the +essence of love. It has a surface beauty, for it imitates love, but +if mankind is allured by this beauty, mankind is injured. It is the +false Florimel of self-sacrifice. Browning, who had studied +self-sacrifice, did not exhibit it in Constance. There is something +else at the root of her actions, and I believe he meant it to be +jealousy. The very first lie she urges her lover to tell (that is, +to let the Queen imagine he loves her) <a name='Page342' id= +"Page342"></a><span class='pagenum'>342</span>is just the thing a +jealous woman would invent to try her lover and the Queen, if she +suspected the Queen of loving him, and him of being seduced from +her by the worldly advantage of marrying the Queen. And all the +other lies are best explained on the supposition of jealous +experiments. At the last she is satisfied; the crowning test had +been tried. Through a sea of lying she had made herself sure of +Norbert's love, and she falls into his arms. Had Browning meant +Constance to be an image of self-sacrifice, he would scarcely have +written that line when Norbert, having told the truth of the matter +to the Queen, looks at both women, and cries out, "You two glare, +each at each, like panthers now." A woman, filled with the joy and +sadness of pure self-sacrifice, would not have felt at this moment +like a panther towards the woman for whom she had sacrificed +herself.</p> +<p>Even as a study of jealousy, Constance is too subtle. Jealousy +has none of these labyrinthine methods; it goes straight with fiery +passion to its end. It may be said, then, that Constance is not a +study of jealousy. But it may be a study by Browning of what he +thought in his intellect jealousy would be. At any rate, Constance, +as a study of self-sacrifice, is a miserable failure. Moreover, it +does not make much matter whether she is a study of this or that, +because she is eminently wrong-natured. Her lying is unendurable, +only to be explained or excused by the madness of jealousy, and +she, though jealous, is not maddened enough by jealousy to excuse +her lies. The situations she causes are almost too ugly. Whenever +the truth is told, either by the Queen or Norbert, the situations +<a name='Page343' id="Page343"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>343</span>break up in disgrace for her. It is difficult +to imagine how Norbert could go on loving her. His love would have +departed if they had come to live together. He is radically true, +and she is radically false. A fatal split would have been +inevitable. Nothing could be better for them both—after their +momentary outburst of love at the end—than death.</p> +<p>From the point of view of art, Constance is interesting. It is +more than we can say of Domizia in <i>Luria</i>. She is nothing +more than a passing study whom Browning uses to voice his theories. +Eulalia in <i>A Soul's Tragedy</i> is also a transient thing, only +she is more colourless, more a phantom than Domizia.</p> +<p>By this time, by the year 1846, Browning had found out that he +could not write dramas well, or even such dramatic proverbs as +<i>In a Balcony</i>. And he gave himself up to another species of +his art. The women he now draws (some of which belong to the years +during which he wrote dramas) are done separately, in dramatic +lyrics as he called them, and in narrative and philosophical poems. +Some are touched only at moments of their lives, and we are to +infer from the momentary action and feeling the whole of the woman. +Others are carefully and lovingly drawn from point to point in a +variety of action, passion and circumstance. In these we find +Browning at his best in the drawing of women. I know no women among +the second-rate poets so sweetly, nobly, tenderly and wisely drawn +as Pompilia and Balaustion.</p> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page344' id="Page344"></a><span class='pagenum'>344</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_XIV' id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> +<h3><i>WOMANHOOD IN BROWNING<br /> +(THE DRAMATIC LYRICS AND POMPILIA)</i></h3> +<p>No modern poet has written of women with such variety as +Browning. Coleridge, except in a few love-poems, scarcely touched +them. Wordsworth did not get beyond the womanhood of the home +affections, except in a few lovely and spiritual sketches of +girlhood which are unique in our literature, in which maidenhood +and the soul of nature so interchange their beauty that the girl +seems born of the lonely loveliness of nature and lives with her +mother like a child.</p> +<p>What motherhood in its deep grief and joy, what sisterhood and +wifehood may be, have never been sung with more penetration and +exquisiteness than Wordsworth sang them. But of the immense range, +beyond, of womanhood he could not sing. Byron's women are mostly in +love with Byron under various names, and he rarely strays beyond +the woman who is loved or in love. The woman who is most vital, +true and tender is Haidée in <i>Don Juan</i>. Shelley's +women melt into philosophic mist, or are used to build up a +political or social theory, as if they were "properties" of +literature. Cythna, Rosalind, Asia, Emilia are ideas, not <a name= +'Page345' id="Page345"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>345</span>realities. Beatrice is alive, but she was drawn +for him in the records of her trial. Even the woman of his later +lyrics soon ceases to be flesh and blood. Keats let women alone, +save in Isabella, and all that is of womanhood in her is derived +from Boccaccio. Madeline is nothing but a picture. It is curious +that his remarkable want of interest in the time in which he lived +should be combined with as great a want of interest in women, as if +the vivid life of any period in the history of a people were bound +up with the vivid life of women in that period. When women awake no +full emotion in a poet, the life of the time, as in the case of +Keats, awakes little emotion in him. He will fly to the past for +his subjects. Moreover, it is perhaps worth saying that when the +poets cease to write well about women, the phase of poetry they +represent, however beautiful it be, is beginning to decay. When +poetry is born into a new life, women are as living in it as men. +Womanhood became at once one of its dominant subjects in Tennyson +and Browning. Among the new political, social, religious, +philosophic and artistic ideas which were then borne like torches +through England, the idea of the free development of women was also +born; and it carried with it a strong emotion. They claimed the +acknowledgment of their separate individuality, of their distinct +use and power in the progress of the world. This was embodied with +extraordinary fulness in <i>Aurora Leigh</i>, and its emotion drove +itself into the work of Tennyson and Browning. How Tennyson treated +the subject in the <i>Princess</i> is well known. His +representation of women in his other poems does not pass beyond +<a name='Page346' id="Page346"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>346</span>a few simple, well-known types both of good and +bad women. But the particular types into which the variety of +womanhood continually throws itself, the quick individualities, the +fantastic simplicities and subtleties, the resolute extremes, the +unconsidered impulses, the obstinate good and evil, the bold +cruelties and the bold self-sacrifices, the fears and audacities, +the hidden work of the thoughts and passions of women in the +far-off worlds within them where their soul claims and possesses +its own desires—these were beyond the power of Tennyson to +describe, even, I think, to conceive. But they were in the power of +Browning, and he made them, at least in lyric poetry, a chief part +of his work.</p> +<p>In women he touched great variety and great individuality; two +things each of which includes the other, and both of which were +dear to his imagination. With his longing for variety of +representation, he was not content to pile womanhood up into a few +classes, or to dwell on her universal qualities. He took each woman +separately, marking out the points which differentiated her from, +not those which she shared with, the rest of her sex. He felt that +if he dwelt only on the deep-seated roots of the tree of womanhood, +he would miss the endless play, fancy, movement, interaction and +variety of its branches, foliage and flowers. Therefore, in his +lyrical work, he leaves out for the most part the simpler elements +of womanhood and draws the complex, the particular, the impulsive +and the momentary. Each of his women is distinct from the rest. +That is a great comfort in a world which, through laziness, wishes +to busy itself with classes rather than with personalities. I do +not <a name='Page347' id="Page347"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>347</span>believe that Browning ever met man or woman +without saying to himself—Here is a new world; it may be +classed, but it also stands alone. What distinguishes it from the +rest—that I will know and that describe.</p> +<p>When women are not enslaved to conventions—and the new +movement towards their freedom of development which began shortly +after 1840 had enfranchised and has continued ever since to +enfranchise a great number from this slavery—they are more +individual and various than men are allowed to be. They carry their +personal desires, aspirations and impulses into act, speech, and +into extremes with much greater licence than is possible to men. +One touches with them much more easily the original stuff of +humanity. It was this original, individual and various Thing in +women on which Browning seized with delight. He did not write half +as much as other poets had done of woman as being loved by man or +as loving him. I have said that the mere love-poem is no main +element in his work. He wrote of the original stuff of womanhood, +of its good and bad alike, sometimes of it as all good, as in +Pompilia; but for the most part as mingled of good and ill, and of +the good as destined to conquer the ill.</p> +<p>He did not exalt her above man. He thought her as vital, +interesting and important for progress as man, but not more +interesting, vital, or important. He neither lowered her nor +idealised her beyond natural humanity. She stands in his poetry +side by side with man on an equality of value to the present and +future of mankind. And he has wrought this out not by elaborate +statement of <a name='Page348' id="Page348"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>348</span>it in a theory, as Tennyson did in the +<i>Princess</i> with a conscious patronage of womanhood, but by +unconscious representation of it in the multitude of women whom he +invented.</p> +<p>But though the wholes were equal, the particulars of which the +wholes were composed differed in their values; and women in his +view were more keenly alive than men, at least more various in +their manifestation of life. It was their intensity of life which +most attracted him. He loved nothing so much as life—in plant +or animal or man. His longer poems are records of the larger +movement of human life, the steadfast record in quiet verse as in +<i>Paracelsus</i>, or the clashing together in abrupt verse as in +<i>Sordello</i>, of the turmoil and meditation, the trouble and joy +of the living soul of humanity. When he, this archangel of reality, +got into touch with pure fact of the human soul, beating with life, +he was enchanted. And this was his vast happiness in his longest +poem, the <i>Ring and the Book</i>—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Do you see this square old yellow book I toss</p> +<p>I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about</p> +<p>By the crumpled vellum covers—pure crude fact</p> +<p>Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard</p> +<p>And brains, high blooded, ticked two centuries hence?</p> +<p>Give it me back. The thing's restorative</p> +<p>I' the touch and sight.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>But in his lyrics, it was not the steady development of life on +which he loved to write, but the unexpected, original movement of +life under the push of quick thought and sudden passion into some +new form of action which broke through the commonplace of +existence. Men and women, and chiefly women, when they spoke and +acted on a keen edge of life <a name='Page349' id= +"Page349"></a><span class='pagenum'>349</span>with a precipice +below them or on the summit of the moment, with straight and clear +intensity, and out of the original stuff of their nature—were +his darling lyric subjects. And he did this work in lyrics, because +the lyric is the poem of the moment.</p> +<p>There was one of these critical moments which attracted him +greatly—that in which all after-life is contained and +decided; when a step to the right or left settles, in an instant, +the spiritual basis of the soul. I have already mentioned some of +these poems—those concerned with love, such as <i>By the +Fireside</i> or <i>Cristina</i>—and the woman is more +prominent in them than the man. One of the best of them, so far as +the drawing of a woman is concerned, is <i>Dis aliter visum</i>. We +see the innocent girl, and ten years after what the world has made +of her. But the heart of the girl lies beneath the woman of the +world. And she recalls to the man the hour when they lingered near +the church on the cliff; when he loved her, when he might have +claimed her, and did not. He feared they might repent of it; +sacrificing to the present their chance of the eternities of love. +"Fool! who ruined four lives—mine and your opera-dancer's, +your own and my husband's!" Whether her outburst now be quite true +to her whole self or not Browning does not let us know; but it is +true to that moment of her, and it is full of the poetry of the +moment she recalls. Moreover, these thirty short verses paint as no +other man could have done the secret soul of a woman in society. I +quote her outburst. It is full of Browning's keen poetry; and the +first verse of it may well be compared with a similar moment in +<i>By the Fireside</i>, <a name='Page350' id= +"Page350"></a><span class='pagenum'>350</span>where nature is made +to play the same part, but succeeds as here she fails:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Now I may speak: you fool, for all</p> +<p class='i2'>Your lore! Who made things plain in vain?</p> +<p class='i2'>What was the sea for? What, the grey</p> +<p class='i2'>Sad church, that solitary day,</p> +<p>Crosses and graves and swallows' call?</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Was there nought better than to enjoy?</p> +<p class='i2'>No feat which, done, would make time break,</p> +<p class='i2'>And let us pent-up creatures through</p> +<p class='i2'>Into eternity, our due?</p> +<p>No forcing earth teach heaven's employ?</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>No wise beginning, here and now,</p> +<p class='i2'>What cannot grow complete (earth's feat)</p> +<p class='i2'>And heaven must finish, there and then?</p> +<p class='i2'>No tasting earth's true food for men,</p> +<p>Its sweet in sad, its sad in sweet?</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>No grasping at love, gaining a share</p> +<p class='i2'>O' the sole spark from God's life at strife</p> +<p class='i2'>With death, so, sure of range above</p> +<p class='i2'>The limits here? For us and love.</p> +<p>Failure; but, when God fails, despair.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>This you call wisdom? Thus you add</p> +<p class='i2'>Good unto good again, in vain?</p> +<p class='i2'>You loved, with body worn and weak;</p> +<p class='i2'>I loved, with faculties to seek:</p> +<p>Were both loves worthless since ill-clad?</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Let the mere star-fish in his vault</p> +<p class='i2'>Crawl in a wash of weed, indeed,</p> +<p class='i2'>Rose-jacynth to the finger tips:</p> +<p class='i2'>He, whole in body and soul, outstrips</p> +<p>Man, found with either in default.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>But what's whole, can increase no more,</p> +<p class='i2'>Is dwarfed and dies, since here's its sphere.</p> +<p class='i2'>The devil laughed at you in his sleeve!</p> +<p class='i2'>You knew not? That I well believe;</p> +<p>Or you had saved two souls: nay, four.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'><a name='Page351' id="Page351"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>351</p> +<p>For Stephanie sprained last night her wrist,</p> +<p class='i2'>Ankle or something. "Pooh," cry you?</p> +<p class='i2'>At any rate she danced, all say,</p> +<p class='i2'>Vilely; her vogue has had its day.</p> +<p>Here comes my husband from his whist.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Here the woman speaks for herself. It is characteristic of +Browning's boldness that there are a whole set of poems in which he +imagines the unexpressed thoughts which a woman revolves in +self-communion under the questionings and troubles of the passions, +and chiefly of the passion of love. The most elaborate of these is +<i>James Lee's Wife</i>, which tells what she thinks of when after +long years she has been unable to retain her husband's love. +Finally, she leaves him. The analysis of her thinking is +interesting, but the woman is not. She is not the quick, natural +woman Browning was able to paint so well when he chose. His own +analytic excitement, which increases in mere intellectuality as the +poem moves on, enters into her, and she thinks more through +Browning the man than through her womanhood. Women are complex +enough, more complex than men, but they are not complex in the +fashion of this poem. Under the circumstances Browning has made, +her thought would have been quite clear at its root, and indeed in +its branches. She is represented as in love with her husband. Were +she really in love, she would not have been so involved, or able to +argue out her life so anxiously. Love or love's sorrow knows itself +at once and altogether, and its cause and aim are simple. But +Browning has unconsciously made the woman clear enough for us to +guess the real cause of her departure. That <a name='Page352' id= +"Page352"></a><span class='pagenum'>352</span>departure is believed +by some to be a self-sacrifice. There are folk who see +self-sacrifice in everything Browning wrote about women. Browning +may have originally intended her action to be one of +self-sacrifice, but the thing, as he went on, was taken out of his +hands, and turns out to be quite a different matter. The woman +really leaves her husband because her love for him was tired out. +She talks of leaving her husband free, and perhaps, in women's way, +persuades herself that she is sacrificing herself; but she desires +in reality to set herself free from an unavailing struggle to keep +his love. There comes a time when the striving for love wearies out +love itself. And James Lee's wife had reached that moment. Her +departure, thus explained, is the most womanly thing in the poem, +and I should not wonder if Browning meant it so. He knew what +self-sacrifice really was, and this departure of the woman was not +a true self-sacrifice.</p> +<p>Another of these poems in which a woman speaks out her heart is +<i>Any Wife to any Husband</i>. She is dying, and she would fain +claim his undying fidelity to his love of her; but though she +believes in his love, she thinks, when her presence is not with +him, that his nature will be drawn towards other women. Then what +he brings her, when he meets her again, will not be perfect. +Womanly to the core, and her nature is a beautiful nature, she says +nothing which is not kind and true, and the picture she draws of +faithfulness, without one stain of wavering, is natural and lovely. +But, for all that, it is jealousy that speaks, the desire to claim +all for one's self. "Thou art mine, <a name='Page353' id= +"Page353"></a><span class='pagenum'>353</span>and mine +only"—that fine selfishness which injures love so deeply in +the end, because it forbids its expansion, that is, forbids the +essential nature of love to act. That may be pardoned, unless in +its extremes, during life, if the pardon does not increase it; but +this is in the hour of death, and it is unworthy of the higher +world. To carry jealousy beyond the grave is a phase of that +selfish passion over which this hour, touched by the larger thought +of the infinite world, should have uplifted the woman. Still, what +she says is in nature, and Browning's imagination has closed +passionately round his subject. But he has left us with pity for +the woman rather than with admiration of her.</p> +<p>Perhaps the subtlest part of the poem is the impression left on +us that the woman knows all her pleading will be in vain, that she +has fathomed the weakness of her husband's character. He will not +like to remember that knowledge of hers; and her letting him feel +it is a kind of vengeance which will not help him to be faithful. +It is also her worst bitterness, but if her womanhood were perfect, +she would not have had that bitterness.</p> +<p>In these two poems, and in others, there is to be detected the +deep-seated and quiet half-contempt—contempt which does not +damage love, contempt which is half pity—which a woman who +loves a man has for his weakness under passion or weariness. Both +the wives in these poems feel that their husbands are inferior to +themselves in strength of character and of intellect. To feel this +is common enough in women, but is rarely confessed by them. A man +scarcely ever finds it out from his own observation; he is too vain +for that. But <a name='Page354' id="Page354"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>354</span>Browning knew it. A poet sees many things, and +perhaps his wife told him this secret. It was like his audacity to +express it.</p> +<p>This increased knowledge of womanhood was probably due to the +fact that Browning possessed in his wife a woman of genius who had +studied her own sex in herself and in other women. It is owing to +her, I think, that in so many poems the women are represented as of +a finer, even a stronger intellect than the men. Many poets have +given them a finer intuition; that is a common representation. But +greater intellectual power allotted to women is only to be found in +Browning. The instances of it are few, but they are remarkable.</p> +<p>It was owing also to his wife, whose relation to him was frank +on all points, that Browning saw so much more clearly than other +poets into the deep, curious or remote phases of the passions, +thoughts and vagaries of womanhood. I sometimes wonder what women +themselves think of the things Browning, speaking through their +mouth, makes them say; but that is a revelation of which I have no +hope, and for which, indeed, I have no desire.</p> +<p>Moreover, he moved a great deal in the society where women, not +having any real work to do, or if they have it, not doing it, +permit a greater freedom to their thoughts and impulses than those +of their sex who sit at the loom of duty. Tennyson withdrew from +this society, and his women are those of a retired poet—a few +real types tenderly and sincerely drawn, and a few more worked out +by thinking about what he imagined they would be, not by knowing +them. Browning, roving through his class and other classes of +society, and observ<a name='Page355' id="Page355"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>355</span>ing while he seemed unobservant, drew into his +inner self the lives of a number of women, saw them living and +feeling in a great diversity of circumstances; and, always on the +watch, seized the moment into which he thought the woman entered +with the greatest intensity, and smote that into a poem. Such +poems, naturally lyrics, came into his head at the opera, at a +ball, at a supper after the theatre, while he talked at dinner, +when he walked in the park; and they record, not the whole of a +woman's character, but the vision of one part of her nature which +flashed before him and vanished in an instant. Among these poems +are <i>A Light Woman, A Pretty Woman, Solomon and Balkis, Gold +Hair</i>, and, as a fine instance of this sheet-lightning poem +about women—<i>Adam, Lilith and Eve. Too Late</i> and <i>The +Worst of It</i> do not belong to these slighter poems; they are on +a much higher level. But they are poems of society and its secret +lives. The men are foremost in them, but in each of them a +different woman is sketched, through the love of the men, with a +masterly decision.</p> +<p>Among all these women he did not hesitate to paint the types +farthest removed from goodness and love. The lowest woman in the +poems is she who is described in <i>Time's Revenges</i>—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>So is my spirit, as flesh with sin,</p> +<p>Filled full, eaten out and in</p> +<p>With the face of her, the eyes of her,</p> +<p>The lips, the little chin, the stir</p> +<p>Of shadow round her mouth; and she</p> +<p>—I'll tell you—calmly would decree</p> +<p>That I should roast at a slow fire,</p> +<p>If that would compass her desire</p> +<p>And make her one whom they invite</p> +<p>To the famous ball to-morrow night</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page356' id="Page356"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>356</span>Contrasted with this woman, from whose brutal +nature civilisation has stripped away the honour and passion of the +savage, the woman of <i>In a Laboratory</i> shines like a fallen +angel. She at least is natural, and though the passions she feels +are the worst, yet she is capable of feeling strongly. Neither have +any conscience, but we can conceive that one of these women might +attain it, but the other not. Both are examples of a thing I have +said is exceedingly rare in Browning's poetry—men or women +left without some pity of his own touched into their circumstances +or character.</p> +<p><i>In a Laboratory</i> is a full-coloured sketch of what +womanhood could become in a court like that of Francis I.; in which +every shred of decency, gentlehood and honour had disappeared. +Browning's description, vivid as it is, is less than the reality. +Had he deepened the colours of iniquity and indecency instead of +introducing so much detailed description of the laboratory, detail +which weakens a little our impression of the woman, he had done +better, but all the same there is no poet in England, living or +dead, who could have done it so well. One of the best things in the +poem is the impression made on us that it is not jealousy, but the +hatred of envy which is the motive of the woman. Jealousy supposes +love or the image of love, but among those who surrounded Francis, +love did not exist at all, only lust, luxury and greed of power; +and in the absence of love and in the scorn of it, hate and envy +reign unchallenged. This is what Browning has realised in this +poem, and, in this differentiation, he has given us not only +historical but moral truth.</p> +<p><a name='Page357' id="Page357"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>357</span>Apart from these lighter and momentary poems +about women there are those written out of his own ideal of +womanhood, built up not only from all he knew and loved in his +wife, but also out of the dreams of his heart. They are the +imaginings of the high honour and affection which a man feels for +noble, natural and honest womanhood. They are touched here and +there by complex thinking, but for the most part are of a beloved +simplicity and tenderness, and they will always be beautiful. There +is the sketch of the woman in <i>The Italian in England</i>, a +never to be forgotten thing. It is no wonder the exile remembered +her till he died. There is the image we form of the woman in <i>The +Flowers Name</i>. He does not describe her; she is far away, but +her imagined character and presence fill the garden with an incense +sweeter than all the flowers, and her beauty irradiates all beauty, +so delicately and so plenteously does the lover's passion make her +visible. There is <i>Evelyn Hope</i>, and surely no high and pure +love ever created a more beautiful soul in a woman than hers who +waits her lover in the spiritual world. There are those on whom we +have already dwelt—Pippa, Colombe, Mildred, Guendolen. There +is the woman in the <i>Flight of the Duchess</i>; not a sketch, but +a completed picture. We see her, just emerged from her convent, +thrilling with eagerness to see the world, believing in its beauty, +interested in everything, in the movement of the leaves on the +trees, of the birds in the heaven, ready to speak to every one high +or low, desirous to get at the soul of all things in Nature and +Humanity, herself almost a creature of the element, akin to air and +fire.</p> +<p><a name='Page358' id="Page358"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>358</span>She is beaten into silence, but not crushed; +overwhelmed by dry old people, by imitation of dead things, but the +life in her is not slain. When the wandering gipsy claims her for a +natural life, her whole nature blossoms into beauty and joy. She +will have troubles great and deep, but every hour will make her +conscious of more and more of life. And when she dies, it will be +the beginning of an intenser life.</p> +<p>Finally, there is his wife. She is painted in these lyric poems +with a simplicity of tenderness, with a reticence of worship as +sacred as it is fair and delicate, with so intense a mingling of +the ideal and the real that we never separate them, and with so +much passion in remembrance of the past and in longing for the +future, that no comment can enhance the picture Browning draws of +her charm, her intellect and her spirit.</p> +<p>These pictures of womanhood were set forth before 1868, when a +collected edition of his poems was published in six volumes. They +were chiefly short, even impressionist studies, save those in the +dramas, and Palma in <i>Sordello</i>. Those in the dramas were +troubled by his want of power to shape them in that vehicle. It +would have then been a pity if, in his matured strength, he had not +drawn into clear existence, with full and careful, not +impressionist work, and with unity of conception, some women who +should, standing alone, become permanent personages in poetry; whom +men and women in the future, needing friends, should love, honour +and obey, and in whom, when help and sympathy and wisdom were +wanted, these healing powers should be found. Browning did this for +us <a name='Page359' id="Page359"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>359</span>in <i>Pompilia</i> and <i>Balaustion</i>, an +Italian and a Greek girl—not an English girl. It is strange +how to the very end he lived as a poet outside of his own land.</p> +<p>In 1868, Pompilia appeared before the world, and she has +captured ever since the imagination, the conscience and the +sentiment of all who love womanhood and poetry. Her character has +ennobled and healed mankind. Born of a harlot, she is a star of +purity; brought up by characters who love her, but who do not rise +above the ordinary meanness and small commercial honesty of their +class, she is always noble, generous, careless of wealth, and of a +high sense of honour. It is as if Browning disdained for the time +all the philosophy of heredity and environment; and indeed it was +characteristic of him to believe in the sudden creation of beauty, +purity and nobility out of their contraries and in spite of them. +The miracle of the unrelated birth of genius—that out of the +dunghill might spring the lily, and out of the stratum of crime the +saint—was an article of faith with him. Nature's or God's +surprises were dear to him; and nothing purer, tenderer, sweeter, +more natural, womanly and saintly was ever made than Pompilia, the +daughter of a vagrant impurity, the child of crime, the girl who +grew to womanhood in mean and vulgar circumstances.</p> +<p>The only hatred she earns is the hatred of Count Guido her +husband, the devil who has tortured and murdered her—the +hatred of evil for good. When Count Guido, condemned to death, +bursts into the unrestrained expression of his own nature, he +cannot say one word about Pompilia which is not set <a name= +'Page360' id="Page360"></a><span class='pagenum'>360</span>on fire +by a hell of hatred. Nothing in Browning's writing is more vivid, +more intense, than these sudden outbursts of tiger fierceness +against his wife. They lift and enhance the image of Pompilia.</p> +<p>When she comes into contact with other characters such as the +Archbishop and the Governor, men overlaid with long-deposited +crusts of convention, she wins a vague pity from them, but her +simplicity, naturalness and saintliness are nearly as repugnant to +social convention as her goodness is to villany; and Browning has, +all through the poem, individualised in Pompilia the natural +simplicity of goodness in opposition to the artificial moralities +of conservative society. But when Pompilia touches characters who +have any good, however hidden, in them, she draws forth that good. +Her so-called parents pass before they die out of meanness into +nobility of temper. Conti, her husband's cousin, a fat, waggish man +of the world, changes into seriousness, pity and affection under +her silent influence. The careless folk she meets on her flight to +Rome recognise, even in most suspicious circumstances, her +innocence and nobleness; and change at a touch their ordinary +nature for a higher. And when she meets a fine character like +Caponsacchi, who has been led into a worldly, immoral and +indifferent life, he is swept in a moment out of it by the sight +alone of this star of innocence and spiritual beauty, and becomes +her true mate, daily self-excelled. The monk who receives her dying +confession, the Pope, far set by his age above the noise of popular +Rome, almost at one with the world beyond death and feeling what +the divine judgment would be, both recognise with a fervour +<a name='Page361' id="Page361"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>361</span>which carries them beyond the prejudices of age +and of their society the loveliness of Heaven in the spirit of this +girl of seventeen years, and claim her as higher than +themselves.</p> +<p>It is fitting that to so enskied and saintly a child, when she +rests before her death, the cruel life she had led for four years +should seem a dream; and the working out of that thought, and of +the two checks of reality it received in the coming of her child +and the coming of Caponsacchi, is one of the fairest and most +delicate pieces of work that Browning ever accomplished. She was so +innocent and so simple-hearted—and the development of that +part of her character in the stories told of her childhood is +exquisitely touched into life—so loving, so born to be happy +in being loved, that when she was forced into a maze of villany, +bound up with hatred, cruelty, baseness and guilt, she seemed to +live in a mist of unreality. When the pain became too deep to be +dreamlike she was mercifully led back into the dream by the +approach of death. As she lay dying there, all she had suffered +passed again into unreality. Nothing remained but love and purity, +the thrill when first she felt her child, the prayer to God which +brought Caponsacchi to her rescue so that her child might be born, +and lastly the vision of perfect union hereafter with her kindred +soul, who, not her lover on earth, would be her lover in eternity. +Even her boy, who had brought her, while she lived, her keenest +sense of reality (and Browning's whole treatment of her motherhood, +from the moment she knew she was in child, till the hour when the +boy lay in her arms, is as true and tender as if his wife had +filled his soul while he <a name='Page362' id= +"Page362"></a><span class='pagenum'>362</span>wrote), even her boy +fades away into the dream. It is true she was dying, and there is +no dream so deep as dying. Yet it was bold of Browning, and +profoundly imagined by him, to make the child disappear, and to +leave the woman at last alone with the thought and the spiritual +passion of her union with Caponsacchi—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>O lover of my life, O soldier saint,</p> +<p>No work begun shall ever pause for death.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>It is the love of Percival's sister for Galahad.</p> +<p>It is not that she is naturally a dreamer, that she would not +have felt and enjoyed the realities of earth. Her perceptions are +keen, her nature expansive. Browning, otherwise, would not have +cared for her. It was only when she was involved in evil, like an +angel in hell (a wolfs arm round her throat and a snake curled over +her feet), that she seemed to be dreaming, not living. It was +incredible to her that such things should be reality. Yet even the +dream called the hidden powers of her soul into action. In +realising these as against evil she is not the dreamer. Her +fortitude is unbroken; her moral courage never fails, though she is +familiar with fear; her action, when the babe has leaped in her +womb, is prompt, decisive and immediate; her physical courage, when +her husband overtakes her and befouls her honour, is like a man's. +She seizes his sword and would have slain the villain. Then, her +natural goodness, the genius of her goodness, gives her a spiritual +penetration which is more than an equivalent in her for an educated +intelligence. Her intuition is so keen that she sees through the +false worldliness of Caponsacchi to the <a name='Page363' id= +"Page363"></a><span class='pagenum'>363</span>real man beneath, and +her few words call it into goodness and honour for ever. Her clear +sense of truth sees all the threads of the net of villany in which +she has been caught, and the only means to break through it, to +reveal and bring it into condemnation. Fortitude, courage, +intuition and intelligence are all made to arise out of her natural +saintliness and love. She is always the immortal child.</p> +<p>For a time she has passed on earth through the realms of pain; +and now, stabbed to her death, she looks back on the passage, and +on all who have been kind and unkind to her—on the whole of +the falsehood and villany. And the royal love in her nature is the +master of the moment. She makes excuses for Violante's lie. "She +meant well, and she did, as I feel now, little harm." "I am right +now, quite happy; dying has purified me of the evil which touched +me, and I colour ugly things with my own peace and joy. Every one +that leaves life sees all things softened and bettered." As to her +husband, she finds that she has little to forgive him at the last. +Step by step she goes over all he did, and even finds excuses for +him, and, at the end, this is how she speaks, a noble utterance of +serene love, lofty intelligence, of spiritual power and of the +forgiveness of eternity.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>For that most woeful man my husband once,</p> +<p>Who, needing respite, still draws vital breath,</p> +<p>I—pardon him? So far as lies in me,</p> +<p>I give him for his good the life he takes,</p> +<p>Praying the world will therefore acquiesce.</p> +<p>Let him make God amends,—none, none to me</p> +<p>Who thank him rather that, whereas strange fate</p> +<p>Mockingly styled him husband and me wife,</p> +<p>Himself this way at least pronounced divorce,</p> +<p>Blotted the marriage bond: this blood of mine</p> +<a name='Page364' id="Page364"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>364</p> +<p>Flies forth exultingly at any door,</p> +<p>Washes the parchment white, and thanks the blow</p> +<p>We shall not meet in this world nor the next,</p> +<p>But where will God be absent? In His face</p> +<p>Is light, but in His shadow healing too:</p> +<p>Let Guido touch the shadow and be healed!</p> +<p>And as my presence was importunate,—</p> +<p>My earthly good, temptation and a snare,—</p> +<p>Nothing about me but drew somehow down</p> +<p>His hate upon me,—somewhat so excused</p> +<p>Therefore, since hate was thus the truth of him,—</p> +<p>May my evanishment for evermore</p> +<p>Help further to relieve the heart that cast</p> +<p>Such object of its natural loathing forth!</p> +<p>So he was made; he nowise made himself:</p> +<p>I could not love him, but his mother did.</p> +<p>His soul has never lain beside my soul:</p> +<p>But for the unresisting body,—thanks!</p> +<p>He burned that garment spotted by the flesh.</p> +<p>Whatever he touched is rightly ruined: plague</p> +<p>It caught, and disinfection it had craved</p> +<p>Still but for Guido; I am saved through him</p> +<p>So as by fire; to him—thanks and farewell!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Thus, pure at heart and sound of head, a natural, true woman in +her childhood, in her girlhood, and when she is tried in the +fire—by nature gay, yet steady in suffering; brave in a hell +of fears and shame; clear-sighted in entanglements of villany; +resolute in self-rescue; seeing and claiming the right help and +directing it rightly; rejoicing in her motherhood and knowing it as +her crown of glory, though the child is from her infamous husband; +happy in her motherhood for one fortnight; slain like a martyr; +loving the true man with immortal love; forgiving all who had +injured her, even her murderer; dying in full faith and love of +God, though her life had been a crucifixion; Pompilia passes away, +and England's men and women will be always grateful to Browning for +her creation.</p> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page365' id="Page365"></a><span class='pagenum'>365</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_XV' id="CHAPTER_XV"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> +<h3><i>BALAUSTION</i></h3> +<p>Among the women whom Browning made, Balaustion is the crown. So +vivid is her presentation that she seems with us in our daily life. +And she also fills the historical imagination.</p> +<p>One would easily fall in love with her, like those sensitive +princes in the <i>Arabian Nights</i>, who, hearing only of the +charms of a princess, set forth to find her over the world. Of all +Browning's women, she is the most luminous, the most at unity with +herself. She has the Greek gladness and life, the Greek +intelligence and passion, and the Greek harmony. All that was +common, prattling, coarse, sensual and spluttering in the Greek, +(and we know from Aristophanes how strong these lower elements were +in the Athenian people), never shows a trace of its influence in +Balaustion. Made of the finest clay, exquisite and delicate in +grain, she is yet strong, when the days of trouble come, to meet +them nobly and to change their sorrows into spiritual powers.</p> +<p>And the <i>mise-en-scène</i> in which she is placed +exalts her into a heroine, and adds to her the light, colour and +humanity of Greek romance. Born at Rhodes, but of an Athenian +mother, she is <a name='Page366' id="Page366"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>366</span>fourteen when the news arrives that the +Athenian fleet under Nikias, sent to subdue Syracuse, has been +destroyed, and the captive Athenians driven to labour in the +quarries. All Rhodes, then in alliance with Athens, now cries, +"Desert Athens, side with Sparta against Athens." Balaustion alone +resists the traitorous cry. "What, throw off Athens, be disloyal to +the source of art and intelligence—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>to the life and light</p> +<p>Of the whole world worth calling world at all!"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And she spoke so well that her kinsfolk and others joined her +and took ship for Athens. Now, a wind drove them off their course, +and behind them came a pirate ship, and in front of them loomed the +land. "Is it Crete?" they thought; "Crete, perhaps, and safety." +But the oars flagged in the hands of the weary men, and the pirate +gained. Then Balaustion, springing to the altar by the mast, white, +rosy, and uplifted, sang on high that song of Æschylus which +saved at Salamis—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>'O sons of Greeks, go, set your country free,</p> +<p>Free your wives, free your children, free the fanes</p> +<p>O' the Gods, your fathers founded,—sepulchres</p> +<p>They sleep in! Or save all, or all be lost.'</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The crew, impassioned by the girl, answered the song, and drove +the boat on, "churning the black water white," till the land shone +clear, and the wide town and the harbour, and lo, 'twas not Crete, +but Syracuse, luckless fate! Out came a galley from the port. "Who +are you; Sparta's friend or foe?" "Of Rhodes are we, Rhodes that +has forsaken Athens!"</p> +<p>"How, then, that song we heard? All Athens <a name='Page367' id= +"Page367"></a><span class='pagenum'>367</span>was in that +Æschylus. Your boat is full of Athenians—back to the +pirate; we want no Athenians here.... Yet, stay, that song was +Æschylus; every one knows it—how about Euripides? Might +you know any of his verses?" For nothing helped the poor Athenians +so much if any of them had his mouth stored with</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Old glory, great plays that had long ago</p> +<p>Made themselves wings to fly about the world,—</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>But most of all those were cherished who could recite Euripides +to Syracuse, so mighty was poetry in the ancient days to make +enemies into friends, to build, beyond the wars and jealousies of +the world, a land where all nations are one.</p> +<p>At this the captain cried: "Praise the God, we have here the +very girl who will fill you with Euripides," and the passage brings +Balaustion into full light.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Therefore, at mention of Euripides,</p> +<p>The Captain crowed out, "Euoi, praise the God!</p> +<p>Oöp, boys, bring our owl-shield to the fore!</p> +<p>Out with our Sacred Anchor! Here she stands,</p> +<p>Balaustion! Strangers, greet the lyric girl!</p> +<p>Euripides? Babai! what a word there 'scaped</p> +<p>Your teeth's enclosure, quoth my grandsire's song</p> +<p>Why, fast as snow in Thrace, the voyage through,</p> +<p>Has she been falling thick in flakes of him!</p> +<p>Frequent as figs at Kaunos, Kaunians said.</p> +<p>Balaustion, stand forth and confirm my speech!</p> +<p>Now it was some whole passion of a play;</p> +<p>Now, peradventure, but a honey-drop</p> +<p>That slipt its comb i' the chorus. If there rose</p> +<p>A star, before I could determine steer</p> +<p>Southward or northward—if a cloud surprised</p> +<p>Heaven, ere I fairly hollaed 'Furl the sail!'—</p> +<p>She had at fingers' end both cloud and star</p> +<p>Some thought that perched there, tame and tuneable,</p> +<a name='Page368' id="Page368"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>368</p> +<p>Fitted with wings, and still, as off it flew,</p> +<p>'So sang Euripides,' she said, 'so sang</p> +<p>The meteoric poet of air and sea,</p> +<p>Planets and the pale populace of heaven,</p> +<p>The mind of man, and all that's made to soar!'</p> +<p>And so, although she has some other name,</p> +<p>We only call her Wild-pomegranate-flower,</p> +<p>Balaustion; since, where'er the red bloom burns</p> +<p>I' the dull dark verdure of the bounteous tree,</p> +<p>Dethroning, in the Rosy Isle, the rose,</p> +<p>You shall find food, drink, odour, all at once;</p> +<p>Cool leaves to bind about an aching brow.</p> +<p>And, never much away, the nightingale.</p> +<p>Sing them a strophe, with the turn-again,</p> +<p>Down to the verse that ends all, proverb like.</p> +<p>And save us, thou Balaustion, bless the name"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And she answered: "I will recite the last play he wrote from +first to last—<i>Alkestis</i>—his strangest, saddest, +sweetest song."</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Then because Greeks are Greeks, and hearts are hearts.</p> +<p>And poetry is power,—they all outbroke</p> +<p>In a great joyous laughter with much love:</p> +<p>"Thank Herakles for the good holiday!</p> +<p>Make for the harbour! Row, and let voice ring,</p> +<p class='i2'>'In we row, bringing more Euripides!'"</p> +<p>All the crowd, as they lined the harbour now,</p> +<p class='i2'>"More of Euripides!"—took up the cry.</p> +<p>We landed; the whole city, soon astir,</p> +<p>Came rushing out of gates in common joy</p> +<p>To the suburb temple; there they stationed me</p> +<p>O' the topmost step; and plain I told the play,</p> +<p>Just as I saw it; what the actors said,</p> +<p>And what I saw, or thought I saw the while,</p> +<p>At our Kameiros theatre, clean scooped</p> +<p>Out of a hill side, with the sky above</p> +<p>And sea before our seats in marble row:</p> +<p>Told it, and, two days more, repeated it</p> +<p>Until they sent us on our way again</p> +<p>With good words and great wishes.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>So, we see Balaustion's slight figure under the <a name= +'Page369' id="Page369"></a><span class='pagenum'>369</span>blue +sky, and the white temple of Herakles from the steps of which she +spoke; and among the crowd, looking up to her with rapture, the +wise and young Sicilian who took ship with her when she was sent +back to Athens, wooed her, and found answer before they reached +Piræus. And there in Athens she and her lover saw Euripides, +and told the Master how his play had redeemed her from captivity. +Then they were married; and one day, with four of her girl friends, +under the grape-vines by the streamlet side, close to the temple, +Baccheion, in the cool afternoon, she tells the tale; interweaving +with the play (herself another chorus) what she thinks, how she +feels concerning its personages and their doings, and in the +comment discloses her character. The woman is built up in this way +for us. The very excuse she makes for her inserted words reveals +one side of her delightful nature—her love of poetry, her +love of beauty, her seeing eye, her delicate distinction, her +mingled humility and self-knowledge.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Look at Baccheion's beauty opposite,</p> +<p>The temple with the pillars at the porch!</p> +<p>See you not something beside masonry?</p> +<p>What if my words wind in and out the stone</p> +<p>As yonder ivy, the God's parasite?</p> +<p>Though they leap all the way the pillar leads,</p> +<p>Festoon about the marble, foot to frieze,</p> +<p>And serpentiningly enrich the roof,</p> +<p>Toy with some few bees and a bird or two,—</p> +<p>What then? The column holds the cornice up.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>As the ivy is to the pillar that supports the cornice, so are +her words to the <i>Alkestis</i> on which she comments.</p> +<p>That is her charming way. She also is, like <a name='Page370' +id="Page370"></a><span class='pagenum'>370</span>Pompilia, young. +But no contrast can be greater than that between Pompilia at +seventeen years of age and Balaustion at fifteen. In Greece, as in +Italy, women mature quickly. Balaustion is born with that genius +which has the experience of age in youth and the fire of youth in +age. Pompilia has the genius of pure goodness, but she is +uneducated, her intelligence is untrained, and her character is +only developed when she has suffered. Balaustion, on the contrary, +has all the Greek capacity, a thorough education, and that +education also which came in the air of that time to those of the +Athenian temper. She is born into beauty and the knowledge of it, +into high thinking and keen feeling; and she knows well why she +thought and how she felt. So finely wrought is she by passion and +intelligence alike, with natural genius to make her powers tenfold, +that she sweeps her kinsfolk into agreement with her, subdues the +sailors to her will, enchants the captain, sings the whole crew +into energy, would have, I believe, awed and enthralled the pirate, +conquers the Syracusans, delights the whole city, draws a talent +out of the rich man which she leaves behind her for the prisoners, +is a dear friend of sombre Euripides, lures Aristophanes, the +mocker, into seriousness, mates herself with him in a whole night's +conversation, and wrings praise and honour from the nimblest, the +most cynical, and the most world-wise intellect in Athens.</p> +<p>Thus, over against Pompilia, she is the image of fine culture, +held back from the foolishness and vanity of culture by the +steadying power of genius. Then her judgment is always balanced. +Each thing to her has many sides. She decides moral <a name= +'Page371' id="Page371"></a><span class='pagenum'>371</span>and +intellectual questions and action with justice, but with mercy to +the wrong opinion and the wrong thing, because her intellect is +clear, tolerant and forgiving through intellectual breadth and +power. Pompilia is the image of natural goodness and of its power. +A spotless soul, though she is passed through hell, enables her, +without a trained intellect, with ignorance of all knowledge, and +with as little vanity as Balaustion, to give as clear and firm a +judgment of right and wrong. She is as tolerant, as full of excuses +for the wrong thing, as forgiving, as Balaustion, but it is by the +power of goodness and love in her, not by that of intellect. +Browning never proved his strength more than when he made these +two, in vivid contrast, yet in their depths in harmony; both equal, +though so far apart, in noble womanhood. Both are beyond +convention; both have a touch of impulsive passion, of natural +wildness, of flower-beauty. Both are, in hours of crisis, borne +beyond themselves, and mistress of the hour. Both mould men, for +their good, like wax in their fingers. But Pompilia is the white +rose, touched with faint and innocent colour; and Balaustion is the +wild pomegranate flower, burning in a crimson of love among the +dark green leaves of steady and sure thought, her powers latent +till needed, but when called on and brought to light, flaming with +decision and revelation.</p> +<p>In this book we see her in her youth, her powers as yet +untouched by heavy sorrow. In the next, in <i>Aristophanes' +Apology</i>, we first find her in matured strength, almost +mastering Aristophanes; and afterwards in the depth of grief, as +she flies with her husband over the seas to Rhodes, leaving behind +<a name='Page372' id="Page372"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>372</span>her Athens, the city of her heart, ruined and +enslaved. The deepest passion in her, the patriotism of the soul, +is all but broken-hearted. Yet, she is the life and support of all +who are with her; even a certain gladness breaks forth in her, and +she secures for all posterity the intellectual record of Athenian +life and the images, wrought to vitality, of some of the greater +men of Athens. So we possess her completely. Her life, her soul, +its growth and strength, are laid before us. To follow her through +these two poems is to follow their poetry. Whenever we touch her we +touch imagination. <i>Aristophanes' Apology</i> is illuminated by +Balaustion's eyes. A glimpse here and there of her enables us to +thread our way without too great weariness through a thorny +undergrowth of modern and ancient thought mingled together on the +subject of the Apology.</p> +<p>In <i>Balaustion's Adventure</i> she tells her tale, and +recites, as she did at Syracuse, the <i>Alkestis</i> to her four +friends. But she does more; she comments on it, as she did not at +Syracuse. The comments are, of course, Browning's, but he means +them to reveal Balaustion. They are touched throughout with a +woman's thought and feeling, inflamed by the poetic genius with +which Browning has endowed her. Balaustion is his deliberate +picture of genius the great miracle.</p> +<p>The story of the <i>Alkestis</i> begins before the play. Apollo, +in his exile, having served King Admetos as shepherd, conceives a +friendship for the king, helps him to his marriage, and knowing +that he is doomed to die in early life, descends to hell and begs +the Fates to give him longer life. That is a <a name='Page373' id= +"Page373"></a><span class='pagenum'>373</span>motive, holding in it +strange thoughts of life and death and fate, which pleased +Browning, and he treats it separately, and with sardonic humour, in +the Prologue to one of his later volumes. The Fates refuse to +lengthen Admetos' life, unless some one love him well enough to die +for him. They must have their due at the allotted time.</p> +<p>The play opens when that time arrives. We see, in a kind of +Prologue, Apollo leaving the house of Admetos and Death coming to +claim his victim. Admetos has asked his father, mother, relations +and servants to die instead of him. None will do it; but his wife, +Alkestis, does. Admetos accepts her sacrifice. Her dying, her +death, the sorrow of Admetos is described with all the poignant +humanity of Euripides. In the meantime Herakles has come on the +scene, and Admetos, though steeped in grief, conceals—his +wife's death and welcomes his friend to his house. As Alkestis is +the heroine of self-sacrifice, Admetos is the hero of hospitality. +Herakles feasts, but the indignant bearing of an old servant +attracts his notice, and he finds out the truth. He is shocked, but +resolves to attack Death himself, who is bearing away Alkestis. He +meets and conquers Death and brings back Alkestis alive to her +husband. So the strong man conquers the Fates, whom even Apollo +could not subdue.</p> +<p>This is a fine subject. Every one can see in how many different +ways it may be treated, with what different conceptions, how +variously the characters may be built up, and what different +ethical and emotional situations may be imaginatively treated in +it. Racine himself thought it the finest of the <a name='Page374' +id="Page374"></a><span class='pagenum'>374</span>Greek subjects, +and began a play upon it. But he died before he finished it, and +ordered his manuscript to be destroyed. We may well imagine how the +quiet, stately genius of Racine would have conceived and ordered +it; with the sincere passion, held under restraint by as sincere a +dignity, which characterised his exalted style.</p> +<p>Balaustion treats it with an equal moral force, and also with +that modern moral touch which Racine would have given it; which, +while it removed the subject at certain points from the Greek +morality, would yet have exalted it into a more spiritual world +than even the best of the Greeks conceived. The commentary of +Balaustion is her own treatment of the subject. It professes to +explain Euripides: it is in reality a fresh conception of the +characters and their motives, especially of the character of +Herakles. Her view of the character of Alkestis, especially in her +death, is not, I think, the view which Euripides took. Her +condemnation of Admetos is unmodified by those other sides of the +question which Euripides suggests. The position Balaustion takes up +with regard to self-sacrifice is far more subtle, with its +half-Christian touches, than the Greek simplicity would have +conceived. Finally, she feels so strongly that the subject has not +been adequately conceived that, at the end, she recreates it for +herself. Even at the beginning she rebuilds the Euripidean matter. +When Apollo and Death meet, Balaustion conceives the meeting for +herself. She images the divine Apollo as somewhat daunted, and +images the dread meeting of these two with modern, not Greek +imagination. It is like the meeting, she thinks, of <a name= +'Page375' id="Page375"></a><span class='pagenum'>375</span>a ruined +eagle, caught as he swooped in a gorge, half heedless, yet +terrific, with a lion, the haunter of the gorge, the lord of the +ground, who pauses, ere he try the worst with the frightful, +unfamiliar creature, known in the shadows and silences of the sky +but not known here. It is the first example we have of Balaustion's +imaginative power working for itself. There is another, farther on, +where she stays her recitation to describe Death's rush in on +Alkestis when the dialogue between him and Apollo is +over—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>And, in the fire-flash of the appalling sword,</p> +<p>The uprush and the outburst, the onslaught</p> +<p>Of Death's portentous passage through the door,</p> +<p>Apollon stood a pitying moment-space:</p> +<p>I caught one last gold gaze upon the night,</p> +<p>Nearing the world now: and the God was gone,</p> +<p>And mortals left to deal with misery.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>So she speaks, as if she saw more than Euripides, as if to her +the invisible were visible—as it was. To see the eternal +unseen is the dower of imagination in its loftiest mood.</p> +<p>She is as much at home with the hero of earth, the highest +manhood, as she is with the gods. When Herakles comes on the scene +she cannot say enough about him; and she conceives him apart from +the Herakles of Euripides. She paints in him, and Browning paints +through her, the idea of the full, the perfect man; and it is not +the ideal of the cultivated, of the sensitive folk. It is more also +a woman's than a man's ideal. For, now, suddenly, into the midst of +the sorrow of the house, every one wailing, life full of penury and +inactivity, there leaps the "gay cheer of a great voice," the +<a name='Page376' id="Page376"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>376</span>full presence of the hero, his "weary happy +face, half god, half man, which made the god-part god the more." +His very voice, which smiled at sorrow, and his look, which, saying +sorrow was to be conquered, proclaimed to all the world "My life is +in my hand to give away, to make men glad," seemed to dry up all +misery at its source, for his love of man makes him always joyful. +When Admetos opened the house to him, and did not tell him of his +wife's death, Balaustion comments "The hero, all truth, took him at +his word, and then strode off to feast." He takes, she thought, the +present rest, the physical food and drink as frankly as he took the +mighty labours of his fate. And she rejoices as much in his jovial +warmth, his joy in eating and drinking and singing, and festivity, +as in his heroic soul. They go together, these things, in a +hero.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Making the most o' the minute, that the soul</p> +<p>And body, strained to height a minute since,</p> +<p>Might lie relaxed in joy, this breathing space,</p> +<p>For man's sake more than ever;</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>He slew the pest of the marish, yesterday; to-day he takes his +fill of food, wine, song and flowers; to-morrow he will slay +another plague of mankind.</p> +<p>So she sings, praising aloud the heroic temper, as mighty in the +natural joys of natural life, in the strength and honour of the +body, as in the saving of the world from pain and evil. But this +pleasure of the senses, though in the great nature, is in it under +rule, and the moment Herakles hears of Alkestis dead, he casts +aside, in "a splendour of resolve," the feast, wine, song, and +garlands, and <a name='Page377' id="Page377"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>377</span>girds himself to fight with Death for her +rescue And Balaustion, looking after him as he goes, cries out the +judgment of her soul on all heroism. It is Browning's judgment +also, one of the deepest things in his heart; a constant motive in +his poetry, a master-thought in his life.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Gladness be with thee, Helper of our world!</p> +<p>I think this is the authentic sign and seal</p> +<p>Of Godship, that it ever waxes glad,</p> +<p>And more glad, until gladness blossoms, bursts</p> +<p>Into a rage to suffer for mankind,</p> +<p>And recommence at sorrow: drops like seed</p> +<p>After the blossom, ultimate of all.</p> +<p>Say, does the seed scorn earth and seek the sun?</p> +<p>Surely it has no other end and aim</p> +<p>Than to drop, once more die into the ground,</p> +<p>Taste cold and darkness and oblivion there:</p> +<p>And thence rise, tree-like grow through pain to joy,</p> +<p>More joy and most joy,—do man good again.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>That is the truth Browning makes this woman have the insight to +reveal. Gladness of soul, becoming at one with sorrow and death and +rising out of them the conqueror, but always rejoicing, in itself, +in the joy of the universe and of God, is the root-heroic +quality.</p> +<p>Then there is the crux of the play—Alkestis is to die for +Admetos, and does it. What of the conduct of Admetos? What does +Balaustion, the woman, think of that? She thinks Admetos is a poor +creature for having allowed it. When Alkestis is brought dying on +the stage, and Admetos follows, mourning over her, Balaustion +despises him, and she traces in the speech of Alkestis, which only +relates to her children's fate and takes no notice of her husband's +protestations, that she has judged her husband, that love is gone +in sad contempt, that all <a name='Page378' id= +"Page378"></a><span class='pagenum'>378</span>Admetos has given her +is now paid for, that her death is a business transaction which has +set her free to think no more about him, only of her children. For, +what seems most pertinent for him to say, if he loved, "Take, O +Fates, your promise back, and take my life, not hers," he does not +say. That is not really the thought of Euripides.</p> +<p>Then, and this is subtly but not quite justly wrought into +Euripides by Balaustion, she traces through the play the slow +awakening of the soul of Admetos to the low-hearted thing he had +done. He comes out of the house, having disposed all things +duteously and fittingly round the dead, and Balaustion sees in his +grave quietude that the truth is dawning on him; when suddenly +Pheres, his father, who had refused to die for him, comes to lay +his offering on the bier. This, Balaustion thinks, plucks Admetos +back out of unselfish thought into that lower atmosphere in which +he only sees his own advantage in the death of Alkestis; and in +which he now bitterly reproaches his father because he did not die +to save Alkestis. And the reproach is the more bitter +because—and this Balaustion, with her subtle morality, +suggests—an undernote of conscience causes him to see his own +baser self, now prominent in his acceptance of Alkestis' sacrifice, +finished and hardened in the temper of his father—young +Admetos in old Pheres. He sees with dread and pain what he may +become when old. This hatred of himself in his father is, +Balaustion thinks, the source of his extreme violence with his +father. She, with the Greek sense of what was due to nature, seeks +to excuse this unfitting scene. Euripides has gone too far for her. +She <a name='Page379' id="Page379"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>379</span>thinks that, if Sophocles had to do with the +matter, he would have made the Chorus explain the man.</p> +<p>But the unnatural strife would not have been explained by +Sophocles as Balaustion explains it. That fine ethical twist of +hers—"that Admetos hates himself in his father," is too +modern for a Greek. It has the casuistical subtlety which the +over-developed conscience of the Christian Church encouraged. It is +intellectual, too, rather than real, metaphysical more than moral, +Browning rather than Sophocles. Nor do I believe that a Rhodian +girl, even with all Athens at the back of her brain, would have +conceived it at all. Then Balaustion makes another comment on the +situation, in which there is more of Browning than of herself. +"Admetos," she says, "has been kept back by the noisy quarrel from +seeing into the truth of his own conduct, as he was on the point of +doing, for 'with the low strife comes the little mind.'" But when +his father is gone, and Alkestis is borne away, then, in the +silence of the house and the awful stillness in his own heart, he +sees the truth. His shame, the whole woe and horror of his failure +in love, break, like a toppling wave, upon him, and the drowned +truth, so long hidden from him by self, rose to the surface, and +appalled him by its dead face. His soul in seeing true, is saved, +yet so las by fire. At this moment Herakles comes in, leading +Alkestis, redeemed from death; and finding, so Balaustion thinks, +her husband restored to his right mind.</p> +<p>But, then, we ask, how Alkestis, having found him fail, will +live with him again, how she, having topped nobility, will endure +the memory of the <a name='Page380' id="Page380"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>380</span>ignoble in him? That would be the interesting +subject, and the explanation Euripides suggests does not satisfy +Balaustion. The dramatic situation is unfinished. Balaustion, with +her fine instinct, feels that, to save the subject, it ought to be +otherwise treated, and she invents a new Admetos, a new Alkestis. +She has heard that Sophocles meant to make a new piece of the same +matter, and her balanced judgment, on which Browning insists so +often, makes her say, "That is well. One thing has many sides; but +still, no good supplants a good, no beauty undoes another; still I +will love the <i>Alkestis</i> which I know. Yet I have so drunk +this poem, so satisfied with it my heart and soul, that I feel as +if I, too, might make a new poem on the same matter."</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p class='i12'>Ah, that brave</p> +<p>Bounty of poets, the one royal race</p> +<p>That ever was, or will be, in this world!</p> +<p>They give no gift that bounds itself and ends</p> +<p>I' the giving and the taking: theirs so breeds</p> +<p>I' the heart and soul o' the taker, so transmutes</p> +<p>The man who only was a man before,</p> +<p>That he grows godlike in his turn, can give—</p> +<p>He also: share the poet's privilege,</p> +<p>Bring forth new good, new beauty, from the old.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And she gives her conception of the subject, and it further +unfolds her character.</p> +<p>When Apollo served Admetos, the noble nature of the God so +entered into him that all the beast was subdued in the man, and he +became the ideal king, living for the ennoblement of his people. +Yet, while doing this great work, he is to die, still young, and he +breaks out, in a bitter calm, against the fate which takes him from +the work of his life.</p> +<p>"Not so," answers Alkestis, "I knew what was <a name='Page381' +id="Page381"></a><span class='pagenum'>381</span>coming, and though +Apollo urged me not to disturb the course of things, and not to +think that any death prevents the march of good or ends a life, yet +he yielded; and I die for you—all happiness."</p> +<p>"It shall never be," replies Admetos; "our two lives are one. +But I am the body, thou art the soul; and the body shall go, and +not the soul. I claim death."</p> +<p>"No," answered Alkestis; "the active power to rule and weld the +people into good is in the man. Thou art the acknowledged power. +And as to the power which, thou sayest, I give thee, as to the soul +of me—take it, I pour it into thee. Look at me." And as he +looks, she dies, and the king is left—still twofold as +before, with the soul of Alkestis in him—himself and her. So +is Fate cheated, and Alkestis in Admetos is not dead. A passage +follows of delicate and simple poetry, written by Browning in a +manner in which I would he had oftener written. To read it is to +regret that, being able to do this, he chose rather to write, from +time to time, as if he were hewing his way through tangled +underwood. No lovelier image of Proserpina has been made in poetry, +not even in Tennyson's <i>Demeter</i>, than this—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>And even while it lay, i' the look of him,</p> +<p>Dead, the dimmed body, bright Alkestis' soul</p> +<p>Had penetrated through the populace</p> +<p>Of ghosts, was got to Koré,—throned and crowned</p> +<p>The pensive queen o' the twilight, where she dwells</p> +<p>Forever in a muse, but half away</p> +<p>From flowery earth she lost and hankers for,—</p> +<p>And there demanded to become a ghost</p> +<p>Before the time.</p> +<p class='i12'>Whereat the softened eyes</p> +<p>Of the lost maidenhood that lingered still</p> +<a name='Page382' id="Page382"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>382</p> +<p>Straying among the flowers in Sicily,</p> +<p>Sudden was startled back to Hades' throne</p> +<p>By that demand: broke through humanity</p> +<p>Into the orbed omniscience of a God,</p> +<p>Searched at a glance Alkestis to the soul</p> +<p>And said ...</p> +<p>"Hence, thou deceiver! This is not to die,</p> +<p>If, by the very death which mocks me now,</p> +<p>The life, that's left behind and past my power,</p> +<p>Is formidably doubled ..."</p> +<p>And so, before the embrace relaxed a whit,</p> +<p>The lost eyes opened, still beneath the look;</p> +<p>And lo, Alkestis was alive again,</p> +<p>And of Admetos' rapture who shall speak?</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The old conception has more reality. This is in the vague world +of modern psychical imagination. Nevertheless it has its own +beauty, and it enlarges Browning's picture of the character of +Balaustion.</p> +<p>Her character is still further enlarged in <i>Aristophanes' +Apology</i>. That poem, if we desire intellectual exercise, +illuminated by flashings of imagination, is well worth reading, but +to comprehend it fully, one must know a great deal of Athenian life +and of the history of the Comic Drama. It is the defence by +Aristophanes of his idea of the business, the method, and the use +of Comedy. How far what he says is Browning speaking for +Aristophanes, and how far it is Browning speaking for himself, is +hard to tell. And it would please him to leave that purposely +obscure. What is alive and intense in the poem is, first, the +realisation of Athenian life in several scenes, pictured with all +Browning's astonishing force of presentation, as, for instance, the +feast after the play, and the grim entrance of Sophocles, black +from head to foot, among the glittering and drunken revellers, to +announce the death of Euripides.</p> +<p><a name='Page383' id="Page383"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>383</span>Secondly, there is the presentation of +Aristophanes. Browning has created him for us—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>And no ignoble presence! On the bulge</p> +<p>Of the clear baldness,—all his head one brow,—</p> +<p>True, the veins swelled, blue network, and there surged</p> +<p>A red from cheek to temple,—then retired</p> +<p>As if the dark-leaved chaplet damped a flame,—</p> +<p>Was never nursed by temperance or health.</p> +<p>But huge the eyeballs rolled back native fire,</p> +<p>Imperiously triumphant: nostrils wide</p> +<p>Waited their incense; while the pursed mouth's pout</p> +<p>Aggressive, while the beak supreme above,</p> +<p>While the head, face, nay, pillared throat thrown back,</p> +<p>Beard whitening under like a vinous foam,</p> +<p>There made a glory, of such insolence—</p> +<p>I thought,—such domineering deity</p> +<p>Hephaistos might have carved to cut the brine</p> +<p>For his gay brother's prow, imbrue that path</p> +<p>Which, purpling, recognised the conqueror.</p> +<p>Impudent and majestic: drunk, perhaps,</p> +<p>But that's religion; sense too plainly snuffed:</p> +<p>Still, sensuality was grown a rite.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>We see the man, the natural man, to the life. But as the poem +goes on, we company with his intellect and soul, with the struggle +of sensualism against his knowledge of a more ideal life; above +all, with one, who indulging the appetites and senses of the +natural man, is yet, at a moment, their master. The coarse chambers +of his nature are laid bare, his sensuous pleasure in the lower +forms of human life, his joy in satirising them, his contempt for +the good or the ideal life if it throw the sensual man away. Then, +we are made to know the power he has to rise above +this—without losing it—into the higher imaginative +region where, for the time, he feels the genius of Sophocles, +Euripides, the moral power of Balaus<a name='Page384' id= +"Page384"></a><span class='pagenum'>384</span>tion, and the beauty +of the natural world. Indeed, in that last we find him in his +extant plays. Few of the Greeks could write with greater +exquisiteness of natural beauty than this wild poet who loved the +dunghill. And Browning does not say this, but records in this +<i>Apology</i> how when Aristophanes is touched for an instant by +Balaustion's reading of the <i>Herakles</i>, and seizing the +psalterion sings the song of Thamuris marching to his trial with +the Muses through a golden autumn morning—it is the glory and +loveliness of nature that he sings. This portraiture of the poet is +scattered through the whole poem. It is too minute, too full of +detail to dwell on here. It has a thousand touches of life and +intimacy. And it is perhaps the finest thing Browning has done in +portraiture of character. But then there was a certain sympathy in +Browning for Aristophanes. The natural man was never altogether put +aside by Browning.</p> +<p>Lastly, there is the fresh presentation of Balaustion, of the +matured and experienced woman whom we have known as a happy girl. +Euthycles and she are married, and one night, as she is sitting +alone, he comes in, bringing the grave news that Euripides is dead, +but had proved at the court of Archelaos of Macedonia his +usefulness as counsellor to King and State, and his power still to +sing—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Clashed thence <i>Alkaion</i>, maddened <i>Pentheus</i>' up;</p> +<p>Then music sighed itself away, one moan</p> +<p>Iphigeneia made by Aulis' strand;</p> +<p>With her and music died Euripides.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And Athens, hearing, ceased to mock and cried "Bury Euripides in +Peiraios, bring his body back." "Ah," said Balaustion, "Death +alters the point of view. <a name='Page385' id= +"Page385"></a><span class='pagenum'>385</span>But our tribute is in +our hearts; and more, his soul will now for ever teach and bless +the world.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Is not that day come? What if you and I</p> +<p>Re-sing the song, inaugurate the fame?</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>For, like Herakles, in his own <i>Alkestis</i>, he now strides +away (and this is the true end of the <i>Alkestis</i>) to surmount +all heights of destiny." While she spoke thus, the Chorus of the +Comedy, girls, boys, and men, in drunken revel and led by +Aristophanes, thundered at the door and claimed admittance. +Balaustion is drawn confronting them—tall and superb, like +Victory's self; her warm golden eyes flashing under her black hair, +"earth flesh with sun fire," statuesque, searching the crowd with +her glance. And one and all dissolve before her silent splendour of +reproof, all save Aristophanes. She bids him welcome. "Glory to the +Poet," she cries. "Light, light, I hail it everywhere; no matter +for the murk, that never should have been such orb's associate." +Aristophanes changes as he sees her; a new man confronts her.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>"So!" he smiled, "piercing to my thought at once,</p> +<p>You see myself? Balaustion's fixed regard</p> +<p>Can strip the proper Aristophanes</p> +<p>Of what our sophists, in their jargon, style</p> +<p>His accidents?"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>He confesses her power to meet him in discourse, unfolds his +views and plans to her, and having contrasted himself with +Euripides, bids her use her thrice-refined refinement, her rosy +strength, to match his argument. She claims no equality with him, +the consummate creator; but only, as a woman, the love of all +things lovable with which to meet <a name='Page386' id= +"Page386"></a><span class='pagenum'>386</span>him who has degraded +Comedy. She appeals to the high poet in the man, and finally bids +him honour the deep humanity in Euripides. To prove it, and to win +his accord, she reads the <i>Herakles</i>, the last of +Euripides.</p> +<p>It is this long night of talk which Balaustion dictates to +Euthycles as she is sailing, day after day, from Athens back to +Rhodes. The aspect of sea and sky, as they sail, is kept before us, +for Balaustion uses its changes as illustrations, and the clear +descriptions tell, even more fully than before, how quick this +woman was to observe natural beauty and to correlate it with +humanity. Here is one example. In order to describe a change in the +temper of Aristophanes from wild license to momentary gravity, +Balaustion seizes on a cloud-incident of the +voyage—Euthycles, she cries,</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>... "o'er the boat side, quick, what change,</p> +<p>Watch—in the water! But a second since,</p> +<p>It laughed a ripply spread of sun and sea,</p> +<p>Ray fused with wave, to never disunite.</p> +<p>Now, sudden, all the surface hard and black,</p> +<p>Lies a quenched light, dead motion: what the cause?</p> +<p>Look up, and lo, the menace of a cloud</p> +<p>Has solemnised the sparkling, spoiled the sport!</p> +<p>Just so, some overshadow, some new care</p> +<p>Stopped all the mirth and mocking on his face."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Her feeling for nature is as strong us her feeling for man, and +both are woven together.</p> +<p>All her powers have now ripened, and the last touch has been +given to them by her ideal sorrow for Athens, the country of her +soul, where high intelligence and imagination had created worlds. +She leaves it now, ruined and degraded, and the passionate outbreak +of her patriotic sorrow with <a name='Page387' id= +"Page387"></a><span class='pagenum'>387</span>which the poem opens +lifts the character and imagination of Balaustion into spiritual +splendour. Athens, "hearted in her heart," has perished ignobly. +Not so, she thinks, ought this beauty of the world to have died, +its sea-walls razed to the ground to the fluting and singing of +harlots; but in some vast overwhelming of natural energies +—in the embrace of fire to join the gods; or in a sundering +of the earth, when the Acropolis should have sunken entire and +risen in Hades to console the ghosts with beauty; or in the +multitudinous over-swarming of ocean. This she could have borne, +but, thinking of what has been, of the misery and disgrace, "Oh," +she cries, "bear me away—wind, wave and bark!" But Browning +does not leave Balaustion with only this deep emotion in her heart. +He gives her the spiritual passion of genius. She is swept beyond +her sorrow into that invisible world where the soul lives with the +gods, with the pure Ideas of justice, truth and love; where +immortal life awaits the disembodied soul and we shall see +Euripides. In these high thoughts she will outlive her sorrow.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Why should despair be? Since, distinct above</p> +<p>Man's wickedness and folly, flies the wind</p> +<p>And floats the cloud, free transport for our soul</p> +<p>Out of its fleshly durance dim and low,—</p> +<p>Since disembodied soul anticipates</p> +<p>(Thought-borne as now, in rapturous unrestraint)</p> +<p>Above all crowding, crystal silentness,</p> +<p>Above all noise, a silver solitude:—</p> +<p>Surely, where thought so bears soul, soul in time</p> +<p>May permanently bide, "assert the wise,"</p> +<p>There live in peace, there work in hope once more—</p> +<p>O nothing doubt, Philemon! Greed and strife,</p> +<p>Hatred and cark and care, what place have they</p> +<a name='Page388' id="Page388"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>388</p> +<p>In yon blue liberality of heaven?</p> +<p>How the sea helps! How rose-smit earth will rise</p> +<p>Breast-high thence, some bright morning, and be Rhodes!</p> +<p>Heaven, earth and sea, my warrant—in their name,</p> +<p>Believe—o'er falsehood, truth is surely sphered,</p> +<p>O'er ugliness beams beauty, o'er this world</p> +<p>Extends that realm where, "as the wise assert,"</p> +<p>Philemon, thou shalt see Euripides</p> +<p>Clearer than mortal sense perceived the man!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>We understand that she has drunk deep of Socrates, that her +spiritual sense reached onward to the Platonic Socrates. In this +supersensuous world of thought she is quieted out of the weakness +which made her miserable over the fall of Athens; and in the quiet, +Browning, who will lift his favourite into perfectness, adds to her +spiritual imagination the dignity of that moral judgment which the +intellect of genius gathers from the facts of history. In spite of +her sorrow, she grasps the truth that there was justice in the doom +of Athens. Let justice have its way. Let the folk die who pulled +her glory down. This is her prophetic strain, the strength of the +Hebrew in the Greek.</p> +<p>And then the prophet in the woman passes, and the poet in her +takes the lyre. She sees the splendid sunset. Why should its +extravagance of glory run to waste? Let me build out of it a new +Athens, quarry out the golden clouds and raise the Acropolis, and +the rock-hewn Place of Assembly, whence new orators may thunder +over Greece; and the theatre where Æschylus, Sophocles, +Euripides, godlike still, may contend for the prize. Yet—and +there is a further change of thought—yet that may not be. To +build that poetic vision is to slip away from reality, and the true +use of it. The tragedy <a name='Page389' id= +"Page389"></a><span class='pagenum'>389</span>is +there—irrevocable. Let it sink deep in us till we see Rhodes +shining over the sea. So great, so terrible, so piteous it is, +that, dwelt on in the soul and seen in memory, it will do for us +what the great tragedians made their tragic themes do for their +hearers. It will purify the heart by pity and terror from the +baseness and littleness of life. Our small hatreds, jealousies and +prides, our petty passions will be rebuked, seem nothing in its +mighty sorrow.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>What else in life seems piteous any more</p> +<p>After such pity, or proves terrible</p> +<p>Beside such terror;</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This is the woman—the finest creature Browning drew, young +and fair and stately, with her dark hair and amber eyes, +lovely—the wild pomegranate flower of a girl—as keen, +subtle and true of intellect as she is lovely, able to comment on +and check Euripides, to conceive a new play out of his subject, to +be his dearest friend, to meet on equality Aristophanes; so full of +lyric sympathy, so full of eager impulse that she thrills the +despairing into action, enslaves a city with her eloquence, charms +her girl-friends by the Ilissus, and so sends her spirit into her +husband that, when the Spartans advise the razing of Athens to the +ground he saves the city by those famous lines of Euripides, of +which Milton sang; so at one with natural beauty, with all beauty, +that she makes it live in the souls of men; so clear in judgment +that she sees the right even when it seems lost in the wrong, that +she sees the justice of the gods in the ruin of the city she most +loved; so poetic of temper <a name='Page390' id= +"Page390"></a><span class='pagenum'>390</span>that everything +speaks to her of life, that she acknowledges the poetry which rises +out of the foulness she hates in Aristophanes, that she loves all +humanity, bad or good, and Euripides chiefly because of his +humanity; so spiritual, that she can soar out of her most +overwhelming sorrow into the stormless world where the gods breathe +pure thought and for ever love; and, abiding in its peace, use the +griefs of earth for the ennoblement of the life of men, because in +all her spiritual apartness, however far it bear her from earth, +she never loses her close sympathy with the fortunes of mankind. +Nay, from her lofty station she is the teacher of truth and love +and justice, in splendid prophecy. It is with an impassioned +exaltation, worthy of Sibyl and Pythoness in one, of divine wisdom +both Roman and Greek, that she cries to the companions of her +voyage words which embody her soul and the soul of all the wise and +loving of the earth, when they act for men; bearing their action, +thought and feeling beyond man to God in man—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Speak to the infinite intelligence,</p> +<p>Sing to the everlasting sympathy!</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page391' id="Page391"></a><span class='pagenum'>391</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_XVI' id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> +<h3><i>THE RING AND THE BOOK</i></h3> +<p>When Browning published <i>The Ring and the Book</i>, he was +nearly fifty years old. All his powers (except those which create +the lyric) are used therein with mastery; and the ease with which +he writes is not more remarkable than the exultant pleasure which +accompanies the ease. He has, as an artist, a hundred tools in +hand, and he uses them with certainty of execution. The wing of his +invention does not falter through these twelve books, nor droop +below the level at which he began them; and the epilogue is written +with as much vigour as the prologue. The various books demand +various powers. In each book the powers are proportionate to the +subject; but the mental force behind each exercise of power is +equal throughout. He writes as well when he has to make the guilty +soul of Guido speak, as when the innocence of Pompilia tells her +story. The gain-serving lawyers, each distinctly isolated, tell +their worldly thoughts as clearly as Caponsacchi reveals his +redeemed and spiritualised soul. The parasite of an aristocratic +and thoughtless society in <i>Tertium Quid</i> is not more vividly +drawn than the Pope, who has left in his old age the conventions of +society behind him, and <a name='Page392' id= +"Page392"></a><span class='pagenum'>392</span>speaks in his silent +chamber face to face with God. And all the minor +characters—of whom there are a great number, ranging from +children to old folk, from the peasant to the Cardinal, through +every class of society in Italy—are drawn, even when they are +slashed out in only three lines, with such force, certainty, colour +and life that we know them better than our friends. The variousness +of the product would seem to exclude an equality of excellence in +drawing and invention. But it does not. It reveals and confirms it. +The poem is a miracle of intellectual power.</p> +<p>This great length, elaborate detail, and the repetition so many +times of the same story, would naturally suggest to an intending +reader that the poem might be wearisome. Browning, suspecting this, +and in mercy to a public who does not care for a work of <i>longue +haleine</i>, published it at first in four volumes, with a month's +interval between each volume. He thought that the story told afresh +by characters widely different would strike new, if each book were +read at intervals of ten days. There were three books in each +volume. And if readers desire to realise fully the intellectual +<i>tour de force</i> contained in telling the same story twelve +times over, and making each telling interesting, they cannot do +better than read the book as Browning wished it to be read. "Give +the poem four months, and let ten days elapse between the reading +of each book," is what he meant us to understand. Moreover, to meet +this possible weariness, Browning, consciously, or probably +unconsciously, since genius does the right thing without asking +why, continually used a trick of his own which, at intervals, +<a name='Page393' id="Page393"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>393</span>stings the reader into wakefulness and +pleasure, and sends him on to the next page refreshed and happy. +After fifty, or it may be a hundred lines of somewhat dry analysis, +a vivid illustration, which concentrates all the matter of the +previous lines, flashes on the reader as a snake might flash across +a traveller's dusty way: or some sudden description of an Italian +scene in the country or in the streets of Rome enlivens the +well-known tale with fresh humanity. Or a new character leaps up +out of the crowd, and calls us to note his ways, his dress, his +voice, his very soul in some revealing speech, and then passes away +from the stage, while we turn, refreshed (and indeed at times we +need refreshment), to the main speaker, the leading character.</p> +<p>But to dwell on the multitude of portraits with which Browning's +keen observation, memory and love of human nature have embellished +<i>The Ring and the Book</i> belongs to another part of this +chapter. At present the question rises: "What place does <i>The +Ring and the Book</i> hold in Browning's development?" It holds a +central place. There was always a struggle in Browning between two +pleasures; pleasure in the exercise of his intellect—his wit, +in the fullest sense of the word; pleasure in the exercise of his +poetic imagination. Sometimes one of these had the upper hand in +his poems, sometimes the other, and sometimes both happily worked +together. When the exercise of his wit had the upper hand, it +tended to drive out both imagination and passion. Intellectual play +may be without any emotion except its delight in itself. Then its +mere cleverness attracts its user, and gives him an easily +purchased pleasure. When a poet falls a complete <a name='Page394' +id="Page394"></a><span class='pagenum'>394</span>victim to this +pleasure, imagination hides her face from him, passion runs away, +and what he produces resembles, but is not, poetry. And Browning, +who had got perilously near to the absence of poetry in <i>Bishop +Blougram's Apology</i>, succeeded in <i>Mr. Sludge, the Medium</i>, +in losing poetry altogether. In <i>The Ring and the Book</i> there +are whole books, and long passages in its other books in which +poetry almost ceases to exist and is replaced by brilliant +cleverness, keen analysis, vivid description, and a combination of +wit and fancy which is rarely rivalled; but no emotion, no +imagination such as poets use inflames the coldness of these +qualities into the glow of poetry. The indefinable difference which +makes imaginative work into poetry is not there. There is abundance +of invention; but that, though a part of imagination, belongs as +much to the art of prose as to the art of poetry.</p> +<p>Browning could write thus, out of his intellect alone. None of +the greater poets could. Their genius could not work without fusing +into their intellectual work intensity of feeling; and that +combination secured poetic treatment of their subject. It would +have been totally impossible for Milton, Shakespeare, Dante, +Vergil, or even the great mass of second-rate poets, to have +written some of Browning's so-called poetry—no matter how +they tried. There was that in Browning's nature which enabled him +to exercise his intellectual powers alone, without passion, and so +far he almost ceases to deserve the name of poet. And his pleasure +in doing this grew upon him, and having done it with dazzling power +in part of <i>The Ring and the Book</i>, he was carried away by it +and produced a number of so-called <a name='Page395' id= +"Page395"></a><span class='pagenum'>395</span>poems; terrible +examples of what a poet can come to when he has allowed his +pleasure in clever analysis to tyrannise over him—<i>Prince +Hohenstiel-Schwangau, The Inn Album, Red Cotton Nightcap +Country</i>, and a number of shorter poems in the volumes which +followed. In these, what Milton meant by passion, simplicity and +sensuousness were banished, and imagination existed only as it +exists in a prose writer.</p> +<p>This condition was slowly arrived at. It had not been fully +reached when he wrote <i>The Ring and the Book</i>. His poetic +powers resisted their enemies for many years, and had the better in +the struggle. If it takes a long time to cast a devil out, it takes +a longer time to depose an angel. And the devil may be utterly +banished, but the angel never. And though the devil of mere wit and +the little devils of analytic exercise—devils when they usurp +the throne in a poet's soul and enslave imaginative +emotion—did get the better of Browning, it was only for a +time. Towards the end of his life he recovered, but never as +completely as he had once possessed them, the noble attributes of a +poet. The evils of the struggle clung to him; the poisonous +pleasure he had pursued still affected him; he was again and again +attacked by the old malaria. He was as a brand plucked from the +burning.</p> +<p><i>The Ring and the Book</i> is the central point of this +struggle. It is full of emotion and thought concentrated on the +subject, and commingled by imagination to produce beauty. And +whenever this is the case, as in the books which treat of +Caponsacchi and Pompilia, we are rejoiced by poetry. In their lofty +matter of thought and feeling, in their simplicity <a name= +'Page396' id="Page396"></a><span class='pagenum'>396</span>and +nobleness of spiritual beauty, poetry is dominant. In them also his +intellectual powers, and his imaginative and passionate powers, are +fused into one fire. Nor is the presentation of Guido Franceschini +under two faces less powerful, or that of the Pope, in his +meditative silence. But in these books the poetry is less, and is +mingled, as would naturally indeed be the case, with a searching +analysis, which intrudes too much into their imaginative work. +Over-dissection makes them cold. In fact, in fully a quarter of +this long poem, the analysing understanding, that bustling and +self-conscious person, who plays only on the surface of things and +separates their elements from one another instead of penetrating to +their centre; who is incapable of seeing the whole into which the +various elements have combined—is too masterful for the +poetry. It is not, then, imaginative, but intellectual pleasure +which, as we read, we gain.</p> +<p>Then again there is throughout a great part of the poem a +dangerous indulgence of his wit; the amusement of remote analogies; +the use of far-fetched illustrations; quips and cranks and wanton +wiles of the reasoning fancy in deviating self-indulgence; and an +allusiveness which sets commentators into note-making +effervescence. All these, and more, which belong to wit, are often +quite ungoverned, allowed to disport themselves as they please. +Such matters delight the unpoetic readers of Browning, and indeed +they are excellent entertainment. But let us call them by their +true name; let us not call them poetry, nor mistake their art for +the art of poetry. Writing them in blank verse does not make them +poetry. In <i>Half-Rome</i>, <a name='Page397' id= +"Page397"></a><span class='pagenum'>397</span>in <i>The Other +Half-Rome</i>, and in <i>Tertium Quid</i>, these elements of +analysis and wit are exhibited in three-fourths of the verse; but +the other fourth—in description of scenes, in vivid +portraiture, in transient outbursts out of which passion, in +glimpses, breaks—rises into the realm of poetry. In the +books which sketch the lawyers and their pleadings, there is wit in +its finest brilliancy, analysis in its keenest veracity, but they +are scarcely a poet's work. The whole book is then a mixed book, +extremely mixed. All that was poetical in Browning's previous work +is represented in it, and all the unpoetical elements which had +gradually been winning power in him, and which showed themselves +previously in <i>Bishop Blougram</i> and <i>Mr. Sludge</i>, are +also there in full blast. It was, as I have said, the central +battlefield of two powers in him. And when <i>The Ring and the +Book</i> was finished, the inferior power had for a time the +victory.</p> +<p>To sum up then, there are books in the poem where matter of +passion and matter of thought are imaginatively wrought together. +There are others where psychological thought and metaphysical +reasoning are dominant, but where passionate feeling has also a +high place. There are others where analysis and wit far excel the +elements of imaginative emotion; and there are others where every +kind of imagination is absent, save that which is consistent +throughout and which never fails—the power of creating men +and women into distinct individualities. That is left, but it is a +power which is not special to a poet. A prose writer may possess it +with the same fulness as a poet. Carlyle had it as remarkably as +Browning, or nearly as remarkably. <a name='Page398' id= +"Page398"></a><span class='pagenum'>398</span>He also had +wit—a heavier wit than Browning's, less lambent, less +piercing, but as forcible.</p> +<p>One thing more may be said. The poem is far too long, and the +subject does not bear its length. The long poems of the world (I do +not speak of those by inferior poets) have a great subject, are +concerned with manifold fates of men, and are naturally full of +various events and varied scenery. They interest us with new things +from book to book. In <i>The Ring and the Book</i> the subject is +not great, the fates concerned are not important, and the same +event runs through twelve books and is described twelve times. +However we may admire the intellectual force which actually makes +the work interesting, and the passion which often thrills us in +it—this is more than the subject bears, and than we can +always endure. Each book is spun out far beyond what is necessary; +a great deal is inserted which would be wisely left out. No one +could be more concise than Browning when he pleased. His power of +flashing a situation or a thought into a few words is well known. +But he did not always use this power. And in <i>The Ring and the +Book</i>, as in some of the poems that followed it, he seems now +and then to despise that power.</p> +<p>And now for the poem itself. Browning tells the story eight +times by different persons, each from a different point of view, +and twice more by the same person before and after his condemnation +and, of course, from two points of view. Then he practically tells +it twice more in the prologue and the epilogue—twelve times +in all—and in spite of what I have said about the too great +length of the poem, this is an intellectual victory that no one +else but <a name='Page399' id="Page399"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>399</span>Browning could have won against its +difficulties. Whether it was worth the creation by himself of the +difficulty is another question. He chose to do it, and we had +better submit to him and get the good of his work. At least we may +avoid some of the weariness he himself feared by reading it in the +way I have mentioned, as Browning meant it to be read. +Poems—being the highest product of the highest genius of +which man is capable—ought to be approached with some +reverence. And a part of that reverence is to read them in +accordance with the intention and desire of the writer.</p> +<p>We ought not to forget the date of the tale when we read the +book. It is just two hundred years ago. The murder of Pompilia took +place in 1698; and the book completes his studies of the +Renaissance in its decay. If <i>Sordello</i> is worth our careful +reading as a study of the thirteenth century in North Italy, this +book is as valuable as a record of the society of its date. It is, +in truth, a mine of gold; pure crude ore is secreted from man's +life, then moulded into figures of living men and women by the +insight and passion of the poet. In it is set down Rome as she +was—her customs, opinions, classes of society; her dress, +houses, streets, lanes, byeways and squares; her architecture, +fountains, statues, courts of law, convents, gardens; her fashion +and its drawing-rooms, the various professions and their habits, +high life and middle class, tradesmen and beggars, priest, friar, +lay-ecclesiastic, cardinal and Pope. Nowhere is this pictorial and +individualising part of Browning's genius more delighted with its +work. Every description is written by a lover of humanity, and with +joy.</p> +<p><a name='Page400' id="Page400"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>400</span>Nor is he less vivid in the +<i>mise-en-scène</i> in which he places this multitude of +personages. In <i>Half-Rome</i> we mingle with the crowd between +Palazzo Fiano and Ruspoli, and pass into the church of Lorenzo in +Lucina where the murdered bodies are exposed. The mingled humours +of the crowd, the various persons and their characters are combined +with and enhanced by the scenery. Then there is the Market Place by +the Capucin convent of the Piazza Barberini, with the fountains +leaping; then the <i>Réunion</i> at a palace, and the fine +fashionable folk among the mirrors and the chandeliers, each with +their view of the question; then the Courthouse, with all its +paraphernalia, where Guido and Caponsacchi plead; then, the +sketches, as new matters turn up, of the obscure streets of Rome, +of the country round Arezzo, of Arezzo itself, of the post road +from Arezzo to Rome and the country inn near Rome, of the garden +house in the suburbs, of the households of the two advocates and +their different ways of living; of the Pope in his closet and of +Guido in the prison cell; and last, the full description of the +streets and the Piazza del Popolo on the day of the +execution—all with a hundred vivifying, illuminating, minute +details attached to them by this keen-eyed, observant, questing +poet who remembered everything he saw, and was able to use each +detail where it was most wanted. Memories are good, but good usage +of them is the fine power. The <i>mise-en-scène</i> is then +excellent, and Browning was always careful to make it right, +fitting and enlivening. Nowhere is this better done than in the +Introduction where he finds the book on a stall in the Square of +San Lorenzo, and describes modern <a name='Page401' id= +"Page401"></a><span class='pagenum'>401</span>Florence in his walk +from the Square past the Strozzi, the Pillar and the Bridge to Casa +Guidi on the other side of the Arno opposite the little church of +San Felice. During the walk he read the book through, yet saw +everything he passed by. The description will show how keen were +his eyes, how masterly his execution.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>That memorable day,</p> +<p>(June was the month, Lorenzo named the Square)</p> +<p>I leaned a little and overlooked my prize</p> +<p>By the low railing round the fountain-source</p> +<p>Close to the statue, where a step descends:</p> +<p>While clinked the cans of copper, as stooped and rose</p> +<p>Thick-ankled girls who brimmed them, and made place</p> +<p>For marketmen glad to pitch basket down,</p> +<p>Dip a broad melon-leaf that holds the wet,</p> +<p>And whisk their faded fresh. And on I read</p> +<p>Presently, though my path grew perilous</p> +<p>Between the outspread straw-work, piles of plait</p> +<p>Soon to be flapping, each o'er two black eyes</p> +<p>And swathe of Tuscan hair, on festas fine:</p> +<p>Through fire-irons, tribes of tongs, shovels in sheaves,</p> +<p>Skeleton bedsteads, wardrobe-drawers agape,</p> +<p>Rows of tall slim brass lamps with dangling gear,—</p> +<p>And worse, cast clothes a-sweetening in the sun:</p> +<p>None of them took my eye from off my prize.</p> +<p>Still read I on, from written title page</p> +<p>To written index, on, through street and street,</p> +<p>At the Strozzi, at the Pillar, at the Bridge;</p> +<p>Till, by the time I stood at home again</p> +<p>In Casa Guidi by Felice Church,</p> +<p>Under the doorway where the black begins</p> +<p>With the first stone-slab of the staircase cold,</p> +<p>I had mastered the contents, knew the whole truth</p> +<p>Gathered together, bound up in this book,</p> +<p>Print three-fifths, written supplement the rest.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This power, combined with his power of portraiture, makes this +long poem alive. No other man of his century could paint like him +the to and fro <a name='Page402' id="Page402"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>402</span>of a city, the hurly-burly of humanity, the +crowd, the movement, the changing passions, the loud or quiet clash +of thoughts, the gestures, the dress, the interweaving of +expression on the face, the whole play of humanity in war or peace. +As we read, we move with men and women; we are pressed everywhere +by mankind. We listen to the sound of humanity, sinking sometimes +to the murmur we hear at night from some high window in London; +swelling sometimes, as in <i>Sordello</i>, into a roar of violence, +wrath, revenge, and war. And it was all contained in that little +body, brain and heart; and given to us, who can feel it, but not +give it. This is the power which above all endears him to us as a +poet. We feel in each poem not only the waves of the special event +of which he writes, but also the large vibration of the ocean of +humanity.</p> +<p>He was not unaware of this power of his. We are told in +<i>Sordello</i> that he dedicated himself to the picturing of +humanity; and he came to think that a Power beyond ours had +accepted this dedication, and directed his work. He declares in the +introduction that he felt a Hand ("always above my +shoulder—mark the predestination"), that pushed him to the +stall where he found the fated book in whose womb lay his +child—<i>The Ring and the Book</i>. And he believed that he +had certain God-given qualities which fitted him for this work. +These he sets forth in this introduction, and the self-criticism is +of the greatest interest.</p> +<p>The first passage is, when he describes how, having finished the +book and got into him all the gold of its fact, he added from +himself that to the gold which made it workable—added to it +his live <a name='Page403' id="Page403"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>403</span>soul, informed, transpierced it through and +through with imagination; and then, standing on his balcony over +the street, saw the whole story from the beginning shape itself out +on the night, alive and clear, not in dead memory but in living +movement; saw right away out on the Roman road to Arezzo, and all +that there befell; then passed to Rome again with the actors in the +tragedy, a presence with them who heard them speak and think and +act. The "life in him abolished the death of things—deep +calling unto deep." For "a spirit laughed and leaped through his +every limb, and lit his eye, and lifted him by the hair, and let +him have his will" with Pompilia, Guido, Caponsacchi, the lawyers, +the Pope, and the whole of Rome. And they rose from the dead; the +old woe stepped on the stage again at the magician's command; and +the rough gold of fact was rounded to a ring by art. But the ring +should have a posy, and he makes that in a passionate cry to his +dead wife—a lovely spell where high thinking and full feeling +meet and mingle like two deep rivers. Whoso reads it feels how her +spirit, living still for him, brooded over and blest his +masterpiece:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>O lyric Love, half angel and half bird</p> +<p>And all a wonder and a wild desire,—</p> +<p>Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun,</p> +<p>Took sanctuary within the holier blue,</p> +<p>And sang a kindred soul out to his face,—</p> +<p>Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart—</p> +<p>When the first summons from the darkling earth</p> +<p>Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue,</p> +<p>And bared them of the glory—to drop down,</p> +<p>To toil for man, to suffer or to die,—</p> +<p>This is the same voice: can thy soul know change</p> +<p>Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help!</p> +<p>Never may I commence my song, my due</p> +<p>To God who best taught song by gift of thee,</p> +<a name='Page404' id="Page404"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>404</p> +<p>Except with bent head and beseeching hand—</p> +<p>That still, despite the distance and the dark,</p> +<p>What was, again may be; some interchange</p> +<p>Of grace, some splendour once thy very thought,</p> +<p>Some benediction anciently thy smile:</p> +<p>—Never conclude, but raising hand and head</p> +<p>Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn</p> +<p>For all hope, all sustainment, all reward,</p> +<p>Their utmost up and on,—so blessing back</p> +<p>In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home,</p> +<p>Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud,</p> +<p>Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The poem begins with the view that one half of Rome took of the +events. At the very commencement we touch one of the secondary +interests of the book, the incidental characters. Guido, +Caponsacchi, Pompilia, the Pope, and, in a lesser degree, Violante +and Pietro, are the chief characters, and the main interest +contracts around them. But, through all they say and do, as a +motley crowd through a street, a great number of minor characters +move to and fro; and Browning, whose eye sees every face, and +through the face into the soul, draws them one by one, some more +fully than others in perhaps a hundred lines, some only in ten. +Most of them are types of a class, a profession or a business, yet +there is always a touch or two which isolates each of them so that +they do not only represent a class but a personal character. He +hated, like Morris, the withering of the individual, nor did he +believe, nor any man who knows and feels mankind, that by that the +world grew more and more. The poem is full of such individualities. +It were well, as one example, to read the whole account of the +people who come to see the murdered bodies laid out in the Church +of Lorenzo. The old, curious, doddering gossip of <a name='Page405' +id="Page405"></a><span class='pagenum'>405</span>the Roman street +is not less alive than the Cardinal, and the clever pushing Curato; +and around them are heard the buzz of talk, the movement of the +crowd. The church, the square are humming with humanity.</p> +<p>He does the same clever work at the deathbed of Pompilia. She +lies in the House of the dying, and certain folk are allowed to see +her. Each one is made alive by this creative pencil; and all are +different, one from the other—the Augustinian monk, old +mother Baldi chattering like a jay who thought that to touch +Pompilia's bedclothes would cure her palsy, Cavalier Carlo who fees +the porter to paint her face just because she was murdered and +famous, the folk who argue on theology over her wounded body. +Elsewhere we possess the life-history of Pietro and Violante, +Pompilia's reputed parents; several drawings of the retired +tradesmen class, with their gossips and friends, in the street of a +poor quarter in Rome; then, the Governor and Archbishop of Arezzo, +the friar who is kindly but fears the world and all the busy-bodies +of this provincial town. Arezzo, its characters and indwellers, +stand in clear light. The most vivid of these sketches is Dominus +Hyacinthus, the lawyer who defends Guido. I do not know anything +better done, and more amusingly, than this man and his +household—a paternal creature, full of his boys and their +studies, making us, in his garrulous pleasure, at home with them +and his fat wife. Browning was so fond of this sketch that he drew +him and his boys over again in the epilogue.</p> +<p>These represent the episodical characters in this drama of life; +and Browning has scattered them, as <a name='Page406' id= +"Page406"></a><span class='pagenum'>406</span>it were, behind the +chief characters, whom sometimes they illustrate and sometimes they +contrast. Of these the whitest, simplest, loveliest is Pompilia, of +whom I have already written. The other chief characters are Count +Guido and Giuseppe Caponsacchi; and to the full development of +these two characters Browning gives all his powers. They are +contrasted types of the spirit of good and the spirit of evil +conquering in man. Up to a certain point in life their conduct is +much alike. Both belong to the Church—one as a priest, one as +a layman affiliated to the Church. The lust of money and self, when +the character of Pompilia forces act, turns Guido into a beast of +greed and hate. The same character, when it forces act, lifts +Caponsacchi into almost a saint. This was a piece of contrasted +psychology in which the genius of Browning revelled, and he +followed all the windings of it in both these hearts with the zest +of an explorer. They were labyrinthine, but the more labyrinthine +the better he was pleased. Guido's first speech is made before the +court in his defence. We see disclosed the outer skin of the man's +soul, all that he would have the world know of him—cynical, +mocking, not cruel, not affectionate, a man of the world whom life +had disappointed, and who wishing to establish himself in a retired +life by marriage had been deceived and betrayed, he pleads, by his +wife and her parents—an injured soul who, stung at last into +fury at having a son foisted on him, vindicates his honour. And in +this vindication his hypocrisy slips at intervals from him, because +his hatred of his wife is too much for his hypocrisy.</p> +<p>This is the only touch of the wolf in the man—<a name= +'Page407' id="Page407"></a><span class='pagenum'>407</span>his +cruel teeth shown momentarily through the smooth surface of his +defence. A weaker poet would have left him there, not having +capacity for more. But Browning, so rich in thought he was, had +only begun to draw him. Guido is not only painted by three +others—by Caponsacchi, by Pompilia, by the Pope—but he +finally exposes his real self with his own hand. He is condemned to +death. Two of his friends visit him the night before his execution, +in his cell. Then, exalted into eloquence by the fierce passions of +fear of death and hatred of Pompilia, he lays bare as the night his +very soul, mean, cruel, cowardly, hungry for revenge, crying for +life, black with hate—a revelation such as in literature can +best be paralleled by the soliloquies of Iago. Baseness is supreme +in his speech, hate was never better given; the words are like the +gnashing of teeth; prayers for life at any cost were never meaner, +and the outburst of terror and despair at the end is their ultimate +expression.</p> +<p>Over against him is set Caponsacchi, of noble birth, of refined +manner, one of those polished and cultivated priests of whom Rome +makes such excellent use, and of whom Browning had drawn already a +different type in Bishop Blougram. He hesitated, being young and +gay, to enter the Church. But the archbishop of that easy time, two +hundred years ago, told him the Church was strong enough to bear a +few light priests, and that he would be set free from many +ecclesiastical duties if, by assiduity in society and with women, +he strengthened the social weight of the Church. In that way, +making his madrigals and confessing fine ladies, he lived for four +years. This is an admirable sketch of a type <a name='Page408' id= +"Page408"></a><span class='pagenum'>408</span>of Church society of +that date, indeed, of any date in any Church; it is by no means +confined to Rome.</p> +<p>On this worldly, careless, indifferent, pleasure-seeking soul +Pompilia, in her trouble and the pity of it, rises like a pure star +seen through mist that opens at intervals to show her excelling +brightness; and in a moment, at the first glimpse of her in the +theatre, the false man drops away; his soul breaks up, stands +clear, and claims its divine birth. He is born again, and then +transfigured. The life of convention, of indifference, dies before +Pompilia's eyes; and on the instant he is true to himself, to her, +and to God. The fleeting passions which had absorbed him, and were +of the senses, are burned up, and the spiritual love for her +purity, and for purity itself—that eternal, infinite +desire—is now master of his life. Not as Miranda and +Ferdinand changed eyes in youthful love, but as Dante and Beatrice +look on one another in Paradise, did Pompilia and Caponsacchi +change eyes, and know at once that both were true, and see without +speech the central worth of their souls. They trusted one another +and they loved for ever. So, when she cried to him in her distress, +he did her bidding and bore her away to Rome. He tells the story of +their flight, and tells it with extraordinary beauty and vehemence +in her defence. So noble is the tale that he convinces the judges +who at first had disbelieved him; and the Pope confesses that his +imprudence was a higher good than priestly prudence would have +been. When he makes his defence he has heard that Pompilia has been +murdered. Then we understand that in his conversion to goodness he +has not lost but gained passion. Scorn of the judges, who could +<a name='Page409' id="Page409"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>409</span>not see that neither he was guilty nor +Pompilia; fiery indignation with the murderer; infinite grief for +the lamb slain by the wolf, and irrevocable love for the soul of +Pompilia, whom he will dwell with eternally when they meet in +Heaven, a love which Pompilia, dying, declares she has for him, and +in which, growing and abiding, she will wait for him—burn on +his lips. He is fully and nobly a man; yet, at the end—and he +is no less a man for it—the wild sorrow at his heart breaks +him down into a cry:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>O great, just, good God! Miserable me!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Pompilia ends her words more quietly, in the faith that comes +with death. Caponsacchi has to live on, to bear the burden of the +world. But Pompilia has borne all she had to bear. All pain and +horror are behind her, as she lies in the stillness, dying. And in +the fading of this life, she knows she loves Caponsacchi in the +spiritual world and will love him for ever. Each speaks according +to the circumstance, but she most nobly:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>He is ordained to call and I to come!</p> +<p>Do not the dead wear flowers when dressed for God?</p> +<p>Say,—I am all in flowers from head to foot!</p> +<p>Say,—not one flower of all he said and did,</p> +<p>Might seem to flit unnoticed, fade unknown,</p> +<p>But dropped a seed, has grown a balsam-tree</p> +<p>Whereof the blossoming perfumes the place</p> +<p>At this supreme of moments! He is a priest;</p> +<p>He cannot marry therefore, which is right:</p> +<p>I think he would not marry if he could.</p> +<p>Marriage on earth seems such a counterfeit,</p> +<p>Mere imitation of the inimitable:</p> +<p>In heaven we have the real and true and sure.</p> +<p>'Tis there they neither marry nor are given</p> +<p>In marriage but are as the angels: right,</p> +<p>Oh how right that is, how like Jesus Christ</p> +<p>To say that! Marriage-making for the earth,</p> +<a name='Page410' id="Page410"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>410</p> +<p>With gold so much,—birth, power, repute so much,</p> +<p>Or beauty, youth so much, in lack of these!</p> +<p>Be as the angels rather, who, apart,</p> +<p>Know themselves into one, are found at length</p> +<p>Married, but marry never, no, nor give</p> +<p>In marriage; they are man and wife at once</p> +<p>When the true time is; here we have to wait</p> +<p>Not so long neither! Could we by a wish</p> +<p>Have what we will and get the future now,</p> +<p>Would we wish aught done undone in the past?</p> +<p>So, let him wait God's instant men call years;</p> +<p>Meantime hold hard by truth and his great soul,</p> +<p>Do out the duty! Through such souls alone</p> +<p>God stooping shows sufficient of His light</p> +<p>For us i' the dark to rise by. And I rise.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>Last of these main characters, the Pope appears. Guido, +condemned to death by the law, appeals from the law to the head of +the Church, because, being half an ecclesiastic, his death can only +finally be decreed by the ecclesiastical arm. An old, old man, with +eyes clear of the quarrels, conventions, class prejudices of the +world, the Pope has gone over all the case during the day, and now +night has fallen. Far from the noise of Rome, removed from the +passions of the chief characters, he is sitting in the stillness of +his closet, set on his decision. We see the whole case now, through +his mind, in absolute quiet. He has been on his terrace to look at +the stars, and their solemn peace is with him. He feels that he is +now alone with God and his old age. And being alone, he is not +concise, but garrulous and discursive. Browning makes him so on +purpose. But discursive as his mind is, his judgment is clear, his +sentence determined. Only, before he speaks, he will weigh all the +characters, and face any doubts that may shoot into his conscience. +He passes Guido and the rest before his spiritual tribunal, judging +not <a name='Page411' id="Page411"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>411</span>from the legal point of view, but from that +which his Master would take at the Judgment Day. How have they +lived; what have they made of life? When circumstances invaded them +with temptation, how did they meet temptation? Did they declare by +what they did that they were on God's side or the devil's? And on +these lines he delivers his sentence on Pompilia, Caponsacchi, +Guido, Pietro, Violante, and the rest. He feels he speaks as the +Vicegerent of God.</p> +<p>This solemn, silent, lonely, unworldly judgment of the whole +case, done in God's presence, is, after the noisy, crowded, worldly +judgment of it by Rome, after the rude humours of the law, and the +terrible clashing of human passions, most impressive; and it rises +into the majesty of old age in the summing up of the characters of +Pompilia, Caponsacchi, and Guido. I wish Browning had left it +there. But he makes a sudden doubt invade the Pope with a chill. +Has he judged rightly in thinking that divine truth is with him? Is +there any divine truth on which he may infallibly repose?</p> +<p>And then for many pages we are borne away into a theological +discussion, which I take leave to say is wearisome; and which, +after all, lands the Pope exactly at the point from which he set +out—a conclusion at which, as we could have told him +beforehand, he would be certain to arrive. We might have been +spared this. It is an instance of Browning's pleasure in +intellectual discourse which had, as I have said, such sad results +on his imaginative work. However, at the end, the Pope resumes his +interest in human life. He determines; and quickly—"Let the +murderer die to-morrow."</p> +<p><a name='Page412' id="Page412"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>412</span>Then comes the dreadful passion of Guido in the +condemned cell, of which I have spoken. And then, one would think +the poem would have closed. But no, the epilogue succeeds, in +which, after all the tragedy, humour reigns supreme. It brings us +into touch with all that happened in this case after the execution +of Guido; the letters written by the spectators, the lawyer's view +of the deed, the gossip of Rome upon the interesting occasion. No +piece of humour in Browning's poetry, and no portrait-sketching, is +better than the letter written by a Venetian gentleman in Rome +giving an account of the execution. It is high comedy when we are +told that the Austrian Ambassador, who had pleaded for Guido's +life, was so vexed by the sharp "no" of the Pope (even when he had +told the Pope that he had probably dined at the same table with +Guido), that he very nearly refused to come to the execution, and +would scarcely vouchsafe it more than a glance when he did +come—as if this conduct of his were a slight which the Pope +would feel acutely. Nor does Browning's invention stop with this +inimitable letter. He adds two other letters which he found among +the papers; and these give to the characters of the two lawyers, +new turns, new images of their steady professional ambition not to +find truth, but to gain the world.</p> +<p>One would think, after this, that invention would be weary. Not +at all! The Augustinian monk who attended Pompilia has not had +attention enough; and this is the place, Browning thinks, to show +what he thought of the case, and how he used it in his profession. +So, we are given a great part of the sermon he preached on the +occasion, and the various judgments of Rome upon it.</p> +<p><a name='Page413' id="Page413"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>413</span>It is wonderful, after invention has been +actively at work for eleven long books, pouring forth its waters +from an unfailing fountain, to find it, at the end, as gay, as +fresh, as keen, as youthful as ever. This, I repeat, is the +excellence of Browning's genius—fulness of creative power, +with imagination in it like a fire. It does not follow that all it +produces is poetry; and what it has produced in <i>The Ring and the +Book</i> is sometimes, save for the metre, nothing better than +prose. But this is redeemed by the noble poetry of a great part of +it. The book is, as I have said, a mixed book—the central +arena of that struggle in Browning between prose and poetry with a +discussion of which this chapter began, and with the mention of +which I finish it.</p> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page414' id="Page414"></a><span class='pagenum'>414</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_XVII' id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> +<h3><i>LATER POEMS</i></h3> +<p>A just appreciation of the work which Browning published after +<i>The Ring and the Book</i> is a difficult task. The poems are of +various kinds, on widely separated subjects; and with the exception +of those which treat of Balaustion, they have no connection with +one another. Many of them must belong to the earlier periods of his +life, and been introduced into the volumes out of the crowd of +unpublished poems every poet seems to possess. These, when we come +across them among their middle-aged companions, make a strange +impression, as if we found a white-thorn flowering in an autumnal +woodland; and in previous chapters of this book I have often +fetched them out of their places, and considered them where they +ought to be—in the happier air and light in which they were +born. I will not discuss them again, but in forming any judgment of +the later poems they must be discarded.</p> +<p>The struggle to which I have drawn attention between the +imaginative and intellectual elements in Browning, and which was +equally balanced in <i>The Ring and the Book</i>, continued after +its publication, but with a steady lessening of the imaginative and +<a name='Page415' id="Page415"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>415</span>a steady increase of the intellectual elements. +One poem, however, written before the publication of <i>The Ring +and the Book</i>, does not belong to this struggle. This is +<i>Hervé Riel</i>, a ballad of fire and joy and triumph. It +is curiously French in sentiment and expression, and the eager +sea-delight in it is plainly French, not English in feeling. Nor is +it only French; it is Breton in audacity, in self-forgetfulness, in +carelessness of reward, and in loyalty to country, to love and to +home. If Browning had been all English, this transference of +himself into the soul of another nationality would have been +wonderful, nay, impossible. As it is, it is wonderful enough; and +this self-transference—one of his finest poetic +powers—is nowhere better accomplished than in this poem, full +of the salt wind and the leap and joy of the sea-waves; but even +more full, as was natural to Browning, of the Breton soul of +Hervé Riel.</p> +<p>In <i>Balaustion's Adventure</i> (1871) which next appeared, the +imaginative elements, as we have seen, are still alive and happy; +and though they only emerge at intervals in its continuation, +<i>Aristophanes' Apology</i> (1875), yet they do emerge. Meanwhile, +between <i>Balaustion's Adventure</i> and the end of 1875, he +produced four poems—<i>Prince Hohenstiel Schwangau, Saviour +of Society; Fifine at the Fair; Red Cotton Nightcap Country, or +Turf and Towers</i>; and <i>The Inn Album</i>. They are all long, +and were published in four separate volumes. In them the +intellectual elements have all but completely conquered the +imaginative. They are, however, favourite "exercise-places" for +some of his admirers, who think that they derive poetic pleasures +from their <a name='Page416' id="Page416"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>416</span>study. The pleasure these poems give, when they +give it, is not altogether a poetic pleasure. It is chiefly the +pleasure of the understanding called to solve with excitement a +huddle of metaphysical problems. They have the name but not the +nature of poetry.</p> +<p>They are the work of my Lord Intelligence—attended by wit +and fancy—who sits at the desk of poetry, and with her pen in +his hand. He uses the furniture of poetry, but the goddess herself +has left the room. Yet something of her influence still fills the +air of the chamber. In the midst of the brilliant display that +fancy, wit, and intellect are making, a soft steady light of pure +song burns briefly at intervals, and then is quenched; like the +light of stars seen for a moment of quiet effulgence among the +crackling and dazzling of fireworks.</p> +<p>The poems are, it is true, original. We cannot class them with +any previous poetry. They cannot be called didactic or satirical. +The didactic and satirical poems of England are, for the most part, +artificial, concise, clear. These poems are not artificial, clear +or concise. Nor do they represent the men and women of a cultured, +intellectual and conventional society, such as the poetry of Dryden +and Pope addressed. The natural man is in them—the crude, +dull, badly-baked man—what the later nineteenth century +called the real man. We see his ugly, sordid, contemptible, +fettered soul, and long for Salinguerra, or Lippo Lippi, or even +Caliban. The representations are then human enough, with this kind +of humanity, but they might have been left to prose. Poetry has no +business to build its houses on the waste and leprous lands of +human <a name='Page417' id="Page417"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>417</span>nature; and less business to call its work art. +Realism of this kind is not art, it is science.</p> +<p>Yet the poems are not scientific, for they have no clarity of +argument. Their wanderings of thought are as intertangled as the +sheep-walks on league after league of high grasslands. When one has +a fancy to follow them, the pursuit is entertaining; but unless one +has the fancy, there are livelier employments. Their chief interest +is the impression they give us of a certain side of Browning's +character. They are his darling debauch of cleverness, of +surface-psychology. The analysis follows no conventional lines, +does not take or oppose any well-known philosophical side. It is +not much more than his own serious or fantastic thinking indulging +itself with reckless abandon—amusing itself with itself. And +this gives them a humanity—a Browning humanity—outside +of their subjects.</p> +<p>The subjects too, though not delightful, are founded on facts of +human life. <i>Bishop Blougram</i> was conceived from Cardinal +Wiseman's career, <i>Mr. Sludge</i> from Mr. Home's. <i>Prince +Hohenstiel Schwangau</i> explains and defends the expediency by +which Napoleon III. directed his political action. <i>The Inn +Album, Red Cotton Nightcap Country</i>, are taken from actual +stories that occurred while Browning was alive, and <i>Fifine at +the Fair</i> analyses a common crisis in the maturer lives of men +and women. The poems thus keep close to special cases, +yet—and in this the poet appears—they have an extension +which carries them beyond the particular subjects into the needs +and doings of a wider humanity. Their little rivers run into the +great sea. They have then their human interest for a reader who +does not wish for <a name='Page418' id="Page418"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>418</span>beauty, passion, imagination, or the desires of +the spirit in his poetry; but who hankers at his solitary desk +after realistic psychology, fanciful ethics, curiosities of +personal philosophy, cold intellectual play with argument, and +honest human ugliness.</p> +<p>Moreover, the method Browning attempts to use in them for the +discovery of truth is not the method of poetry, nor of any of the +arts. It is almost a commonplace to say that the world of mankind +and each individual in it only arrives at the truth on any matter, +large or small, by going through and exhausting the false forms of +that truth—and a very curious arrangement it seems to be. It +is this method Browning pursues in these poems. He represents one +after another various false or half-true views of the matter in +hand, and hopes in that fashion to clear the way to the truth. But +he fails to convince partly because it is impossible to give all or +enough of the false or half-true views of any one truth, but +chiefly because his method is one fitted for philosophy or science, +but not for poetry. Poetry claims to see and feel the truth at +once. When the poet does not assert that claim, and act on it, he +is becoming faithless to his art.</p> +<p>Browning's method in these poems is the method of a scientific +philosopher, not of an artist. He gets his man into a debateable +situation; the man debates it from various points of view; persons +are introduced who take other aspects of the question, or +personified abstractions such as <i>Sagacity, Reason, Fancy</i> +give their opinions. Not satisfied with this, Browning discusses it +again from his own point of view. He is then like the chess-player +who himself plays both red and white; who tries to keep both +<a name='Page419' id="Page419"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>419</span>distinct in his mind, but cannot help now and +again taking one side more than the other; and who is frequently a +third person aware of himself as playing red, and also of himself +as playing white; and again of himself as outside both the players +and criticising their several games. This is no exaggerated account +of what is done in these poems. Three people, even when the poems +are monologues, are arguing in them, and Browning plays all their +hands, even in <i>The Inn Album</i>, which is not a monologue. In +<i>Red Cotton Nightcap Country</i>, when he has told the story of +the man and woman in all its sordid and insane detail, with +comments of his own, he brings the victim of mean pleasure and mean +superstition to the top of the tower whence he throws himself down, +and, inserting his intelligence into the soul of the man, explains +his own view of the situation. In <i>Prince Hohenstiel +Schwangau</i>, we have sometimes what Browning really thinks, as in +the beginning of the poem, about the matter in hand, and then what +he thinks the Prince would think, and then, to complicate the +affair still more, the Prince divides himself, and makes a +personage called <i>Sagacity</i> argue with him on the whole +situation. As to <i>Fifine at the Fair</i>—a poem it would +not be fair to class altogether with these—its involutions +resemble a number of live eels in a tub of water. Don Juan changes +his personality and his views like a player on the stage who takes +several parts; Elvire is a gliding phantom with gliding opinions; +Fifine is real, but she remains outside of this shifting scenery of +the mind; and Browning, who continually intrudes, is sometimes Don +Juan and sometimes himself and sometimes both together, and +<a name='Page420' id="Page420"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>420</span>sometimes another thinker who strives to bring, +as in the visions in the poem, some definition into this changing +cloudland of the brain. And after all, not one of the questions +posed in any of the poems is settled in the end. I do not say that +the leaving of the questions unsettled is not like life. It is very +like life, but not like the work of poetry, whose high office it is +to decide questions which cannot be solved by the +understanding.</p> +<p>Bishop Blongram thinks he has proved his points. Gigadibs is +half convinced he has. But the Bishop, on looking back, thinks he +has not been quite sincere, that his reasonings were only good for +the occasion. He has evaded the centre of the thing. What he has +said was no more than intellectual fencing. It certainly is +intellectual fencing of the finest kind. Both the Bishop and his +companion are drawn to the life; yet, and this is the cleverest +thing in the poem, we know that the Bishop is in reality a +different man from the picture he makes of himself. And the truth +which in his talk underlies its appearance acts on Gigadibs and +sends him into a higher life. The discussion—as it may be +called though the Bishop only speaks—concerning faith and +doubt is full of admirable wisdom, and urges me to modify my +statement that Browning took little or no interest in the +controversies of his time. Yet, all through the fencing, nothing is +decided. The button is always on the Bishop's foil. He never sends +the rapier home. And no doubt that is the reason that his +companion, with "his sudden healthy vehemence" did drive his weapon +home into life—and started for Australia.</p> +<p>Mr. Sludge, the medium, excuses his imposture, <a name='Page421' +id="Page421"></a><span class='pagenum'>421</span>and then thinks +"it may not altogether be imposture. For all he knows there may +really be spirits at the bottom of it. He never meant to cheat; yet +he did cheat. Yet, even if he lied, lies help truth to live; and he +must live himself; and God may have made fools for him to live on;" +and many other are the twists of his defence. The poem is as +lifelike in its insight into the mind of a supple cheat as it is a +brilliant bit of literature; but Browning leaves the matter +unconcluded, as he would not have done, I hold, had he been writing +poetry. Prince Hohenstiel's defence of expediency in politics is +made by Browning to seem now right, now wrong, because he assumes +at one time what is true as the ground of his argument, and then at +another what is plainly false, and in neither case do the +assumptions support the arguments. What really is concluded is not +the question, but the slipperiness of the man who argues. And at +the end of the poem Browning comes in again to say that words +cannot be trusted to hit truth. Language is inadequate to express +it. Browning was fond of saying this. It does not seem worth +saying. In one sense it is a truism; in another it resembles +nonsense. Words are the only way by which we can express truth, or +our nearest approach to what we think it is. At any rate, silence, +in spite of Maeterlinck, does not express it. Moreover, with regard +to the matter in hand, Browning knew well enough how a poet would +decide the question of expediency he has here brought into debate. +He has decided it elsewhere; but here he chooses not to take that +view, that he may have the fun of exercising his clever brain. +There is no reason why he should not entertain <a name='Page422' +id="Page422"></a><span class='pagenum'>422</span>himself and us in +this way; but folk need not call this intellectual jumping to and +fro a poem, or try to induce us to believe that it is the work of +art.</p> +<p>When he had finished these products of a time when he was +intoxicated with his intellect, and of course somewhat proud of it, +the poet in him began to revive. This resurrection had begun in +<i>Fifine at the Fair</i>. I have said it would not be just to +class this poem with the other three. It has many an oasis of +poetry where it is a happiness to rest. But the way between their +palms and wells is somewhat dreary walking, except to those who +adore minute psychology. The poem is pitilessly long. If throughout +its length it were easy to follow we might excuse the length, but +it is rendered difficult by the incessant interchange of misty +personalities represented by one personality. Elvire, Fifine only +exist in the mind of Don Juan; their thoughts are only expressed in +his words; their outlines not only continually fade into his, but +his thought steals into his presentation of their thought, till it +becomes impossible to individualise them. The form in which +Browning wrote the poem, by which he made Don Juan speak for them, +makes this want of clearness and sharpness inevitable. The work is +done with a terrible cleverness, but it is wearisome at the +last.</p> +<p>The length also might be excused if the subject were a great one +or had important issues for mankind. But, though it has its +interest and is human enough, it does not deserve so many thousand +lines nor so much elaborate analysis. A few lyrics or a drama of +two acts might say all that is worth saying on the matter. What +Browning has taken for subject <a name='Page423' id= +"Page423"></a><span class='pagenum'>423</span>is an every-day +occurrence. We are grateful to him for writing on so universal a +matter, even though it is unimportant; and he has tried to make it +uncommon and important by weaving round it an intricate lace-work +of psychology; yet, when we get down to its main lines, it is the +ordinary event, especially commonplace in any idle society which +clings to outward respectability and is dreadfully wearied of it. +Our neighbours across the Channel call it <i>La Crise</i> when, +after years of a quiet, not unhappy, excellent married existence, +day succeeding day in unbroken continuity of easy affection and +limited experience, the man or the woman, in full middle life, +suddenly wearies of the apparent monotony, the uneventful love, the +slow encroaching tide of the commonplace, and looks on these as +fetters on their freedom, as walls which shut them in from the +vivid interests of the outside world, from the gipsy roving of the +passions. The time arrives, when this becomes, they think, too +great for endurance, and their impatience shows itself in a daily +irritability quite new in the household, apparently causeless, full +of sudden, inexplicable turns of thought and act which turn the +peaceful into a tempestuous home. It is not that the husband or the +wife are inconstant by nature—to call <i>Fifine at the +Fair</i> a defence of inconstancy is to lose the truth of the +matter—but it is the desire of momentary change, of a life +set free from conventional barriers, of an outburst into the +unknown, of the desire for new experiences, for something which +will bring into play those parts of their nature of which they are +vaguely conscious but which are as yet unused—new elements in +their senses, intellect, imagination, even in their <a name= +'Page424' id="Page424"></a><span class='pagenum'>424</span>spirit, +but not always in their conscience. That, for the time being, as in +this poem, is often shut up in the cellar, where its voice cannot +be heard.</p> +<p>This is, as I said, a crisis of common occurrence. It may be +rightly directed, its evil controlled, and a noble object chosen +for the satisfaction of the impulse. Here, that is not the case; +and Browning describes its beginning with great freshness and force +as Juan walks down to the fair with Elvire. Nor has he omitted to +treat other forms of it in his poetry. He knew how usual it was, +but he has here made it unusual by putting it into the heart of a +man who, before he yielded to it, was pleased to make it the +subject of a wandering metaphysical analysis; who sees not only how +it appears to himself in three or four moods, but how it looks to +the weary, half-jealous wife to whom he is so rude while he strives +to be courteous, and to the bold, free, conscienceless child of +nature whose favour he buys, and with whom, after all his barren +metaphysics, he departs, only to attain, when his brief spell of +foolish freedom is over, loneliness and cynic satiety. It may amuse +us to circle with him through his arguments, though every one knows +he will yield at last and that yielding is more honest than his +talk; but what we ask is—Was the matter worth the trouble of +more than two thousand lines of long-winded verse? Was it worth an +artist's devotion? or, to ask a question I would not ask if the +poem were good art, is it of any real importance to mankind? Is it, +finally, anything more than an intellectual exercise of Browning on +which solitary psychologists may, in their turn, employ their neat +intelligence? This poem, with the exceptions of <a name='Page425' +id="Page425"></a><span class='pagenum'>425</span>some episodes of +noble poetry, is, as well as the three others, a very harlequinade +of the intellect.</p> +<p>I may say, though this is hypercritical, that the name of Don +Juan is a mistake. Every one knows Don Juan, and to imagine him +arguing in the fashion of this poem is absurd. He would instantly, +without a word, have left Elvire, and abandoned Fifine in a few +days. The connection then of the long discussions in the poem with +his name throws an air of unreality over the whole of it. The Don +Juan of the poem had much better have stayed with Elvire, who +endured him with weary patience. I have no doubt that he bored +Fifine to extinction.</p> +<p>The poems that follow these four volumes are mixed work, half +imaginative, half intellectual. Sometimes both kinds are found, +separated, in the same poem; sometimes in one volume half the poems +will be imaginative and the other half not. Could the imaginative +and intellectual elements have now been fused as they were in his +earlier work, it were well; but they were not. They worked apart. +His witful poems are all wit, his analytical poems are all +analysis, and his imaginative poems, owing to this want of fusion, +have not the same intellectual strength they had in other days. +<i>Numpholeptos</i>, for instance, an imaginative poem, full too of +refined and fanciful emotion, is curiously wanting in intellectual +foundation.</p> +<p>The <i>Numpholeptos</i> is in the volume entitled +<i>Pacchiarotto, and how he worked in Distemper</i>. Part of the +poems in it are humorous, such as <i>Pacchiarotto</i> and +<i>Filippo Baldinucci</i>, excellent pieces of agreeable wit, +containing excellent advice concerning life. One reads them, is +amused by them, and rarely desires <a name='Page426' id= +"Page426"></a><span class='pagenum'>426</span>to read them again. +In the same volume there are some severe pieces, sharply ridiculing +his critics. In the old days, when he wrote fine imaginative +poetry, out of his heart and brain working together, he did not +mind what the critics said, and only flashed a scoff or two at them +in his creation of Naddo in <i>Sordello</i>. But now when he wrote +a great deal of his poetry out of his brain alone, he became +sensitive to criticism. For that sort of poetry does not rest on +the sure foundation which is given by the consciousness the +imagination has of its absolute rightness. He expresses his +needless soreness with plenty of wit in <i>Pacchiarotto</i> and in +the <i>Epilogue</i>, criticises his critics, and displays his good +opinion of his work—no doubt of these later poems, like +<i>The Inn Album</i> and the rest—with a little too much of +self-congratulation. "The poets pour us wine," he says, "and mine +is strong—the strong wine of the loves and hates and thoughts +of man. But it is not sweet as well, and my critics object. Were it +so, it would be more popular than it is. Sweetness and strength do +not go together, and I have strength."</p> +<p>But that is not the real question. The question is—Is the +strength poetical? Has it imagination? It is rough, powerful, full +of humanity, and that is well. But is it half prose, or wholly +prose? Or is it poetry, or fit to be called so? He thinks that +<i>Prince Hohenstiel</i>, or <i>Red Cotton Nightcap Country</i>, +are poetry. They are, it is true, strong; and they are not sweet. +But have they the strength of poetry in them, and not the strength +of something else altogether? That is the question he ought to have +answered, and it does not occur to him.</p> +<p>Yet, he was, in this very book, half-way out of <a name= +'Page427' id="Page427"></a><span class='pagenum'>427</span>this +muddle. There are poems in it, just as strong as <i>The Inn +Album</i>, but with the ineffable spirit of imaginative emotion and +thought clasped together in them, so that the strong is stronger, +and the humanity deeper than in the pieces he thought, being +deceived by the Understanding, were more strong than the poems of +old. In <i>Bifurcation</i>, in <i>St. Martin's Summer</i>, the +diviner spirit breathes. There is that other poem called +<i>Forgiveness</i> of which I have already spoken—one of his +masterpieces. <i>Cenciaja</i>, which may be classed with +<i>Forgiveness</i> as a study of the passion of hatred, is not so +good as its comrade, but its hatred is shown in a mean character +and for a meaner motive. And the <i>Prologue</i>, in its rhythm and +pleasure, its subtlety of thought, its depth of feeling, and its +close union of both, recalls his earlier genius.</p> +<p>The first of the <i>Pisgah Sights</i> is a jewel. It is like a +poem by Goethe, only Goethe would have seen the "sight" not when he +was dying, but when he was alive to his finger-tips. The second is +not like Goethe's work, nor Browning's; but it is a true picture of +what many feel and are. So is <i>Fears and Scruples</i>. As to +<i>Natural Magic</i>, surely it is the most charming of +compliments, most enchantingly expressed.</p> +<p>The next volume of original poems was <i>La Saisiaz</i> and the +<i>Two Poets of Croisic</i>. The <i>Croisic Poets</i> are agreeable +studies, written with verve and lucidity, of two fantastic events +which lifted these commonplace poets suddenly into fame. They do +well to amuse an idle hour. The end of both is interesting. That of +the first, which begins with stanza lix., discusses the question: +"Who cares, <a name='Page428' id="Page428"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>428</span>how such a mediocrity as René lived +after the fame of his prophecy died out?"<a name='FNanchor_11_11' +id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href='#Footnote_11_11'>[11]</a> And +Browning answers—</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Well, I care—intimately care to have</p> +<p class='i2'>Experience how a human creature felt</p> +<p>In after life, who bore the burthen grave</p> +<p class='i2'>Of certainly believing God had dealt</p> +<p>For once directly with him: did not rave</p> +<p class='i2'>—A maniac, did not find his reason melt</p> +<p>—An idiot, but went on, in peace or strife,</p> +<p>The world's way, lived an ordinary life.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>The solution Browning offers is interesting, because it recalls +a part of the experiences of Lazarus in the <i>Epistle to +Karshish</i>. René, like Lazarus, but only for a moment, has +lived in the eternal.</p> +<p>Are such revelations possible, is his second question. Yes, he +answers; and the form of the answer belongs to the theory of life +laid down in <i>Paracelsus</i>. Such sudden openings of the greater +world are at intervals, as to Abt Vogler, given by God to men.</p> +<p>The end of the second asks what is the true test of the greater +poet, when people take on them to weigh the worth of +poets—who was better, best, this, that or the other bard? +When I read this I trembled, knowing that I had compared him with +Tennyson. But when I heard the answer I trembled no more. "The best +poet of any two is the one who leads the happier life. The strong +and <a name='Page429' id="Page429"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>429</span>joyful poet is the greater." But this is a test +of the greatness of a man, not necessarily of a poet. And, +moreover, in this case, Tennyson and Browning both lived equally +happy lives. Both were strong to the end, and imaginative joy was +their companion. But the verse in which Browning winds up his +answer is one of the finest in his poetry.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>So, force is sorrow, and each sorrow, force;</p> +<p class='i2'>What then? since Swiftness gives the charioteer</p> +<p>The palm, his hope be in the vivid horse</p> +<p class='i2'>Whose neck God clothed with thunder, not the +steer</p> +<p>Sluggish and safe! Yoke Hatred, Crime, Remorse,</p> +<p class='i2'>Despair; but ever mid the whirling fear,</p> +<p class='i2'>Let, through the tumult, break the poet's face</p> +<p class='i2'>Radiant, assured his wild slaves win the race!</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><i>La Saisiaz</i> is a more important poem: it describes the +sudden death of his friend, Ann Egerton Smith, and passes from +that, and all he felt concerning it, into an argument on the future +life of the soul, with the assumption that God is, and the soul. +The argument is interesting, but does not concern us here. What +does concern us is that Browning has largely recovered his poetical +way of treating a subject. He is no longer outside of it, but in +it. He does not use it as a means of exercising his brains only. It +is steeped in true and vital feeling, and the deep friendship he +had for his friend fills even the theological argument with a +passionate intensity. Nevertheless, the argument is perilously near +the work of the understanding alone—as if a question like +that of immortality could receive any solution from the hands of +the understanding. Only each man, in the recesses of his own spirit +with God, can solve that question for himself, and not for another. +That is Browning's position when <a name='Page430' id= +"Page430"></a><span class='pagenum'>430</span>he writes as a poet, +and no one has written more positively on the subject. But when he +submits the question to reasoning, he wavers, as he does here, and +leaves the question more undecided than anywhere else in his work. +This is a pity, but it is the natural penalty of his partial +abandonment of the poetic for the prosaic realm, of the imagination +for the understanding, of the Reason for reasoning.</p> +<p>FOOTNOTES:</p> +<div class='footnote'> +<p><a name='Footnote_11_11' id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href= +'#FNanchor_11_11'>[11]</a> René Gentilhomme, page to Prince +Condé, heir of France since Louis XIII. and his brother +Gaston were childless, is surprised, while writing a love poem, by +a lightning flash which shatters a marble ducal crown. He thinks +this a revelation from God, and he prophecies that a Dauphin will +be born to the childless Queen. The Dauphin was born, and +René pushed suddenly into fame.</p> +</div> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='Page431' id="Page431"></a><span class='pagenum'>431</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_XVIII' id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> +<h3><i>THE LAST POEMS</i></h3> +<p>Two Volumes of Dramatic Idyls, one in 1879, the other in 1880, +followed <i>La Saisiaz</i> and <i>The Two Poets of Croisic</i>. +These are also mixed books, composed, partly of studies of +character written in rhythmical prose, and partly of poems wrought +out of the pure imagination. Three of them—if they were +written at this time—show how the Greek legends still dwelt +with Browning; and they brought with them the ocean-scent, heroic +life, and mythical charm of Athenian thought. It would be +difficult, if one could write of them at all, not to write of them +poetically; and <i>Pheidippides, Echetlos, Pan and Luna</i> are +alive with force, imaginative joy, and the victorious sense the +poet has of having conquered his material. <i>Pheidippides</i> is +as full of fire, of careless heroism as <i>Hervé Riel</i>, +and told in as ringing verse. The versing of <i>Echetlos</i>, its +rugged, rousing sound, its movement, are in most excellent harmony +with the image of the rude, giant "Holder of the ploughshare," who +at Marathon drove his furrows through the Persians and rooted up +the Mede. Browning has gathered into one picture and one sound the +whole spirit of the story. <i>Pan and Luna</i> is a bold +re-rendering of the myth that Vergil <a name='Page432' id= +"Page432"></a><span class='pagenum'>432</span>enshrines, and the +greater part of it is of such poetic freshness that I think it must +be a waif from the earlier years of his poetry. Nor is there better +imaginative work in his descriptive poetry than the image of the +naked moon, in virginal distress, flying for refuge through the +gazing heaven to the succourable cloud—fleece on fleece of +piled-up snow, drowsily patient—where Pan lay in ambush for +her beauty.</p> +<p>Among these more gracious idyls, one of singular rough power +tells the ghastly tale of the mother who gave up her little +children to the wolves to save herself. Browning liked this poem, +and the end he added to the story—how the carpenter, Ivan, +when the poor frightened woman confessed, lifted his axe and cut +off her head; how he knew that he did right, and was held to have +done right by the village and its pope. The sin by which a mother +sacrificed the lives of her children to save her own was out of +nature: the punishment should be outside of ordinary law. It is a +piteous tale, and few things in Browning equal the horror of the +mother's vain attempt to hide her crime while she confesses it. Nor +does he often show greater imaginative skill in metrical movement +than when he describes in galloping and pattering verse the grey +pack emerging from the forest, their wild race for the sledge, and +their demon leader.</p> +<p>The other idyls in these two volumes are full of interest for +those who care for psychological studies expressed in verse. What +the vehicle of verse does for them is to secure conciseness and +suggestiveness in the rendering of remote, daring, and unexpected +turns of thought and feeling, and especially of conscience. Yet the +poems themselves cannot be called <a name='Page433' id= +"Page433"></a><span class='pagenum'>433</span>concise. Their +subjects are not large enough, nor indeed agreeable enough, to +excuse their length. Goethe would have put them into a short +lyrical form. It is impossible not to regret, as we read them, the +Browning of the <i>Dramatic Lyrics</i>. Moreover, some of them are +needlessly ugly. <i>Halbert and Hob</i>—and in +<i>Jocoseria</i>—<i>Donald</i>, are hateful subjects, and +their treatment does not redeem them; unlike the treatment of +<i>Ivan Ivanovitch</i> which does lift the pain of the story into +the high realms of pity and justice. Death, swift death, was not +only the right judgment, but also the most pitiful. Had the mother +lived, an hour's memory would have been intolerable torture. +Nevertheless, if Browning, in his desire to represent the whole of +humanity, chose to treat these lower forms of human nature, I +suppose we must accept them as an integral part of his work; and, +at least, there can be no doubt of their ability, and of the +brilliancy of their psychological surprises. <i>Ned Bratts</i> is a +monument of cleverness, as well as of fine characterisation of a +momentary outburst of conscience in a man who had none before; and +who would have lost it in an hour, had he not been hanged on the +spot. The quick, agile, unpremeditated turns of wit in this poem, +as in some of the others, are admirably easy, and happily +expressed. Indeed, in these later poems of character and event, +ingenuity or nimbleness of intellect is the chief element, and it +is accompanied by a facile power which is sometimes rude, often +careless, always inventive, fully fantastical, and rarely +imaginative in the highest sense of the word. Moreover, as was not +the case of old, they have, beyond the story, a direct teaching +<a name='Page434' id="Page434"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>434</span>aim, which, while it lowers them as art, is +very agreeable to the ethical psychologist.</p> +<p><i>Jocoseria</i> has poems of a higher quality, some of which, +like the lovely <i>Never the Time and Place</i>, I have been +already quoted. <i>Ixion</i> is too obscurely put to attain its end +with the general public. But it may be recommended, though vainly, +to those theologians who, hungry for the Divine Right of torture, +build their God, like Caliban, out of their own minds; who, foolish +enough to believe that the everlasting endurance of evil is a +necessary guarantee of the everlasting endurance of good, are still +bold and bad enough to proclaim the abominable lie of eternal +punishment. They need that spirit the little child whom Christ +placed in the midst of his disciples; and in gaining which, after +living the life of the lover, the warrior, the poet, the statesman, +<i>Jochanan Hakkadosh</i> found absolute peace and joy. Few poems +contain more of Browning's matured theory of life than this of the +Jewish Rabbi; and its seriousness is happily mingled with +imaginative illustrations and with racy wit. The sketch of Tsaddik, +who puts us in mind of Wagner in the <i>Faust</i>, is done with a +sarcastic joy in exposing the Philistine, and with a delight in its +own cleverness which is fascinating.</p> +<p><i>Ferishtah's Fancies</i> and <i>Parleyings with Certain +People</i> followed <i>Jocoseria</i> in 1884 and 1887. The first of +these books is much the better of the two. A certain touch of +romance is given by the Dervish, by the Fables with which he +illustrates his teaching, and by the Eastern surroundings. Some of +the stories are well told, and their scenery is truthfully wrought +and in good colour. The sub<a name='Page435' id= +"Page435"></a><span class='pagenum'>435</span>jects are partly +theological, with always a reference to human life; and partly of +the affections and their working. It is natural to a poet, and +delightful in Browning, to find him in his old age dwelling from +poem to poem on the pre-eminence of love, on love as the ultimate +judge of all questions. He asserts this again and again; with the +greatest force in <i>A Pillar at Sebzevar</i>, and, more lightly, +in <i>Cherries</i>. Yet, and this is a pity, he is not satisfied +with the decision of love, but spends pages in argumentative +discussions which lead him away from that poetical treatment of the +subjects which love alone, as the master, would have enabled him to +give. However, the treatment that love gives we find in the lyrics +at the end of each <i>Fancy</i>; and some of these lyrics are of +such delicate and subtle beauty that I am tempted to think that +they were written at an earlier period, and their <i>Fancies</i> +composed to fit them. If they were written now, it is plain that +age had not disenabled him from walking with pleasure and power +among those sweet, enamelled meadows of poetry in whose soil he now +thought great poetry did not grow. And when we read the lyrics, our +regret is all the more deep that he chose the thorn-clad and desert +lands, where barren argument goes round and round its subjects +without ever finding the true path to their centre.</p> +<p>He lost himself more completely in this error in <i>Parleyings +with Certain People</i>, in which book, with the exception of the +visionary landscapes in <i>Gerard de Lairesse</i>, and some few +passages in <i>Francis Furini</i> and <i>Charles Avison</i>, +imagination, such as belongs to a poet, has deserted Browning. He +feels himself as if this might be said of <a name='Page436' id= +"Page436"></a><span class='pagenum'>436</span>him; and he asks in +<i>Gerard de Lairesse</i> if he has lost the poetic touch, the +poetic spirit, because he writes of the soul, of facts, of things +invisible—not of fancy's feignings, not of the things +perceived by the senses? "I can do this," he answers, "if I like, +as well as you," and he paints the landscape of a whole day filled +with mythological figures. The passage is poetry; we see that he +has not lost his poetic genius. But, he calls it "fooling," and +then contrasts the spirit of Greek lore with the spirit of immortal +hope and cheer which he possesses, with his faith that there is for +man a certainty of Spring. But that is not the answer to his +question. It only says that the spirit which animates him now is +higher than the Greek spirit. It does not answer the +question—Whether <i>Daniel Bartoli</i> or <i>Charles +Avison</i> or any of these <i>Parleyings</i> even approach as +poetry <i>Paracelsus</i>, the <i>Dramatic Lyrics</i>, or <i>Men and +Women</i>. They do not. Nor has their intellectual work the same +force, unexpectedness and certainty it had of old. Nevertheless, +these <i>Parleyings</i>, at the close of the poet's life, and with +biographical touches which give them vitality, enshrine Browning's +convictions with regard to some of the greater and lesser problems +of human life. And when his personality is vividly present in them, +the argument, being thrilled with passionate feeling, rises, but +heavily like a wounded eagle, into an imaginative world.</p> +<p>The sub-consciousness in Browning's mind to which I have +alluded—that these later productions of his were not as +poetical as his earlier work and needed defence—is the real +subject of a remarkable little poem at the end of the second volume +of the <i>Dramatic Idyls</i>. He is thinking of himself as poet, +<a name='Page437' id="Page437"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>437</span>perhaps of that double nature in him which on +one side was quick to see and love beauty; and on the other, to see +facts and love their strength. Sometimes the sensitive +predominated. He was only the lover of beauty whom everything that +touched him urged into song.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>"Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke:</p> +<p class='i2'>Soil so quick-receptive,—not one +feather-seed,</p> +<p>Not one flower-dust fell but straight its fall awoke</p> +<p class='i2'>Vitalising virtue: song would song succeed</p> +<p class='i2'>Sudden as spontaneous—prove a poet-soul!"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>This, which Browning puts on the lips of another, is not meant, +we are told, to describe himself. But it does describe one side of +him very well, and the origin and conduct of a number of his +earlier poems. But now, having changed his manner, even the +principles of his poetry, he describes himself as different from +that—as a sterner, more iron poet, and the work he now does +as more likely to endure, and be a power in the world of men. He +was curiously mistaken.</p> +<p>Indeed, he cries, is that the soil in which a poet grows?</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>"Rock's the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare:</p> +<p>Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rage</p> +<p class='i2'>Vainly both expend,—few flowers awaken +there:</p> +<p>Quiet in its cleft broods—what the after-age</p> +<p>Knows and names a pine, a nation's heritage."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>In this sharp division, as in his <i>Epilogue</i> to +<i>Pacchiarotto</i>, he misses the truth. It is almost needless to +say that a poet can be sensitive to beauty, and also to the stern +facts of the moral and spiritual struggle of mankind through evil +to good. All the great poets have been sensitive to both and +mingled them in their work. They were ideal and real in both the +flower and the pine. They are never forced <a name='Page438' id= +"Page438"></a><span class='pagenum'>438</span>to choose one or +other of these aims or lives in their poetry. They mingled facts +and fancies, the intellectual and the imaginative. They lived in +the whole world of the outward and the inward, of the senses and +the soul. Truth and beauty were one to them. This division of which +Browning speaks Was the unfortunate result of that struggle between +his intellect and his imagination on which I have dwelt. In old +days it was not so with him. His early poetry had sweetness with +strength, stern thinking with tender emotion, love of beauty with +love of truth, idealism with realism, nature with humanity, fancy +with fact. And this is the equipment of the great poet. When he +divides these qualities each from the other, and is only +æsthetic or only severe in his realism; only the worshipper +of Nature or only the worshipper of human nature; only the poet of +beauty or only the poet of austere fact; only the idealist or only +the realist; only of the senses or only of the soul—he may be +a poet, but not a great poet. And as the singular pursuit of the +realistic is almost always bound up with pride, because realism +does not carry us beyond ourselves into the infinite where we are +humbled, the realistic poetry loses imagination; its love of love +tends to become self-love, or love of mere cleverness. And then its +poetic elements slowly die.</p> +<p>There was that, as I have said, in Browning which resisted this +sad conclusion, but the resistance was not enough to prevent a +great loss of poetic power. But whatever he lost, there was one +poetic temper of mind which never failed him, the heroic temper of +the faithful warrior for God and man; there was one ideal view of +humanity which dominated all his <a name='Page439' id= +"Page439"></a><span class='pagenum'>439</span>work; there was one +principle which directed all his verse to celebrate the struggle of +humanity towards the perfection for which God, he believed, had +destined it. These things underlie all the poems in <i>Ferishtah's +Fancies</i> and the <i>Parleyings with Certain People</i>, and give +to them the uplifted, noble trumpet note with which at times they +are animated. The same temper and principle, the same view of +humanity emerge in that fine lyric which is the Epilogue to +<i>Ferishtah's Fancies</i>, and in the Epilogue to +<i>Asolando</i>.</p> +<p>The first sees a vision of the present and the future in which +all the battle of our life passes into a glorious end; nor does the +momentary doubt that occurs at the close of the poem—that his +belief in a divine conclusion of our strife may only have been +caused by his own happiness in love—really trouble his +conviction. That love itself is part of the power which makes the +noble conclusion sure. The certainty of this conclusion made his +courage in the fight unwavering, despair impossible, joy in battle, +duty; and to be "ever a fighter" in the foremost rank the highest +privilege of man.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Then the cloud-rift broadens, spanning earth that's under,</p> +<p class='i2'>Wide our world displays its worth, man's strife and +strife's success:</p> +<p>All the good and beauty, wonder crowning wonder,</p> +<p class='i2'>Till my heart and soul applaud perfection, nothing +less.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>And for that reason, because of the perfectness to come, +Browning lived every hour of his life for good and against wrong. +He said with justice of himself, and with justice he brought the +ideal aim and the real effort together:</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>I looked beyond the world for truth and beauty:</p> +<p class='i1'>Sought, found, and did my duty.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p><a name='Page440' id="Page440"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>440</span>Nor, almost in the very grasp of death, did +this faith fail him. He kept, in the midst of a fretful, slothful, +wailing world, where prophets like Carlyle and Ruskin were as +impatient and bewildered, as lamenting and despondent, as the +decadents they despised, the temper of his Herakles in +<i>Balaustion</i>. He left us that temper as his last legacy, and +he could not have left us a better thing. We may hear it in his +last poem, and bind it about our hearts in sorrow and joy, in +battle and peace, in the hour of death and the days of +judgment.</p> +<div class='poem'> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time</p> +<p class='i4'>When you set your fancies free,</p> +<p>Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, +imprisoned—</p> +<p>Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so</p> +<p class='i20'>—Pity me?</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken</p> +<p class='i4'>What had I on earth to do</p> +<p>With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly?</p> +<p>Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel</p> +<p class='i20'>—Being—who?</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward,</p> +<p class='i4'>Never doubted clouds would break,</p> +<p>Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would +triumph,</p> +<p>Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,</p> +<p class='i20'>Sleep to wake.</p> +</div> +<div class='stanza'> +<p>No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time</p> +<p class='i4'>Greet the unseen with a cheer!</p> +<p>Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,</p> +<p>"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,—fight on, fare ever</p> +<p class='i20'>There as here!"</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>With these high words he ended a long life, and his memory still +falls upon us, like the dew which fell on Paradise. It was a life +lived fully, kindly, lovingly, at its just height from the +beginning to the end. No fear, no vanity, no lack of interest, no +<a name='Page441' id="Page441"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>441</span>complaint of the world, no anger at criticism, +no villain fancies disturbed his soul. No laziness, no feebleness +in effort, injured his work, no desire for money, no faltering of +aspiration, no pandering of his gift and genius to please the +world, no surrender of art for the sake of fame or filthy lucre, no +falseness to his ideal, no base pessimism, no slavery to science +yet no boastful ignorance of its good, no morbid naturalism, no +devotion to the false forms of beauty, no despair of man, no +retreat from men into a world of sickly or vain beauty, no +abandonment of the great ideas or disbelief in their mastery, no +enfeeblement of reason such as at this time walks hand in hand with +the worship of the mere discursive intellect, no lack of joy and +healthy vigour and keen inquiry and passionate interest in +humanity. Scarcely any special bias can be found running through +his work; on the contrary, an incessant change of subject and +manner, combined with a strong but not overweening individuality, +raced, like blood through the body, through every vein of his +labour. Creative and therefore joyful, receptive and therefore +thoughtful, at one with humanity and therefore loving; aspiring to +God and believing in God, and therefore steeped to the lips in +radiant Hope; at one with the past, passionate with the present, +and possessing by faith an endless and glorious future—this +was a life lived on the top of the wave, and moving with its motion +from youth to manhood, from manhood to old age.</p> +<p>There is no need to mourn for his departure. Nothing feeble has +been done, nothing which lowers the note of his life, nothing we +can regret as less than his native strength. His last poem was like +<a name='Page442' id="Page442"></a><span class= +'pagenum'>442</span>the last look of the Phoenix to the sun before +the sunlight lights the odorous pyre from which the new-created +Bird will spring. And as if the Muse of Poetry wished to adorn the +image of his death, he passed away amid a world of beauty, and in +the midst of a world endeared to him by love. Italy was his second +country. In Florence lies the wife of his heart. In every city he +had friends, friends not only among men and women, but friends in +every ancient wall, in every fold of Apennine and Alp, in every +breaking of the blue sea, in every forest of pines, in every Church +and Palace and Town Hall, in every painting that great art had +wrought, in every storied market place, in every great life which +had adorned, honoured and made romantic Italy; the great mother of +Beauty, at whose breasts have hung and whose milk have sucked all +the arts and all the literatures of modern Europe. Venice saw and +mourned his death. The sea and sky and mountain glory of the city +he loved so well encompassed him with her beauty; and their soft +graciousness, their temperate power of joy and life made his +departure peaceful. Strong and tender in life, his death added a +new fairness to his life. Mankind is fortunate to have so noble a +memory, so full and excellent a work to rest upon and love.</p> +<hr class='long' /> +<a name='INDEX' id="INDEX"></a> <a name='Page443' id= +"Page443"></a><span class='pagenum'>443</span> +<h2>INDEX</h2> +<h3>OF PASSAGES RELATING TO THE POEMS</h3> +<p><a href='#INDEX_A'>A</a> <a href='#INDEX_B'>B</a> <a href= +'#INDEX_C'>C</a> <a href='#INDEX_D'>D</a> <a href='#INDEX_E'>E</a> +<a href='#INDEX_F'>F</a> <a href='#INDEX_H'>H</a> <a href= +'#INDEX_I'>I</a> <a href='#INDEX_K'>K</a> <a href='#INDEX_L'>L</a> +<a href='#INDEX_M'>M</a> <a href='#INDEX_N'>N</a> <a href= +'#INDEX_O'>O</a> <a href='#INDEX_P'>P</a> <a href='#INDEX_Q'>Q</a> +<a href='#INDEX_R'>R</a> <a href='#INDEX_S'>S</a> <a href= +'#INDEX_T'>T</a> <a href='#INDEX_V'>V</a> <a href= +'#INDEX_W'>W</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_A' id="INDEX_A"></a> +<h3>A</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>André del Sarto (A. de Musset), 312</p> +<p class='indexterm'>Animal Studies, <a href= +'#Page83'>83</a>-<a href='#Page85'>85</a>, <a href= +'#Page277'>277</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Arnold, Matthew, <a href='#Page2'>2</a>, +<a href='#Page6'>6</a>, <a href='#Page11'>11</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Art, Poems dealing with, <a href= +'#Page20'>20</a>-<a href='#Page21'>21</a>, <a href= +'#Page141'>141</a>-<a href='#Page176'>176</a>, <a href= +'#Page301'>301</a>-<a href='#Page317'>317</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Romantic Revival in, <a href= +'#Page161'>161</a>-<a href='#Page164'>164</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>During the Renaissance, <a href= +'#Page302'>302</a>-<a href='#Page321'>321</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Art, Browning's Poetic,</p> +<p class='indexentry'>Compared with that of Tennyson, <a href= +'#Page38'>38</a>-<a href='#Page56'>56</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Compared with that of Morris and Rossetti, +<a href='#Page141'>141</a>-<a href='#Page143'>143</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In Abt Vogler, <a href= +'#Page150'>150</a>-<a href='#Page153'>153</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In the Grammarian's Funeral, <a href= +'#Page153'>153</a>-<a href='#Page155'>155</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In the Ring and the Book, <a href= +'#Page391'>391</a>-<a href='#Page393'>393</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Art, Browning's Theory of,</p> +<p class='indexentry'>In Andrea del Sarto, <a href= +'#Page156'>156</a>-<a href='#Page159'>159</a>, <a href= +'#Page310'>310</a>-<a href='#Page313'>313</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In Pippa Passes, <a href= +'#Page164'>164</a>-<a href='#Page167'>167</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In Sordello, <a href= +'#Page167'>167</a>-<a href='#Page176'>176</a>, <a href= +'#Page203'>203</a>-<a href='#Page211'>211</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Aurora Leigh (E.B. Browning), <a href= +'#Page345'>345</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_B' id="INDEX_B"></a> +<h3>B</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Balaustion's Adventures and Aristophanes' +Apology,</p> +<p class='indexentry'>Character of the Heroine, <a href= +'#Page365'>365</a>, <a href='#Page369'>369</a>-<a href= +'#Page372'>372</a>, <a href='#Page377'>377</a>, <a href= +'#Page384'>384</a>-<a href='#Page390'>390</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Contrast between Balaustion and Pompilia, +<a href='#Page370'>370</a>-<a href='#Page371'>371</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Balaustion's Prologue, <a href= +'#Page365'>365</a>-<a href='#Page369'>369</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>The Story of Alkestis, <a href= +'#Page372'>372</a>-<a href='#Page382'>382</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Representation of Aristophanes, <a href= +'#Page383'>383</a>-<a href='#Page384'>384</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Becket (Tennyson), <a href='#Page223'>223</a>, +<a href='#Page225'>225</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Boccaccio, <a href='#Page181'>181</a>-<a href= +'#Page182'>182</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, <a href= +'#Page2'>2</a>, <a href='#Page245'>245</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Poems relating to, <a href= +'#Page249'>249</a>-<a href='#Page251'>251</a>, <a href= +'#Page403'>403</a>-<a href='#Page404'>404</a></p> +<a name='Page444' id="Page444"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>444</p> +<p class='indexterm'>Browning—</p> +<p class='indexentry'>His relation to his Age, <a href= +'#Page1'>1</a>-<a href='#Page3'>3</a>, <a href='#Page5'>5</a>, +<a href='#Page6'>6</a>, <a href='#Page9'>9</a>, <a href= +'#Page11'>11</a>-<a href='#Page12'>12</a>, <a href= +'#Page14'>14</a>-<a href='#Page15'>15</a>, <a href= +'#Page21'>21</a>, <a href='#Page30'>30</a>, <a href= +'#Page201'>201</a>-<a href='#Page202'>202</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His artistic Development, <a href= +'#Page202'>202</a>-<a href='#Page208'>208</a>, <a href= +'#Page210'>210</a>-<a href='#Page211'>211</a>, <a href= +'#Page244'>244</a>, <a href='#Page329'>329</a>-<a href= +'#Page330'>330</a>, <a href='#Page393'>393</a>-<a href= +'#Page397'>397</a>, <a href='#Page422'>422</a>, <a href= +'#Page429'>429</a>, <a href='#Page435'>435</a>-<a href= +'#Page438'>438</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Art Poems, <a href= +'#Page20'>20</a>-<a href='#Page21'>21</a>, <a href= +'#Page141'>141</a>-<a href='#Page176'>176</a>, <a href= +'#Page301'>301</a>-<a href='#Page317'>317</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Minor Characters, <a href= +'#Page193'>193</a>-<a href='#Page195'>195</a>, <a href= +'#Page231'>231</a>, <a href='#Page391'>391</a>-<a href= +'#Page392'>392</a>, <a href='#Page404'>404</a>-<a href= +'#Page405'>405</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Sense of Colour, <a href= +'#Page80'>80</a>-<a href='#Page82'>82</a>, <a href= +'#Page88'>88</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Composition, <a href='#Page48'>48</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Cosmopolitan Sympathies, <a href= +'#Page26'>26</a>-<a href='#Page36'>36</a>, <a href= +'#Page359'>359</a>, <a href='#Page415'>415</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>As a Dramatist, <a href= +'#Page219'>219</a>-<a href='#Page241'>241</a>, <a href= +'#Page325'>325</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>As Poet of Humanity, <a href= +'#Page44'>44</a>-<a href='#Page45'>45</a>, <a href= +'#Page68'>68</a>-<a href='#Page69'>69</a>, <a href= +'#Page79'>79</a>, <a href='#Page106'>106</a>, <a href= +'#Page115'>115</a>, <a href='#Page218'>218</a>, <a href= +'#Page249'>249</a>, <a href='#Page348'>348</a>, <a href= +'#Page402'>402</a>, <a href='#Page433'>433</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Imagination, <a href= +'#Page20'>20</a>-<a href='#Page21'>21</a>, <a href= +'#Page148'>148</a>, <a href='#Page282'>282</a>-<a href= +'#Page286'>286</a>, <a href='#Page289'>289</a>, <a href= +'#Page297'>297</a>, <a href='#Page305'>305</a>, <a href= +'#Page334'>334</a>, <a href='#Page403'>403</a>, <a href= +'#Page413'>413</a>, <a href='#Page415'>415</a>, <a href= +'#Page432'>432</a>, <a href='#Page438'>438</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>The Influence of Shelley, <a href= +'#Page92'>92</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Intellectual Analysis, <a href= +'#Page11'>11</a>-<a href='#Page14'>14</a>, <a href= +'#Page42'>42</a>, <a href='#Page45'>45</a>-<a href= +'#Page46'>46</a>, <a href='#Page107'>107</a>, <a href= +'#Page143'>143</a>, <a href='#Page144'>144</a>, <a href= +'#Page231'>231</a>, <a href='#Page244'>244</a>-<a href= +'#Page245'>245</a>, <a href='#Page325'>325</a>, <a href= +'#Page393'>393</a>-<a href='#Page398'>398</a>, <a href= +'#Page411'>411</a>, <a href='#Page414'>414</a>-<a href= +'#Page425'>425</a>, <a href='#Page435'>435</a>, <a href= +'#Page438'>438</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Love Poems, <a href= +'#Page242'>242</a>-<a href='#Page263'>263</a>, <a href= +'#Page403'>403</a>-<a href='#Page404'>404</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Lyrical Poems, <a href= +'#Page241'>241</a>, <a href='#Page245'>245</a>, <a href= +'#Page246'>246</a>-<a href='#Page249'>249</a>, <a href= +'#Page253'>253</a>, <a href='#Page336'>336</a>, <a href= +'#Page348'>348</a>-<a href='#Page349'>349</a>, <a href= +'#Page435'>435</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Methods, <a href='#Page10'>10</a>, +<a href='#Page37'>37</a>-<a href='#Page38'>38</a>, <a href= +'#Page82'>82</a>, <a href='#Page150'>150</a>-<a href= +'#Page153'>153</a>, <a href='#Page187'>187</a>-<a href= +'#Page199'>199</a>, <a href='#Page304'>304</a>-<a href= +'#Page305'>305</a>, <a href='#Page325'>325</a>-<a href= +'#Page326'>326</a>, <a href='#Page332'>332</a>-<a href= +'#Page333'>333</a>, <a href='#Page402'>402</a>-<a href= +'#Page403'>403</a>, <a href='#Page418'>418</a>-<a href= +'#Page420'>420</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Treatment of Nature, <a href= +'#Page57'>57</a>-<a href='#Page114'>114</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Obscurity, <a href='#Page50'>50</a>, +<a href='#Page94'>94</a>, <a href='#Page198'>198</a>-<a href= +'#Page199'>199</a>, <a href='#Page417'>417</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Originality, <a href= +'#Page21'>21</a>-<a href='#Page24'>24</a>, <a href= +'#Page49'>49</a>, <a href='#Page91'>91</a>, <a href= +'#Page115'>115</a>, <a href='#Page276'>276</a>, <a href= +'#Page416'>416</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Treatment of the Renaissance, <a href= +'#Page301'>301</a>-<a href='#Page304'>304</a>, <a href= +'#Page307'>307</a>, <a href='#Page310'>310</a>-<a href= +'#Page311'>311</a>, <a href='#Page313'>313</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Romantic and Classic Elements in, <a href= +'#Page212'>212</a>-<a href='#Page218'>218</a>, <a href= +'#Page270'>270</a>-<a href='#Page279'>279</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Spontaneity, <a href= +'#Page16'>16</a>-<a href='#Page17'>17</a>, <a href= +'#Page92'>92</a>, <a href='#Page413'>413</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Style, <a href='#Page31'>31</a>-<a href= +'#Page33'>33</a>, <a href='#Page49'>49</a>-<a href= +'#Page55'>55</a>, <a href='#Page94'>94</a>, <a href= +'#Page121'>121</a>, <a href='#Page210'>210</a>-<a href= +'#Page211'>211</a>, <a href='#Page213'>213</a>, <a href= +'#Page432'>432</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Compared with Tennyson, <a href= +'#Page1'>1</a>-<a href='#Page56'>56</a>, <a href='#Page58'>58</a>, +<a href='#Page60'>60</a>-<a href='#Page62'>62</a>, <a href= +'#Page66'>66</a>, <a href='#Page92'>92</a>, <a href= +'#Page106'>106</a>, <a href='#Page171'>171</a>, <a href= +'#Page220'>220</a>-<a href='#Page226'>226</a>, <a href= +'#Page280'>280</a>, <a href='#Page281'>281</a>, <a href= +'#Page323'>323</a>, <a href='#Page345'>345</a>-<a href= +'#Page346'>346</a>, <a href='#Page348'>348</a>, <a href= +'#Page354'>354</a>, <a href='#Page428'>428</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Theory of Life, <a href= +'#Page12'>12</a>-<a href='#Page17'>17</a>, <a href= +'#Page106'>106</a>, <a href='#Page110'>110</a>-<a href= +'#Page112'>112</a>, <a href='#Page115'>115</a>-<a href= +'#Page140'>140</a>, <a href='#Page150'>150</a>, <a href= +'#Page203'>203</a>-<a href='#Page208'>208</a>, <a href= +'#Page217'>217</a>, <a href='#Page262'>262</a>-<a href= +'#Page263'>263</a>, <a href='#Page428'>428</a>-<a href= +'#Page429'>429</a>, <a href='#Page436'>436</a>, <a href= +'#Page438'>438</a>, <a href='#Page439'>439</a>-<a href= +'#Page440'>440</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Wideness of Range, <a href= +'#Page6'>6</a>, <a href='#Page16'>16</a>, <a href='#Page44'>44</a>, +<a href='#Page284'>284</a>, <a href='#Page346'>346</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Wit and Humour, <a href='#Page32'>32</a>, +<a href='#Page240'>240</a>, <a href='#Page265'>265</a>-<a href= +'#Page266'>266</a>, <a href='#Page296'>296</a>, <a href= +'#Page324'>324</a>, <a href='#Page373'>373</a>, <a href= +'#Page396'>396</a>, <a href='#Page405'>405</a>, <a href= +'#Page412'>412</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Byron, <a href='#Page34'>34</a>-<a href= +'#Page35'>35</a>, <a href='#Page68'>68</a>, <a href= +'#Page93'>93</a>, <a href='#Page221'>221</a>, <a href= +'#Page223'>223</a>, <a href='#Page344'>344</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_C' id="INDEX_C"></a> +<h3>C</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Cain (Byron), <a href='#Page221'>221</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Carlyle, <a href='#Page51'>51</a>, <a href= +'#Page195'>195</a>, <a href='#Page397'>397</a></p> +<a name='Page445' id="Page445"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>445</p> +<p class='indexterm'>Cenci, The (Shelley), <a href= +'#Page222'>222</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Charles the First (Shelley), <a href= +'#Page222'>222</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Chaucer, <a href='#Page219'>219</a>-<a href= +'#Page220'>220</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Clough, <a href='#Page2'>2</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Coleridge, <a href='#Page35'>35</a>, <a href= +'#Page62'>62</a>, <a href='#Page68'>68</a>, <a href= +'#Page93'>93</a>, <a href='#Page104'>104</a>, <a href= +'#Page221'>221</a>, <a href='#Page344'>344</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Colour-sense in Browning, <a href= +'#Page80'>80</a>-<a href='#Page82'>82</a>, <a href= +'#Page88'>88</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Cup, The (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page224'>224</a>, <a href='#Page225'>225</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_D' id="INDEX_D"></a> +<h3>D</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Dante, <a href='#Page43'>43</a>, <a href= +'#Page50'>50</a>, <a href='#Page181'>181</a>, <a href= +'#Page182'>182</a>, <a href='#Page217'>217</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Decameron (Boccaccio), <a href= +'#Page181'>181</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Dramas, The, <a href= +'#Page219'>219</a>-<a href='#Page241'>241</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Absence of Nature Pictures in, <a href= +'#Page104'>104</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Defects in Browning's Dramatic Treatment, +<a href='#Page219'>219</a>-<a href='#Page221'>221</a>, <a href= +'#Page222'>222</a>, <a href='#Page224'>224</a>, <a href= +'#Page229'>229</a>, <a href='#Page325'>325</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Dramas separately considered, <a href= +'#Page225'>225</a>-<a href='#Page241'>41</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Dramatic Poems, <a href='#Page242'>242</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Duchess of Malfi (Webster), <a href= +'#Page270'>270</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_E' id="INDEX_E"></a> +<h3>E</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>English Scenery in Browning, <a href= +'#Page27'>27</a>-<a href='#Page28'>28</a>, <a href= +'#Page108'>108</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_F' id="INDEX_F"></a> +<h3>F</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Falcon, The (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page224'>224</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Form in Poetry, <a href='#Page47'>47</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>French Revolution, its Influence in England, +<a href='#Page35'>35</a>-<a href='#Page6'>6</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_H' id="INDEX_H"></a> +<h3>H</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Hand and Soul (Rossetti), <a href= +'#Page143'>143</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Harold (Tennyson), <a href='#Page220'>220</a>, +<a href='#Page223'>223</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>History, Imaginative Study of, <a href= +'#Page18'>18</a>-<a href='#Page20'>20</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Homer, <a href='#Page43'>43</a>, <a href= +'#Page50'>50</a>, <a href='#Page211'>211</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Humanity, Browning's Treatment of, <a href= +'#Page44'>44</a>, <a href='#Page45'>45</a>, <a href= +'#Page68'>68</a>-<a href='#Page69'>69</a>, <a href= +'#Page79'>79</a>, <a href='#Page106'>106</a>, <a href= +'#Page115'>115</a>, <a href='#Page218'>218</a>, <a href= +'#Page249'>249</a>, <a href='#Page348'>348</a>, <a href= +'#Page402'>402</a>, <a href='#Page433'>433</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Humour, Browning's, <a href='#Page32'>32</a>, +<a href='#Page240'>240</a>, <a href='#Page265'>265</a>-<a href= +'#Page266'>266</a>, <a href='#Page296'>296</a>, <a href= +'#Page373'>373</a>, <a href='#Page396'>396</a>, <a href= +'#Page405'>405</a>, <a href='#Page412'>412</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Hunt, Holman, <a href='#Page163'>163</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_I' id="INDEX_I"></a> +<h3>I</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Imagination in Browning, <a href= +'#Page20'>20</a>-<a href='#Page21'>21</a>, <a href= +'#Page148'>148</a>, <a href='#Page282'>282</a>-<a href= +'#Page286'>286</a>, <a href='#Page289'>289</a>, <a href= +'#Page297'>297</a>, <a href='#Page305'>305</a>, <a href= +'#Page334'>334</a>, <a href='#Page413'>413</a>, <a href= +'#Page415'>415</a>, <a href='#Page432'>432</a></p> +<a name='Page446' id="Page446"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>446</p> +<p class='indexterm'>Imaginative Representations, <a href= +'#Page280'>280</a>-<a href='#Page322'>322</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Definition of Term, <a href= +'#Page280'>280</a>-<a href='#Page284'>284</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Their Inception, <a href= +'#Page285'>285</a>-<a href='#Page286'>286</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Theological Studies, <a href= +'#Page286'>286</a>-<a href='#Page300'>300</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Renaissance Studies, <a href= +'#Page301'>301</a>-<a href='#Page322'>322</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Poems on Modern Italy, <a href= +'#Page322'>322</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>In Memoriam (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page4'>4</a>, <a href='#Page5'>5</a>, <a href='#Page15'>15</a>, +<a href='#Page285'>285</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_K' id="INDEX_K"></a> +<h3>K</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Keats, <a href='#Page26'>26</a>, <a href= +'#Page35'>35</a>, <a href='#Page68'>68</a>, <a href= +'#Page90'>90</a>, <a href='#Page345'>345</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>King Lear, <a href='#Page275'>275</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_L' id="INDEX_L"></a> +<h3>L</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Landscapes, Browning's, <a href= +'#Page74'>74</a>-<a href='#Page80'>80</a>, <a href= +'#Page87'>87</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Later Poems, <a href= +'#Page414'>414</a>-<a href='#Page430'>430</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>More intellectual than imaginative, <a href= +'#Page414'>414</a>, <a href='#Page416'>416</a>, <a href= +'#Page417'>417</a>, <a href='#Page418'>418</a>-<a href= +'#Page422'>422</a>, <a href='#Page425'>425</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Subjects generally founded on Fact, <a href= +'#Page417'>417</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Show Sensitiveness to Criticism, <a href= +'#Page426'>426</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Last Poems, <a href= +'#Page431'>431</a>-<a href='#Page440'>440</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Psychological Studies in, <a href= +'#Page432'>432</a>-<a href='#Page434'>434</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Lotos-Eaters, The (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page87'>87</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Love Poetry,</p> +<p class='indexentry'>What it is and when produced, <a href= +'#Page242'>242</a>-<a href='#Page244'>244</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Rare in Browning, <a href= +'#Page245'>245</a>-<a href='#Page246'>246</a>, <a href= +'#Page249'>249</a>, <a href='#Page347'>347</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Love Poems, The</p> +<p class='indexentry'>Poems of Passion, <a href= +'#Page246'>246</a>-<a href='#Page247'>247</a>, <a href= +'#Page261'>261</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Poems to Elizabeth Barrett Browning, <a href= +'#Page63'>63</a>, <a href='#Page245'>245</a>, <a href= +'#Page249'>249</a>-<a href='#Page251'>251</a>, <a href= +'#Page403'>403</a>-<a href='#Page404'>404</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Impersonal Poems, <a href= +'#Page252'>252</a>-<a href='#Page260'>260</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Poems embodying Phases of Love, <a href= +'#Page261'>261</a>-<a href='#Page262'>262</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Lyrical Element in Browning, <a href= +'#Page241'>241</a>, <a href='#Page245'>245</a>, <a href= +'#Page246'>246</a>-<a href='#Page249'>249</a>, <a href= +'#Page253'>253</a>, <a href='#Page336'>336</a>, <a href= +'#Page348'>348</a>-<a href='#Page349'>349</a>, <a href= +'#Page435'>435</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_M' id="INDEX_M"></a> +<h3>M</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Malory, <a href='#Page212'>212</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Manfred (Byron), <a href= +'#Page221'>221</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Mariana in the South (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page28'>28</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Maud (Tennyson), <a href='#Page2'>2</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Mazzini, <a href='#Page322'>322</a></p> +<a name='Page447' id="Page447"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>447</p> +<p class='indexterm'>Midsummer Night's Dream, A, <a href= +'#Page63'>63</a>, <a href='#Page68'>68</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Millais, <a href='#Page163'>163</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Milton, <a href='#Page211'>211</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Morris, <a href='#Page2'>2</a>, <a href= +'#Page8'>8</a>, <a href='#Page11'>11</a>, <a href= +'#Page142'>142</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Musset, Alfred de, <a href= +'#Page312'>312</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_N' id="INDEX_N"></a> +<h3>N</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Nature, Browning's Treatment of, <a href= +'#Page57'>57</a>-<a href='#Page114'>114</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Separate from and subordinate to Man, +<a href='#Page60'>60</a>, <a href='#Page86'>86</a>, <a href= +'#Page97'>97</a>, <a href='#Page101'>101</a>-<a href= +'#Page102'>102</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Joy in Nature, <a href= +'#Page66'>66</a>-<a href='#Page72'>72</a>, <a href= +'#Page74'>74</a>, <a href='#Page86'>86</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>God and Nature, <a href='#Page62'>62</a>, +<a href='#Page72'>72</a>, <a href='#Page99'>99</a>, <a href= +'#Page111'>111</a>-<a href='#Page12'>12</a>, <a href= +'#Page136'>136</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>The Pathetic Fallacy, <a href= +'#Page60'>60</a>, <a href='#Page66'>66</a>-<a href= +'#Page67'>67</a>, <a href='#Page75'>75</a>, <a href= +'#Page87'>87</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Illustrations drawn from Nature, <a href= +'#Page70'>70</a>-<a href='#Page72'>72</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Browning's view compared with that of other +Poets, <a href='#Page25'>25</a>, <a href='#Page27'>27</a>-<a href= +'#Page28'>28</a>, <a href='#Page57'>57</a>, <a href= +'#Page58'>58</a>, <a href='#Page62'>62</a>, <a href= +'#Page65'>65</a>, <a href='#Page66'>66</a>, <a href= +'#Page68'>68</a>, <a href='#Page75'>75</a>, <a href= +'#Page94'>94</a>, <a href='#Page104'>104</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His Treatment illustrated in Saul, <a href= +'#Page85'>85</a>, <a href='#Page87'>87</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Faults in his Treatment, <a href= +'#Page93'>93</a>, <a href='#Page95'>95</a>, <a href= +'#Page96'>96</a>, <a href='#Page98'>98</a>, <a href= +'#Page103'>103</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Nature Pictures, <a href='#Page75'>75</a>, +<a href='#Page77'>77</a>, <a href='#Page82'>82</a>, <a href= +'#Page85'>85</a>-<a href='#Page87'>87</a>, <a href= +'#Page93'>93</a>-<a href='#Page96'>96</a>, <a href= +'#Page107'>107</a>, <a href='#Page108'>108</a>, <a href= +'#Page190'>190</a>-<a href='#Page193'>193</a>, <a href= +'#Page277'>277</a>, <a href='#Page297'>297</a>, <a href= +'#Page386'>386</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Later Indifference to Nature, <a href= +'#Page105'>105</a>-<a href='#Page107'>107</a>, <a href= +'#Page109'>109</a>-<a href='#Page114'>114</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>New Age, The (Arnold), <a href= +'#Page11'>11</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Northern Farmer, The (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page280'>280</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_O' id="INDEX_O"></a> +<h3>O</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Oenone (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page87'>87</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Originality, Browning's, <a href= +'#Page21'>21</a>-<a href='#Page24'>24</a>, <a href= +'#Page49'>49</a>, <a href='#Page91'>91</a>, <a href= +'#Page115'>115</a>, <a href='#Page276'>276</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_P' id="INDEX_P"></a> +<h3>P</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Palace of Art, The (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page124'>124</a>, <a href='#Page170'>170</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Paracelsus, <a href='#Page3'>3</a>, <a href= +'#Page8'>8</a>, <a href='#Page9'>9</a>, <a href='#Page14'>14</a>, +<a href='#Page15'>15</a>, <a href='#Page26'>26</a>, <a href= +'#Page55'>55</a>, <a href='#Page62'>62</a>, <a href= +'#Page79'>79</a>, <a href='#Page190'>190</a>, <a href= +'#Page199'>199</a>, <a href='#Page210'>210</a>, <a href= +'#Page217'>217</a>, <a href='#Page226'>226</a>, <a href= +'#Page240'>240</a>, <a href='#Page244'>244</a>, <a href= +'#Page263'>263</a>, <a href='#Page326'>326</a>, <a href= +'#Page348'>348</a>, <a href='#Page428'>428</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Nature-description in, <a href= +'#Page67'>67</a>, <a href='#Page83'>83</a>, <a href= +'#Page84'>84</a>, <a href='#Page96'>96</a>-<a href= +'#Page101'>101</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Theory of Life in, <a href= +'#Page115'>115</a>-<a href='#Page116'>116</a>, <a href= +'#Page202'>202</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Sketch of Argument, <a href= +'#Page127'>127</a>-<a href='#Page140'>140</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Passions, Poems of the Fiercer, <a href= +'#Page264'>264</a>-<a href='#Page270'>270</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Poems of the Romantic, <a href= +'#Page270'>270</a>-<a href='#Page279'>279</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Pathetic Fallacy, The, <a href= +'#Page60'>60</a>, <a href='#Page66'>66</a>-<a href= +'#Page67'>67</a>, <a href='#Page75'>75</a>, <a href= +'#Page87'>87</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Pauline, <a href='#Page21'>21</a>, <a href= +'#Page28'>28</a>, <a href='#Page79'>79</a>, <a href= +'#Page87'>87</a>, <a href='#Page88'>88</a>, <a href= +'#Page104'>104</a>, <a href='#Page190'>190</a>, <a href= +'#Page244'>244</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Theory of Life in, <a href='#Page15'>15</a>, +<a href='#Page115'>115</a>, <a href='#Page116'>116</a>, <a href= +'#Page120'>120</a>-<a href='#Page121'>121</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Nature-description in, <a href= +'#Page90'>90</a>-<a href='#Page96'>96</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Mental Development of Hero, <a href= +'#Page120'>120</a>-<a href='#Page126'>126</a></p> +<a name='Page448' id="Page448"></a> +<p class='pagenum'>448</p> +<p class='indexentry'>Character of Pauline, <a href= +'#Page323'>323</a>-<a href='#Page325'>325</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Petrarch, <a href='#Page181'>181</a>, <a href= +'#Page182'>182</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Pippa Passes, <a href='#Page4'>4</a>, <a href= +'#Page9'>9</a>, <a href='#Page195'>195</a>, <a href= +'#Page225'>225</a>, <a href='#Page240'>240</a>-<a href= +'#Page241'>241</a>, <a href='#Page268'>268</a>-<a href= +'#Page270'>270</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Nature-description in, <a href= +'#Page30'>30</a>, <a href='#Page77'>77</a>-<a href= +'#Page78'>78</a>, <a href='#Page80'>80</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Theory of Art in, <a href= +'#Page164'>164</a>-<a href='#Page167'>167</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Lyrics in, <a href= +'#Page273'>273</a>-<a href='#Page274'>274</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Studies of Women in, <a href= +'#Page331'>331</a>-<a href='#Page336'>336</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Plato, <a href='#Page216'>216</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Poems, Passages relating to,</p> +<p class='indexentry'>Abt Vogler, <a href='#Page21'>21</a>, +<a href='#Page55'>55</a>, <a href='#Page119'>119</a>, <a href= +'#Page141'>141</a>, <a href='#Page149'>149</a>-<a href= +'#Page153'>153</a>, <a href='#Page271'>271</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Adam, Lilith and Eve, <a href= +'#Page355'>355</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>After, <a href='#Page266'>266</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Andrea del Sarto, <a href='#Page21'>21</a>, +<a href='#Page141'>141</a>, <a href='#Page155'>155</a>-<a href= +'#Page159'>159</a>, <a href='#Page310'>310</a>-<a href= +'#Page313'>313</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Any Wife to any Husband, <a href= +'#Page352'>352</a>-<a href='#Page353'>353</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Aristophanes' Apology, <a href= +'#Page20'>20</a>, <a href='#Page73'>73</a>, <a href= +'#Page371'>371</a>-<a href='#Page372'>372</a>, <a href= +'#Page382'>382</a>-<a href='#Page390'>390</a>, <a href= +'#Page415'>415</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Asolando, <a href='#Page3'>3</a>, <a href= +'#Page109'>109</a>-<a href='#Page112'>112</a>, <a href= +'#Page115'>115</a>, <a href='#Page245'>245</a>-<a href= +'#Page248'>248</a>, <a href='#Page439'>439</a>-<a href= +'#Page440'>440</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Balaustion's Adventure, <a href= +'#Page20'>20</a>, <a href='#Page365'>365</a>-<a href= +'#Page390'>390</a>, <a href='#Page415'>415</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Bean Stripe, A, <a href='#Page71'>71</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Before, <a href='#Page266'>266</a>-<a href= +'#Page267'>267</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Bells and Pomegranates, <a href= +'#Page4'>4</a>, <a href='#Page8'>8</a>, <a href= +'#Page26'>26</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Bifurcation, <a href='#Page256'>256</a>, +<a href='#Page427'>427</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Bishop Blougram, <a href='#Page21'>21</a>, +<a href='#Page281'>281</a>, <a href='#Page394'>394</a>, <a href= +'#Page397'>397</a>, <a href='#Page417'>417</a>, <a href= +'#Page420'>420</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed's +Church, The, <a href='#Page20'>20</a>, <a href='#Page302'>302</a>, +<a href='#Page313'>313</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Blot in the 'Scutcheon, A, <a href= +'#Page4'>4</a>, <a href='#Page231'>231</a>-<a href= +'#Page235'>235</a>, <a href='#Page338'>338</a>-<a href= +'#Page339'>339</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>By the Fireside, <a href='#Page63'>63</a>, +<a href='#Page69'>69</a>, <a href='#Page79'>79</a>, <a href= +'#Page104'>104</a>, <a href='#Page243'>243</a>-<a href= +'#Page245'>245</a>, <a href='#Page247'>247</a>, <a href= +'#Page249'>249</a>-<a href='#Page250'>250</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Caliban upon Setebos, <a href= +'#Page21'>21</a>, <a href='#Page83'>83</a>, <a href= +'#Page280'>280</a>, <a href='#Page283'>283</a>, <a href= +'#Page284'>284</a>, <a href='#Page286'>286</a>-<a href= +'#Page290'>290</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Cavalier Tunes, <a href='#Page28'>28</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Cenciaja, <a href='#Page427'>427</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Charles Avison, <a href='#Page435'>435</a>, +<a href='#Page436'>436</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Cherries, <a href='#Page435'>435</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Childe Ronald, <a href='#Page66'>66</a>, +<a href='#Page87'>87</a>, <a href='#Page271'>271</a>, <a href= +'#Page274'>274</a>-<a href='#Page276'>276</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Christmas Eve, <a href='#Page21'>21</a>, +<a href='#Page75'>75</a>-<a href='#Page76'>76</a>, <a href= +'#Page214'>214</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Cleon, <a href='#Page20'>20</a>, <a href= +'#Page280'>280</a>, <a href='#Page284'>284</a>, <a href= +'#Page290'>290</a>-<a href='#Page295'>295</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Colombe's Birthday, <a href= +'#Page226'>226</a>, <a href='#Page235'>235</a>-<a href= +'#Page236'>236</a>, <a href='#Page339'>339</a>-<a href= +'#Page340'>340</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Confessions, <a href='#Page259'>259</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Count Gismond, <a href='#Page261'>261</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Cristina, <a href='#Page255'>255</a>, +<a href='#Page349'>349</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Cristina and Monaldeschi, <a href= +'#Page270'>270</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Daniel Bartoli, <a href= +'#Page436'>436</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Death in the Desert, A, <a href= +'#Page3'>3</a>, <a href='#Page21'>21</a>, <a href='#Page30'>30</a>, +<a href='#Page283'>283</a>, <a href='#Page296'>296</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>De Gustibus, <a href='#Page26'>26</a></p> +<a name='Page449' id="Page449"></a><span class='pagenum'>449</span> +<p class='indexentry'>Dis Aliter Visum, <a href='#Page256'>256</a>, +<a href='#Page349'>349</a>-<a href='#Page351'>351</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Donald, <a href='#Page433'>433</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Dramas, The, <a href= +'#Page219'>219</a>-<a href='#Page241'>241</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Strafford, <a href='#Page4'>4</a>, <a href= +'#Page26'>26</a>, <a href='#Page101'>101</a>, <a href= +'#Page220'>220</a>, <a href='#Page222'>222</a>, <a href= +'#Page226'>226</a>-<a href='#Page228'>228</a>, <a href= +'#Page326'>326</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>King Victor and King Charles, <a href= +'#Page228'>228</a>-<a href='#Page230'>230</a>, <a href= +'#Page336'>336</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>The Return of the Druses, <a href= +'#Page230'>230</a>-<a href='#Page231'>231</a>, <a href= +'#Page336'>336</a>-<a href='#Page338'>338</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, <a href= +'#Page4'>4</a>, <a href='#Page231'>231</a>-<a href= +'#Page235'>235</a>, <a href='#Page338'>338</a>-<a href= +'#Page339'>339</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Colombe's Birthday, <a href= +'#Page226'>226</a>, <a href='#Page235'>235</a>-<a href= +'#Page236'>236</a>, <a href='#Page339'>339</a>-<a href= +'#Page340'>340</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Luria, <a href='#Page236'>236</a>-<a href= +'#Page238'>238</a>, <a href='#Page343'>343</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>A Soul's Tragedy, <a href='#Page225'>225</a>, +<a href='#Page238'>238</a>-<a href='#Page240'>240</a>, <a href= +'#Page243'>243</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pippa Passes, <a href='#Page4'>4</a>, +<a href='#Page9'>9</a>, <a href='#Page30'>30</a>, <a href= +'#Page77'>77</a>-<a href='#Page78'>78</a>, <a href= +'#Page80'>80</a>, <a href='#Page164'>164</a>-<a href= +'#Page167'>167</a>, <a href='#Page195'>195</a>, <a href= +'#Page225'>225</a>, <a href='#Page240'>240</a>-<a href= +'#Page241'>241</a>, <a href='#Page268'>268</a>-<a href= +'#Page270'>270</a>, <a href='#Page273'>273</a>-<a href= +'#Page274'>274</a>, <a href='#Page331'>331</a>-<a href= +'#Page336'>336</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Dramatic Idylls, <a href='#Page109'>109</a>, +<a href='#Page431'>431</a>-<a href='#Page434'>434</a>, <a href= +'#Page436'>436</a>-<a href='#Page437'>437</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Dramatic Lyrics, <a href='#Page242'>242</a>, +<a href='#Page344'>344</a>-<a href='#Page359'>359</a>, <a href= +'#Page433'>433</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Dramatic Romances, <a href= +'#Page242'>242</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Dramatis Personæ, <a href= +'#Page5'>5</a>, <a href='#Page242'>242</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Easter Day, <a href='#Page21'>21</a>, +<a href='#Page33'>33</a>, <a href='#Page126'>126</a>, <a href= +'#Page141'>141</a>, <a href='#Page145'>145</a>-<a href= +'#Page148'>148</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Echetlos, <a href='#Page431'>431</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Englishman in Italy, The, <a href= +'#Page27'>27</a>, <a href='#Page65'>65</a>, <a href= +'#Page82'>82</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Epilogue to Asolando, in, <a href= +'#Page439'>439</a>-<a href='#Page440'>40</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Epilogue to Ferishtah's Fancies, <a href= +'#Page439'>439</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Epilogue to Pacchiarotto, <a href= +'#Page426'>426</a>, <a href='#Page437'>437</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Epistle of Karshish, An, <a href= +'#Page55'>55</a>, <a href='#Page83'>83</a>, <a href= +'#Page280'>280</a>, <a href='#Page285'>285</a>, <a href= +'#Page296'>296</a>-<a href='#Page300'>300</a>, <a href= +'#Page428'>428</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Evelyn Hope, <a href='#Page255'>255</a>, +<a href='#Page357'>357</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Fears and Scruples, <a href= +'#Page427'>427</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Ferishtah's Fancies, <a href= +'#Page109'>109</a>, <a href='#Page248'>248</a>, <a href= +'#Page434'>434</a>-<a href='#Page435'>435</a>, <a href= +'#Page439'>439</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Fifine at the Fair, <a href='#Page60'>60</a>, +<a href='#Page77'>77</a>, <a href='#Page106'>106</a>, <a href= +'#Page107'>107</a>, <a href='#Page240'>240</a>-<a href= +'#Page241'>241</a>, <a href='#Page333'>333</a>, <a href= +'#Page415'>415</a>-<a href='#Page417'>417</a>, <a href= +'#Page419'>419</a>, <a href='#Page422'>422</a>-<a href= +'#Page425'>425</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Filippo Baldinucci, <a href='#Page34'>34</a>, +<a href='#Page425'>425</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Flight of the Duchess, The, <a href= +'#Page78'>78</a>, <a href='#Page271'>271</a>, <a href= +'#Page274'>274</a>, <a href='#Page276'>276</a>-<a href= +'#Page279'>279</a>, <a href='#Page357'>357</a>-<a href= +'#Page358'>358</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Flower's Name, The, <a href= +'#Page258'>258</a>, <a href='#Page357'>357</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Forgiveness, A, <a href= +'#Page267'>267</a>-<a href='#Page268'>268</a>, <a href= +'#Page427'>427</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Fra Lippo Lippi, <a href='#Page21'>21</a>, +<a href='#Page280'>280</a>, <a href='#Page282'>282</a>, <a href= +'#Page283'>283</a>, <a href='#Page285'>285</a>, <a href= +'#Page302'>302</a>, <a href='#Page304'>304</a>-<a href= +'#Page310'>310</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Francis Furini, <a href='#Page30'>30</a>, +<a href='#Page435'>435</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Gerard de Lairesse, <a href= +'#Page87'>87</a>-<a href='#Page89'>89</a>, <a href= +'#Page109'>109</a>, <a href='#Page435'>435</a>-<a href= +'#Page436'>436</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Glove, The, <a href='#Page262'>262</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Gold Hair, <a href='#Page355'>355</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Grammarian's Funeral, A, <a href= +'#Page20'>20</a>, <a href='#Page78'>78</a>, <a href= +'#Page120'>120</a>, <a href='#Page141'>141</a>, <a href= +'#Page153'>153</a>-<a href='#Page155'>155</a>, <a href= +'#Page317'>317</a>, <a href='#Page319'>319</a>-<a href= +'#Page321'>321</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Halbert and Hob, <a href= +'#Page433'>433</a></p> +<a name='Page450' id="Page450"></a><span class='pagenum'>450</span> +<p class='indexentry'>Hervé Riel, <a href='#Page29'>29</a>, +<a href='#Page415'>415</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Holy Cross Day, <a href='#Page34'>34</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Home Thoughts from Abroad, <a href= +'#Page10'>10</a>, <a href='#Page27'>27</a>-<a href= +'#Page28'>28</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Home Thoughts from the Sea, <a href= +'#Page29'>29</a>-<a href='#Page30'>30</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>How it strikes a Contemporary, <a href= +'#Page315'>315</a>-<a href='#Page317'>317</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to +Aix, <a href='#Page28'>28</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In a Balcony, <a href='#Page221'>221</a>, +<a href='#Page225'>225</a>, <a href='#Page236'>236</a>, <a href= +'#Page254'>254</a>, <a href='#Page340'>340</a>-<a href= +'#Page343'>343</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In a Gondola, <a href='#Page257'>257</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Inn Album, The, <a href='#Page107'>107</a>, +<a href='#Page108'>108</a>, <a href='#Page332'>332</a>, <a href= +'#Page395'>395</a>, <a href='#Page417'>417</a>, <a href= +'#Page415'>415</a>, <a href='#Page419'>419</a>, <a href= +'#Page427'>427</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Instans Tyrannus, <a href= +'#Page265'>265</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In Three Days, <a href='#Page253'>253</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Italian in England, The, <a href= +'#Page322'>322</a>, <a href='#Page357'>357</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Ivan Ivanovitch, <a href= +'#Page432'>432</a>-<a href='#Page433'>433</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Ixion, <a href='#Page434'>434</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>James Lee's Wife, <a href='#Page60'>60</a>, +<a href='#Page79'>79</a>-<a href='#Page81'>81</a>, <a href= +'#Page256'>256</a>, <a href='#Page351'>351</a>-<a href= +'#Page352'>352</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Jochanan Hakkadosh, <a href='#Page34'>34</a>, +<a href='#Page434'>434</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Jocoseria, <a href='#Page109'>109</a>, +<a href='#Page433'>433</a>, <a href='#Page434'>434</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Johannes Agricola in Meditation, <a href= +'#Page317'>317</a>-<a href='#Page319'>319</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>King Victor and King Charles, <a href= +'#Page228'>228</a>-<a href='#Page230'>230</a>, <a href= +'#Page336'>336</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Laboratory, The, <a href='#Page10'>10</a>, +<a href='#Page20'>20</a>, <a href='#Page265'>265</a>, <a href= +'#Page356'>356</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Last Ride Together, The, <a href= +'#Page245'>245</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Light Woman, A, <a href= +'#Page355'>355</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Lost Mistress, The, <a href= +'#Page256'>256</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Love Among the Ruins, <a href= +'#Page77'>77</a>, <a href='#Page252'>252</a>-<a href= +'#Page3'>3</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Lovers' Quarrel, A, <a href='#Page69'>69</a>, +<a href='#Page82'>82</a>, <a href='#Page257'>257</a>-<a href= +'#Page8'>8</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Luria, <a href='#Page236'>236</a>-<a href= +'#Page238'>238</a>, <a href='#Page343'>343</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Meeting at Night—Parting at Morning, +<a href='#Page258'>258</a>-<a href='#Page259'>259</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Men and Women, <a href='#Page5'>5</a>, +<a href='#Page242'>242</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Mr. Sludge, the Medium, <a href= +'#Page281'>281</a>, <a href='#Page394'>394</a>, <a href= +'#Page417'>417</a>, <a href='#Page420'>420</a>-<a href= +'#Page421'>421</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>My Last Duchess, <a href='#Page4'>4</a>, +<a href='#Page10'>10</a>, <a href='#Page317'>317</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Natural Magic, <a href='#Page427'>427</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Natural Theology on the Island, <a href= +'#Page21'>21</a>, <a href='#Page83'>83</a>, <a href= +'#Page280'>280</a>, <a href='#Page283'>283</a>, <a href= +'#Page284'>284</a>, <a href='#Page286'>286</a>-<a href= +'#Page290'>290</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Ned Bratts, <a href='#Page433'>433</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Never the Time and the Place, <a href= +'#Page261'>261</a>, <a href='#Page434'>434</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Now, <a href='#Page246'>246</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Numpholeptos, <a href='#Page425'>425</a></p> +<a name='Page451' id="Page451"></a><span class='pagenum'>451</span> +<p class='indexentry'>Old Pictures in Florence, <a href= +'#Page76'>76</a>, <a href='#Page141'>141</a>, <a href= +'#Page159'>159</a>-<a href='#Page163'>163</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>One Word More, <a href='#Page250'>250</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pacchiarotto, <a href='#Page108'>108</a>, +<a href='#Page425'>425</a>-<a href='#Page427'>427</a>, <a href= +'#Page437'>437</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pacchiarotto Prologue to, <a href= +'#Page108'>108</a>, <a href='#Page427'>427</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pacchiarotto Epilogue to, <a href= +'#Page437'>437</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pan and Luna, <a href= +'#Page431'>431</a>-<a href='#Page432'>432</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Paracelsus, <a href='#Page3'>3</a>, <a href= +'#Page8'>8</a>, <a href='#Page9'>9</a>, <a href='#Page14'>14</a>, +<a href='#Page15'>15</a>, <a href='#Page26'>26</a>, <a href= +'#Page55'>55</a>, <a href='#Page62'>62</a>, <a href= +'#Page67'>67</a>, <a href='#Page79'>79</a>, <a href= +'#Page83'>83</a>, <a href='#Page84'>84</a>, <a href= +'#Page96'>96</a>-<a href='#Page101'>101</a>, <a href= +'#Page115'>115</a>-<a href='#Page116'>116</a>, <a href= +'#Page127'>127</a>-<a href='#Page140'>140</a>, <a href= +'#Page164'>164</a>, <a href='#Page190'>190</a>, <a href= +'#Page199'>199</a>, <a href='#Page202'>202</a>, <a href= +'#Page210'>210</a>, <a href='#Page217'>217</a>, <a href= +'#Page226'>226</a>, <a href='#Page240'>240</a>, <a href= +'#Page244'>244</a>,<a href='#Page263'>263</a>, <a href= +'#Page271'>271</a>-<a href='#Page272'>272</a>, <a href= +'#Page326'>326</a>, <a href='#Page348'>348</a>, <a href= +'#Page428'>428</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Parleyings with Certain People, <a href= +'#Page3'>3</a>, <a href='#Page87'>87</a>, <a href= +'#Page434'>434</a>, <a href='#Page435'>435</a>-<a href= +'#Page436'>436</a>, <a href='#Page439'>439</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pauline, <a href='#Page15'>15</a>, <a href= +'#Page21'>21</a>, <a href='#Page28'>28</a>, <a href= +'#Page79'>79</a>, <a href='#Page87'>87</a>, <a href= +'#Page88'>88</a>, <a href='#Page90'>90</a>-<a href= +'#Page96'>96</a>, <a href='#Page104'>104</a>, <a href= +'#Page115'>115</a>, <a href='#Page116'>116</a>, <a href= +'#Page120'>120</a>-<a href='#Page127'>127</a>, <a href= +'#Page244'>244</a>, <a href='#Page323'>323</a>-<a href= +'#Page326'>326</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pearl—A Girl, A, <a href= +'#Page246'>246</a>-<a href='#Page247'>247</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pheidippides, <a href='#Page431'>431</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pictor Ignotus, <a href= +'#Page313'>313</a>-<a href='#Page315'>315</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pied Piper of Hamelin, The, <a href= +'#Page4'>4</a>, <a href='#Page262'>262</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pillar at Sebzevar, A, <a href= +'#Page435'>435</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pippa Passes, <a href='#Page4'>4</a>, +<a href='#Page9'>9</a>, <a href='#Page30'>30</a>, <a href= +'#Page77'>77</a>-<a href='#Page78'>78</a>, <a href= +'#Page80'>80</a>, <a href='#Page164'>164</a>-<a href= +'#Page167'>167</a>, <a href='#Page195'>195</a>, <a href= +'#Page225'>225</a>, <a href='#Page240'>240</a>-<a href= +'#Page241'>241</a>, <a href='#Page268'>268</a>-<a href= +'#Page270'>270</a>, <a href='#Page273'>273</a>-<a href= +'#Page274'>274</a>, <a href='#Page331'>331</a>-<a href= +'#Page336'>336</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pisgah Sights, <a href='#Page427'>427</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Porphyria's Lover, <a href='#Page10'>10</a>, +<a href='#Page326'>326</a>-<a href='#Page327'>327</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pretty Woman, A, <a href= +'#Page355'>355</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Rabbi Ben Ezra, <a href='#Page34'>34</a>, +<a href='#Page148'>148</a>-<a href='#Page149'>149</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Red Cotton Nightcap Country, <a href= +'#Page332'>332</a>, <a href='#Page395'>395</a>, <a href= +'#Page415'>415</a>, <a href='#Page417'>417</a>, <a href= +'#Page419'>419</a>, <a href='#Page426'>426</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Return of the Druses, The, <a href= +'#Page230'>230</a>-<a href='#Page231'>231</a>, <a href= +'#Page336'>336</a>-<a href='#Page338'>338</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Rêverie, <a href='#Page111'>111</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Rudel and the Lady of Tripoli, <a href= +'#Page274'>274</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>St. Martin's Summer, <a href= +'#Page260'>260</a>, <a href='#Page427'>427</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Saisiaz, La, <a href='#Page59'>59</a>, +<a href='#Page109'>109</a>, <a href='#Page429'>429</a>-<a href= +'#Page430'>430</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Saul, <a href='#Page4'>4</a>, <a href= +'#Page85'>85</a>-<a href='#Page87'>87</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Serenade at the Villa, A, <a href= +'#Page260'>260</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, A, +<a href='#Page20'>20</a>, <a href='#Page266'>266</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Solomon and Balkis, <a href= +'#Page355'>355</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Sordello, <a href='#Page4'>4</a>, <a href= +'#Page8'>8</a>, <a href='#Page9'>9</a>, <a href='#Page10'>10</a>, +<a href='#Page20'>20</a>, <a href='#Page26'>26</a>, <a href= +'#Page44'>44</a>, <a href='#Page70'>70</a>-<a href= +'#Page71'>71</a>, <a href='#Page87'>87</a>, <a href= +'#Page88'>88</a>, <a href='#Page101'>101</a>-<a href= +'#Page106'>106</a>, <a href='#Page122'>122</a>, <a href= +'#Page167'>167</a>-<a href='#Page176'>176</a>, <a href= +'#Page177'>177</a>-<a href='#Page199'>199</a>, <a href= +'#Page200'>200</a>-<a href='#Page218'>218</a>, <a href= +'#Page240'>240</a>, <a href='#Page282'>282</a>, <a href= +'#Page301'>301</a>, <a href='#Page327'>327</a>-<a href= +'#Page331'>331</a>, <a href='#Page333'>333</a>, <a href= +'#Page348'>348</a>, <a href='#Page399'>399</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Soul's Tragedy, A, <a href= +'#Page225'>225</a>, <a href='#Page238'>238</a>-<a href= +'#Page240'>240</a>, <a href='#Page343'>343</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Speculative, <a href= +'#Page246'>246</a>-<a href='#Page247'>247</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Strafford, <a href='#Page4'>4</a>, <a href= +'#Page26'>26</a>, <a href='#Page101'>101</a>, <a href= +'#Page220'>220</a>, <a href='#Page222'>222</a>, <a href= +'#Page226'>226</a>-<a href='#Page228'>228</a>, <a href= +'#Page326'>326</a></p> +<a name='Page452' id="Page452"></a><span class='pagenum'>452</span> +<p class='indexentry'>Summum Bonum, <a href= +'#Page246'>246</a>-<a href='#Page247'>247</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Time's Revenges, <a href= +'#Page355'>355</a>-<a href='#Page356'>356</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Toccata of Galuppi's, A, <a href= +'#Page21'>21</a>, <a href='#Page321'>321</a>-<a href= +'#Page322'>322</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Too Late, <a href='#Page256'>256</a>, +<a href='#Page355'>355</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Transcendentalism, <a href= +'#Page144'>144</a>-<a href='#Page145'>145</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Two in the Campagna, <a href= +'#Page77'>77</a>, <a href='#Page254'>254</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Two Poets of Croisic, <a href= +'#Page427'>427</a>-<a href='#Page429'>429</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Up in a Villa—Down in the City, +<a href='#Page83'>83</a>, <a href='#Page322'>322</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Waring, <a href='#Page4'>4</a>, <a href= +'#Page10'>10</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Worst of it, The, <a href= +'#Page355'>355</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Youth and Art, <a href='#Page256'>256</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Poet, Characteristics of a, <a href= +'#Page316'>316</a>-<a href='#Page317'>317</a>, <a href= +'#Page437'>437</a>-<a href='#Page438'>438</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Poetry</p> +<p class='indexentry'>Grounds of Judgment on, <a href= +'#Page39'>39</a>-<a href='#Page42'>42</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Characteristics of Best, <a href= +'#Page41'>41</a>-<a href='#Page43'>43</a>, <a href= +'#Page47'>47</a>, <a href='#Page53'>53</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Form in, <a href='#Page47'>47</a>, <a href= +'#Page53'>53</a>-<a href='#Page56'>56</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Matter in, <a href='#Page47'>47</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Thought and Emotion in, <a href= +'#Page47'>47</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Portraiture, Browning's Power of Minute, +<a href='#Page193'>193</a>-<a href='#Page195'>195</a>, <a href= +'#Page383'>383</a>-<a href='#Page384'>384</a>, <a href= +'#Page404'>404</a>-<a href='#Page405'>405</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Prelude, The (Wordsworth), <a href= +'#Page124'>124</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Princess, The (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page2'>2</a>, <a href='#Page3'>3</a>, <a href= +'#Page348'>348</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Promise of May, The (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page224'>224</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Purgatorio, The (Dante), <a href= +'#Page217'>217</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_Q' id="INDEX_Q"></a> +<h3>Q</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Queen Mary (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page223'>223</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_R' id="INDEX_R"></a> +<h3>R</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Racine, <a href='#Page373'>373</a>-<a href= +'#Page374'>374</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Realism in Browning, <a href= +'#Page18'>18</a>-<a href='#Page20'>20</a>, <a href= +'#Page331'>331</a>-<a href='#Page333'>333</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Religious Phases, Poems dealing with, <a href= +'#Page21'>21</a>, <a href='#Page284'>284</a>-<a href= +'#Page300'>300</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Renaissance, The, <a href='#Page182'>182</a>, +<a href='#Page301'>301</a>-<a href='#Page304'>304</a>, <a href= +'#Page307'>307</a>, <a href='#Page310'>310</a>-<a href= +'#Page311'>311</a>, <a href='#Page313'>313</a>, <a href= +'#Page317'>317</a>-<a href='#Page320'>320</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Renaissance, Poems dealing with the, <a href= +'#Page305'>305</a>-<a href='#Page322'>322</a>, <a href= +'#Page399'>399</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Renan, <a href='#Page287'>287</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Revenge, The (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page29'>29</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Ring and the Book, The</p> +<p class='indexentry'>Nature-description in, <a href= +'#Page105'>105</a>-<a href='#Page106'>106</a></p> +<a name='Page453' id="Page453"></a><span class='pagenum'>453</span> +<p class='indexentry'>Its Position among Browning's Works, <a href= +'#Page391'>391</a>-<a href='#Page392'>392</a>, <a href= +'#Page395'>395</a>-<a href='#Page396'>396</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Its Plan, <a href='#Page392'>392</a>-<a href= +'#Page393'>393</a>, <a href='#Page398'>398</a>-<a href= +'#Page399'>399</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Humour and Wit in, <a href= +'#Page396'>396</a>, <a href='#Page405'>405</a>, <a href= +'#Page412'>412</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Partly intellectual, partly imaginative, +<a href='#Page393'>393</a>-<a href='#Page398'>398</a>, <a href= +'#Page413'>413</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Study of Renaissance in, <a href= +'#Page399'>399</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Scenery and human Background, <a href= +'#Page348'>348</a>, <a href='#Page400'>400</a>-<a href= +'#Page402'>402</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Browning's imaginative Method in, <a href= +'#Page403'>403</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Minor Characters in, <a href= +'#Page404'>404</a>-<a href='#Page405'>405</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Principal Characters</p> +<p class='indexentry2'>Guido, <a href='#Page264'>264</a>, <a href= +'#Page406'>406</a>-<a href='#Page407'>407</a></p> +<p class='indexentry2'>Caponsacchi, <a href= +'#Page406'>406</a>-<a href='#Page409'>409</a></p> +<p class='indexentry2'>Pompilia, <a href= +'#Page359'>359</a>-<a href='#Page364'>364</a>, <a href= +'#Page369'>369</a>-<a href='#Page371'>371</a>, <a href= +'#Page408'>408</a>-<a href='#Page410'>410</a></p> +<p class='indexentry2'>The Pope, <a href= +'#Page410'>410</a>-<a href='#Page411'>411</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>The Conclusion, <a href= +'#Page412'>412</a>-<a href='#Page413'>413</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Rizpah (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page280'>280</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Robin Hood (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page224'>224</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Romantic Spirit in Browning, <a href= +'#Page212'>212</a>-<a href='#Page218'>218</a>, <a href= +'#Page270'>270</a>-<a href='#Page279'>279</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Rossetti, <a href='#Page2'>2</a>, <a href= +'#Page6'>6</a>, <a href='#Page11'>11</a>, <a href= +'#Page142'>142</a>, <a href='#Page143'>143</a>, <a href= +'#Page163'>163</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Ruskin, <a href='#Page60'>60</a>, <a href= +'#Page80'>80</a>, <a href='#Page302'>302</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_S' id="INDEX_S"></a> +<h3>S</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>St. Simeon Stylites (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page318'>318</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Scott, <a href='#Page80'>80</a>, <a href= +'#Page221'>221</a>, <a href='#Page223'>223</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Shakespeare, <a href='#Page34'>34</a>, +<a href='#Page43'>43</a>, <a href='#Page50'>50</a>, <a href= +'#Page52'>52</a>, <a href='#Page220'>220</a>, <a href= +'#Page223'>223</a>, <a href='#Page287'>287</a>, <a href= +'#Page288'>288</a>-<a href='#Page289'>289</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Shelley, <a href='#Page22'>22</a>, <a href= +'#Page35'>35</a>, <a href='#Page68'>68</a>, <a href= +'#Page74'>74</a>, <a href='#Page90'>90</a>, <a href= +'#Page92'>92</a>, <a href='#Page93'>93</a>, <a href= +'#Page94'>94</a>, <a href='#Page221'>221</a>-<a href= +'#Page222'>222</a>, <a href='#Page344'>344</a>-<a href= +'#Page345'>345</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Sir Galahad (Tennyson), <a href= +'#Page318'>318</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Sordello, <a href='#Page4'>4</a>, <a href= +'#Page8'>8</a>, <a href='#Page9'>9</a>, <a href='#Page10'>10</a>, +<a href='#Page20'>20</a>, <a href='#Page26'>26</a>, <a href= +'#Page44'>44</a>, <a href='#Page70'>70</a>-<a href= +'#Page71'>71</a>, <a href='#Page87'>87</a>, <a href= +'#Page88'>88</a>, <a href='#Page122'>122</a>, <a href= +'#Page167'>167</a>, <a href='#Page213'>213</a>, <a href= +'#Page240'>240</a>-<a href='#Page241'>241</a>, <a href= +'#Page282'>282</a>, <a href='#Page301'>301</a>, <a href= +'#Page333'>333</a>, <a href='#Page348'>348</a>, <a href= +'#Page399'>399</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Landscape in, <a href= +'#Page101'>101</a>-<a href='#Page106'>106</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>The Temperament of the Hero, <a href= +'#Page163'>163</a>-<a href='#Page171'>171</a>, <a href= +'#Page183'>183</a>-<a href='#Page187'>187</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>His artistic Development, <a href= +'#Page171'>171</a>-<a href='#Page176'>176</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>The Argument, <a href= +'#Page171'>171</a>-<a href='#Page179'>179</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Historical Background to the Story, <a href= +'#Page177'>177</a>, <a href='#Page183'>183</a>, <a href= +'#Page187'>187</a>-<a href='#Page190'>190</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Nature Pictures, <a href= +'#Page190'>190</a>-<a href='#Page193'>193</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Portraiture, <a href= +'#Page193'>193</a>-<a href='#Page195'>195</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Illustrative Episodes, <a href= +'#Page196'>196</a>-<a href='#Page198'>198</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Analogy between Sordello and Browning, +<a href='#Page200'>200</a>-<a href='#Page205'>205</a>, <a href= +'#Page208'>208</a>, <a href='#Page211'>211</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Theory of Art in, <a href= +'#Page167'>167</a>-<a href='#Page176'>176</a>, <a href= +'#Page203'>203</a>-<a href='#Page211'>211</a></p> +<a name='Page454' id="Page454"></a><span class='pagenum'>454</span> +<p class='indexentry'>Theory of Life in, <a href= +'#Page203'>203</a>-<a href='#Page208'>208</a>, <a href= +'#Page216'>216</a>-<a href='#Page217'>217</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Character of the Heroine, <a href= +'#Page327'>327</a>-<a href='#Page331'>331</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Style in Browning, <a href= +'#Page31'>31</a>-<a href='#Page33'>33</a>, <a href= +'#Page49'>49</a>-<a href='#Page55'>55</a>, <a href= +'#Page94'>94</a>, <a href='#Page121'>121</a>, <a href= +'#Page210'>210</a>-<a href='#Page211'>211</a>, <a href= +'#Page213'>213</a>, <a href='#Page432'>432</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Swinburne, <a href='#Page2'>2</a>, <a href= +'#Page11'>11</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_T' id="INDEX_T"></a> +<h3>T</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Tempest, The (Shakespeare), <a href= +'#Page63'>63</a>, <a href='#Page284'>284</a>, <a href= +'#Page287'>287</a>-<a href='#Page289'>289</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Tennyson, <a href='#Page1'>1</a>-<a href= +'#Page56'>56</a>, <a href='#Page58'>58</a>, <a href= +'#Page60'>60</a>, <a href='#Page61'>61</a>, <a href= +'#Page66'>66</a>, <a href='#Page68'>68</a>, <a href= +'#Page74'>74</a>, <a href='#Page80'>80</a>, <a href= +'#Page92'>92</a>, <a href='#Page98'>98</a>, <a href= +'#Page104'>104</a>, <a href='#Page106'>106</a>, <a href= +'#Page124'>124</a>, <a href='#Page170'>170</a>-<a href= +'#Page171'>171</a>, <a href='#Page211'>211</a>-<a href= +'#Page212'>212</a>, <a href='#Page220'>220</a>-<a href= +'#Page221'>221</a>, <a href='#Page222'>222</a>-<a href= +'#Page225'>225</a>, <a href='#Page280'>280</a>, <a href= +'#Page318'>318</a>, <a href='#Page323'>323</a>, <a href= +'#Page345'>345</a>-<a href='#Page346'>346</a>, <a href= +'#Page348'>348</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Turner, <a href='#Page104'>104</a>, <a href= +'#Page162'>162</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Theory of Life, Browning's, <a href= +'#Page109'>109</a>-<a href='#Page112'>112</a>, <a href= +'#Page428'>428</a>, <a href='#Page436'>436</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Its main Features, <a href= +'#Page116'>116</a>-<a href='#Page120'>120</a>, <a href= +'#Page121'>121</a>, <a href='#Page131'>131</a>, <a href= +'#Page158'>158</a>-<a href='#Page159'>159</a>, <a href= +'#Page203'>203</a>, <a href='#Page217'>217</a>, <a href= +'#Page249'>249</a>, <a href='#Page262'>262</a>-<a href= +'#Page263'>263</a>, <a href='#Page438'>438</a>-<a href= +'#Page440'>440</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In Pauline, <a href= +'#Page120'>120</a>-<a href='#Page127'>127</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In Paracelsus, <a href= +'#Page127'>127</a>-<a href='#Page140'>140</a>, <a href= +'#Page202'>202</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In Easter Day, <a href= +'#Page145'>145</a>-<a href='#Page148'>148</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In Abt Vogler, <a href= +'#Page149'>149</a>-<a href='#Page150'>150</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In Andrea del Sarto, <a href= +'#Page155'>155</a>, <a href='#Page157'>157</a>-<a href= +'#Page159'>159</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In Old Pictures in Florence, <a href= +'#Page160'>160</a>-<a href='#Page161'>161</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In Sordello, <a href= +'#Page203'>203</a>-<a href='#Page208'>208</a>, <a href= +'#Page217'>217</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_V' id="INDEX_V"></a> +<h3>V</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Vergil, <a href='#Page43'>43</a>, <a href= +'#Page211'>211</a>, <a href='#Page216'>216</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Vita Nuova, La (Dante), <a href= +'#Page181'>181</a></p> +<a name='INDEX_W' id="INDEX_W"></a> +<h3>W</h3> +<p class='indexterm'>Will Waterproof's Monologue (Tennyson), +<a href='#Page32'>32</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Womanhood, Studies of</p> +<p class='indexentry'>In the Early Poems, <a href= +'#Page323'>323</a>-<a href='#Page327'>327</a></p> +<p class='indexentry2'>Pauline, <a href='#Page323'>323</a>-<a href= +'#Page325'>325</a></p> +<p class='indexentry2'>Lady Carlisle, <a href= +'#Page326'>326</a></p> +<p class='indexentry2'>Palma, <a href='#Page327'>327</a>-<a href= +'#Page330'>330</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>In the Dramas, &c., <a href= +'#Page327'>327</a>-<a href='#Page343'>343</a></p> +<p class='indexentry2'>Ottima, <a href='#Page331'>331</a>-<a href= +'#Page332'>332</a></p> +<p class='indexentry2'>Pippa, <a href='#Page334'>334</a>-<a href= +'#Page336'>336</a></p> +<p class='indexentry2'>Anael, <a href='#Page336'>336</a>-<a href= +'#Page338'>338</a></p> +<p class='indexentry2'>Mildred and Guendolen, <a href= +'#Page338'>338</a>-<a href='#Page339'>339</a></p> +<p class='indexentry2'>Colombe, <a href='#Page339'>339</a>-<a href= +'#Page340'>340</a></p> +<p class='indexentry2'>Constance, <a href= +'#Page340'>340</a>-<a href='#Page343'>343</a></p> +<a name='Page455' id="Page455"></a><span class='pagenum'>455</span> +<p class='indexentry'>In the Dramatic Lyrics, <a href= +'#Page344'>344</a>-<a href='#Page359'>359</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Characteristics of Browning's Women, <a href= +'#Page346'>346</a>-<a href='#Page349'>349</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Poems to Mrs. Browning, <a href= +'#Page249'>249</a>-<a href='#Page251'>251</a>, <a href= +'#Page358'>358</a>, <a href='#Page403'>403</a>-<a href= +'#Page404'>404</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Pompilia, <a href='#Page359'>359</a>-<a href= +'#Page364'>364</a>, <a href='#Page370'>370</a>-<a href= +'#Page371'>371</a></p> +<p class='indexentry'>Balaustion, <a href= +'#Page365'>365</a>-<a href='#Page390'>390</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Womanhood in the Modern Poets, <a href= +'#Page344'>344</a>-<a href='#Page346'>346</a></p> +<p class='indexterm'>Wordsworth, <a href='#Page35'>35</a>, <a href= +'#Page57'>57</a>, <a href='#Page58'>58</a>, <a href= +'#Page59'>59</a>, <a href='#Page65'>65</a>, <a href= +'#Page68'>68</a>, <a href='#Page75'>75</a>, <a href= +'#Page93'>93</a>-<a href='#Page94'>94</a>, <a href= +'#Page124'>124</a>, <a href='#Page162'>162</a>-<a href= +'#Page163'>163</a>, <a href='#Page221'>221</a>, <a href= +'#Page223'>223</a>, <a href='#Page245'>245</a>, <a href= +'#Page344'>344</a></p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14316 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |