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Progressing from hence, we find doggerel in Mr.
Browning's love verses, doggerel in his artistic poems, and even his
professedly religious piece, 'Christmas Eve and Easter Day,' is
written, for a considerable portion, in Hudibrastic doggerel rhyme.
Mr. Browning can apparently never resist the fascination of doggerel
when it occurs to him. His most popular lyrics are probably the
three 'Cavalier Tunes.' In the first of them the jingle of 'Charles'
and 'carles' caught his ear, and he thought it so good that he
has repeated it twice over in three short verses, united with the
further rhymes of
parles and snarls —Charles, carles, parles, Charles,
snarls, carles. These ballads, however, are among Mr. Browning's
best; they are very spirited, and have a certain smack of the times
about them, although no one could fancy the Cavaliers singing them.
No Cavalier ever called himself a 'great-hearted gentleman,' or talked
about the 'hot day brightening to blue from its silver gray.' The
quaintest specimen, perhaps, of all Mr. Browning's success in doggerel
is his description of Nelson:—
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'Leaning with one shoulder digging
Jigging, as it were, and zig-zag-zigging
Up against the mizen-rigging.' |
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In fact, there can hardly be brought a single complete poem from these
volumes which would not prove that Mr. Browning has an ear and a taste
incapable of distinguishing sufficiently the delicacies of rhyme and
rhythm to become a lyric poet: his very best passages of rhyme have a
creak in them which sets the teeth on edge. One of his best songs,
for example, is in 'Pippa Passes;' it is the song sung by Pippa in the
hearing of Jules the sculptor; but pretty as the thought is, the rhymes
in two instances hardly seem above doggerel; the expression is bad, and
the fourth line of the second stanza is, we think, the harshest we ever
read:— |
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'Give her but a least excuse to love me!
When—where—
How—can this arm establish her above
me,
If fortune fixed her as my lady there,
There already, to eternally reprove me?
("Hist "—said Kate the queen;
But "Oh "—cried the maiden, binding her
tresses,
"'Tis only a page that carols unseen
"Crumbling your hounds their messes!")
'Is she wronged?—To the rescue of her
honour,
My heart!
Is she poor?—What costs it to be styled a
donor?
Merely an earth's to cleave, a sea's to part!
But that fortune should have thrust all
this upon her!
("Nay, list,"—bade Kate the queen;
And still cried the maiden, binding her
tresses, "
"'Tis only a page that carols unseen
"Fitting your hawks their jesses!")' |
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Mr. Browning's
religious feelings and his daring ingenuity of thought and invention
have found congenial application in subjects in which a foreknowledge of
the Advent of Christ is introduced, as by David in the very fine poem
called 'Saul;' or as dimly known to Karshish, the Arab physician, by
hearsay report and by examination of Lazarus; or as just known to
'Cleon,' the Greek poet and philosopher, who is not certain whether
Paulus, 'the barbarian Jew,' 'is not one with him;' or as more fully
known to John in the 'Death in the Desert.' All these four poems
display a different and remarkable power; and it is to be observed that
the daring of the poet has increased with each new attempt in handling
the awful theme.
It was a bold undertaking to re-sing the song with
which David chased away the evil spirit of Saul; to commence with the
celebration of the joys of the shepherd and the reaper—to pass onward
through the raptures of manhood and of strength—of the hunter and the
warrior—through the praise of exaltation and kingly glory of
royalty—finally, to describe the ineffable mercy of the coming of
Christ; but the poem has fulfilled its promise more completely than any
other of the volumes. It has something like real rhythm in it, and
possesses a solemn, and at the same time an easy flow, and is, for Mr.
Browning, remarkably clear in expression. The description of Saul,
and of the effect of the various portions of David's song upon him, is
extremely imposing, and remains upon the imagination. Less praise,
however, can, in our opinion, be accorded to the 'Epistle' containing
the strange Medical Experience of Karshish, the ' Arab Physician.'
The subject is treated with all Mr. Browning's usual subtlety,
quaintness, and ingenuity; but it seems to us irreverent in the highest
degree to attempt to describe, through Karshish, the demeanour and mode
of thought of Lazarus after his three days' experience of the mysterious
realms of death. The piece is full of life-like touches—as where
the learned leech becomes half ashamed from time to time to dwell much
upon the 'case' of a resuscitated man, every quack professing to do as
much in these days, and then, while he makes his report to his master in
the science, he turns aside to give other more scientific information:—
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'Why write of trivial matters, things of price
Calling at every moment for remark?
I noticed on the margin of a pool
Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort,
Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange!' |
But these familiar allusions in the
person of the Arab physician present a strange contrast to the
supernatural element in the poem. The description of Lazarus, and
of his three days' experience of the world beyond the grave, is the
reverse of natural, and we trace the far-fetched artifices of Mr.
Browning's invention in every line. Much more, however, do we
object to see St. John on his death-bed made a medium for a writer to
philosophise upon the Gospel in Platonic strains, and to add an
apocryphal chapter to the New Testament. This latter poem,
however, is so obscurely written, that it would puzzle an inquisition of
theologians to find any other heresy in it than that of its conception.
'Cleon,' on the other hand, is kept strictly within the limits of the
reverential, and is extremely happy in its invention. It was
suggested apparently by the words of St. Paul's address to the
Athenians: 'As certain also of your own poets have said,'—indicating
that some of these already had had a foretaste of some of the truths of
Christianity. Mr. Browning, therefore, exhibits Cleon, the Greek
poet and philosopher, writing to his friend Protos 'in his tyranny,'
discoursing on man, mind and its destination, the necessity of a future
life, and the probability of a revelation; all this while St. Paul was
preaching close at hand, whose doctrines, however, he refused to hear:— |
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'I dare at times imagine to my need
Some future state revealed to us by Zeus,
Unlimited in capability
For joy, as this is in desire for joy,
—To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us:
That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait
On purpose to make sweet the life at large—
Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death
We burst there as the worm into the fly,
Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But, no!
Zeus has not yet revealed it; and, alas,
He must have done so, were it possible!
'Live long and happy, and in that thought die,
Glad for what was. Farewell. And for the rest,
I cannot tell thy messenger aright
Where to deliver what he bears of thine
To one called Paulus—we have heard his fame
Indeed, if Christus be not one with him—
I know not, nor am troubled much to know.
Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew,
As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised,
Hath access to a secret shut from us?
Thou wrongest our philosophy, O king,
In stooping to inquire of such an one,
As if his answer could impose at all.
He writeth, doth he? well, and he may write.
Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! certain slaves
Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ;
And (as I gathered from a bystander)
Their doctrines could be held by no sane man.' |
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The subtle
reasoning in the course of the poem on the progressive nature of man's
mental faculties is very characteristic of Mr. Browning, although there
is of course much to be said against it, and of its applicability in the
mouth of Cleon:— |
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'We of these latter days, with greater mind
Than our forerunners, since more composite,
Look not so great, beside their simple way,
To a judge who only sees one way at once,
One mind-point, and no other at a time,—
Compares the small part of a man of us
With some whole man of the heroic age,
Great in his way—not ours, nor meant for ours;
And ours is greater, had we skill to know.'
'The grapes which dye thy wine, are richer far
Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock;
The suave plum than the savage-tasted drupe;
The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet;
The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers;
That young and tender crescent-moon, thy slave,
Sleeping upon her robe as if on clouds,
Refines upon the women of my youth.
What, and the soul alone deteriorates?
I have not chanted verse like Homer's, no—
Nor swept string like Terpander, no—nor carved
And painted men like Phidias and his friend:
I am not great as they are, point by point:
But I have entered into sympathy
With these four, running these into one soul,
Who, separate, ignored each others' arts.' |
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An equally
characteristic class of poems with the above are those which deal with
ancient and little-known artists of music and poetry; such as 'Old
Pictures in Florence,' 'Fra Lippo Lippi,' 'A Toccata of Galuppi's,'
'Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha,' and 'Abt Vogler.' The musical
pieces, and that of 'Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha' especially, show what
an eccentric delight Mr. Browning finds in losing himself utterly in an
obscure subject, and how entirely congenial to his own nature is the
strange rhapsody of the organist who remains by himself in the old
Church with the lights expiring one by one, trying to wring out every
crotchet of subtle meaning from the over-wrought fugue of Master Hugues,
and has to grope his way from the loft to the foot of the 'rotten-runged
rat-riddled stairs.' The piece called 'Fra Lippo Lippi' is also a
very quaint mixture of strange humour, realistic treatment, and artistic
theorising. No other writer could have conceived so strange a
character as this wine-bibbing licentious monk and painter, dropping out
of the convent-window by night, and caught by the watch while reeling
back to his convent, to whom, with sundry snatches of song, he unburdens
himself about his own life in particular, and art in general. In
'Andrea del Sarto,' Mr. Browning has been less happy, and his piece
contrasts unfavourably with the little drama of Alfred de Musset on the
same subject—so finely, clearly, and delicately touched, as, indeed, all
his pieces are, and full of action and interest. It is, however,
in dramatic monologues of this kind that Mr. Browning has achieved the
most complete success. He has the faculty of conceiving
circumstantially, and sympathising with artistnatures of singular aims
and secluded merit. Among such conceptions must also be classed
the singular story, the 'Grammarian's Funeral,' which, in spite of its
extreme oddity of thought and imagination, is a noble elegy of one of
the indefatigable seekers after learning such as lived shortly after the
revival of learning.
To this curious sympathy with exceptional classes and
persons we must attribute the excellence of portraiture of all his monks
and ecclesiastics, from the monk of the 'Soliloquy of the Spanish
Cloister' to the very confidential 'Bishop Blougram:' the Monsignore in
'Pippa Passes' and Ogniben, the Pontifical Legate, in the 'Soul's
Tragedy,' are also equally lifelike. For Mr. Browning's taste for
human nature being something of the nature of a taste for rare china or
odd old-fashioned weapons, he has, by dint of concentrating all the
interest into one character and all the action into one incident,
produced some very characteristic studies. It is, however, here
not so much the poetry, as the very great condensation of a whole life
or a drama into a few lines, which excites the reader's interest; and so
artificial a production, where the whole of the speaker's life or
character is to be derived from his own words, must always retain
something of an air of improbability. In Mr. Tennyson's 'St. Simon
Stylites,' which, excepting, perhaps, the 'Ulysses' of the same writer,
is the only analogous poem in the language, the monologue is natural
from the very situation of the solitary fanatic; but in the piece called
'My Last Duchess,' it is very unnatural that the Duke should betray
himself so entirely to the envoy who comes to negotiate a new marriage
as to let him have the same opportunity of knowing as we have ourselves
that his cold austerity and pride had been the death of his late wife;
and in the 'Bishop ordering his Tomb' on his death-bed we never lose the
peculiar accents of Mr. Browning's quaintness for a moment. It is,
for example, Mr. Browning who is speaking through the Bishop's mouth
when he says—
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'And then how I shall lie through centuries,
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,
And see God made and eaten all day long,
And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste
Good strong thick stupifying incense smoke!' |
These lines have a characteristic
aptness about them, but no bishop would describe Church ceremonies in
this way. Nevertheless, the portrait of the old voluptuous
antique-hunting, marble-purloining Roman ecclesiastic is one which
cannot fail to strike and to please also to a certain extent; it is a
rich example of Mr. Browning's humour in dealing with ecclesiastical
subjects, which, however, finds its quaintest expression in the
'Heretic's Tragedy,'—a Middle-Age Interlude, where the grotesque chuckle
of triumph, of self-satisfied, undoubting mediæval intolerance, over the
burning of the Grand Master of the Templars at Paris, after two
centuries have elapsed, is most characteristically but not pleasingly,
rendered in the 'Conceit of Master Gysbrecht.'
The last passage we have quoted leads us to speak of
Mr. Browning's descriptive power, which is remarkable. His faculty of
word-painting, and of seeing quaint resemblances in dissimilar objects,
by some happy touch often vividly calls up a scene before the
imagination. In his two Italian sketches, the one called 'Up at a
Villa—down in the City; as distinguished by an Italian person of
quality,' and 'The Englishman in Sorrento,' Mr. Browning's descriptive
faculty has produced some pleasant effects. In the following lines
we are transplanted at once into the middle of some provincial Italian
capital:— |
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'Ere opening your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin:
No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence rattles in:
You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin.
By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws
teeth;
Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath.
At the post-office such a scene-picture—the new play, piping hot!
And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were
shot.
Above it, behold the archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes,
And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of
the
Duke's!
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BANG,
whang, whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife;
No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life.' |
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The Sorrento poem is also a most vivid picture of Italian autumnal life,
and has justly been cited by Mr. Ruskin as a choice example of this kind
of painting.
Another peculiar class of poems forms no small
portion of Mr. Browning's first volume, and this may be called the
Sophistical,—embodying in rhyme the attempt to make the worse appear the
better side. One of the most striking of these is the poem called
the 'Glove.' Everybody knows Schiller's ballad on the same
subject: how the Knight Delorges on being bidden by his lady to bring up
her glove which she had wilfully thrown into the lion's den, leapt,
brought it back, and threw it in her face. The ballad is not one
of Schiller's best, but Schiller and the world in general have thought
the knight to have been in the right. Mr. Browning, however,
thinks there is something to be said for the lady, and he has written a
poem on the subject. The poem is as ingenious as any of Mr.
Browning's, but we doubt if the lady's defence of herself will make many
converts, and it is suspicious, to say the least of it, that her excuse
is pretty nearly as long as Schiller's whole poem. Perhaps the
most successful as well as the most striking of all the poems of this
class is that styled 'Holy Cross Day,'—the day on which, before the
present Pontificate, the Jews were compelled to attend on an annual
sermon at Rome. It does not, however, begin very promisingly.
A Jew is speaking:— |
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'Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak!
Blessedest Thursday's the fat of the week.
Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough,
Stinking and savoury, smug and gruff,
Take the church-road, for the bell's due chime
Gives us the summons—'tis sermon-time.
Bob, here's Barnabas! Job, that's you?
Up stumps Solomon—bustling too?
Shame, man! greedy beyond your years
To handsel the bishop's shaving shears?
Fair play's a jewel! leave friends in the lurch?
Stand on a line ere you start for the church.' |
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The sermon is
delivered, and its effect on the Jew audience and the rascally converts,
the black sheep of the tribe, is told in the same grotesque but graphic
fashion; but the most striking portion of the poem is the Rabbi Ben
Ezra's song of death which the unconverted sang in church while obliged
to sit there after the Bishop's sermon and meditate on the truths he has
been endeavouring to enforce upon them.
'Evelyn Hope' is one of the prettiest of Mr.
Browning's love pieces, because it is one of the simplest; though we by
no means concur in the exaggerated praises which have been heaped upon
it. An elderly student, of about fifty years of age, fell in love
with Evelyn Hope, who died at sixteen:—
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'For God's hand beckoned unawares,
And the sweet white brow was all of her.' |
The lover speculates, in Mr.
Browning's peculiar fashion, on what was the use of his attachment:— |
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'Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?
What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire and dew—
And, just because I was thrice as old
And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was nought to each, must I be told?
We were fellow mortals, nought beside?
No, indeed! for God above
Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love:
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,
Though worlds I shall traverse, not a few:
Much is to learn and much to forget
Ere the time be come for taking you.' |
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This, an
unjilted lover, consoles himself by placing a leaf in Evelyn Hope's dead
hand and persuading himself she will understand all about it when she
awakes:—
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'I loved you, Evelyn, all the while!
My heart seemed full as it could hold—
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile
And the red young mouth and the hair's young gold.
So, hush—I will give you this leaf to keep—
See, I shut it inside this sweet cold hand.
There, that is our secret! go to sleep;
You will wake, and remember, and understand.' |
While on the subject of Mr.
Browning's love poems, we must not omit to mention that his lovers are
prepared to go lengths in the demonstration of their affection which we
hardly like to contemplate. One lover concludes a love poem by
exclaiming:—
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'There you stand
Warm too, and white too; would this wine
Had washed all over that body of yours,
Ere I drunk it, and you down with it thus!' |
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Another lover,
we are informed by the lady, used to kiss her body 'all over till it
burned.' Their playfulness is sometimes of an equally strange
character. In a 'Lovers Quarrel,' two lovers are blocked up
together for some time in a snow-storm; to wile the time away they
devise games out of straws, draw each other's faces in the ashes of the
grate, chatter like church daws, look in the 'Times,' an old one we
suppose, find there
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'A scold
At the Emperor deep and cold.' |
Practise table-turning, walk about
the room with arms round each other's necks, while the lady teaches the
gentleman
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'To flirt a fan
As the Spanish ladies can;' |
and the gentleman playfully
takes the lady and
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'Tints her lip
With a burnt stick's
tip,
And she turns into such a man!
Just the two
spots that span
Half the bill of the male swan.' |
In such
endearments they pass away the time, until
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'A shaft from the Devil's bow
Pierced to their
ingle-glow,
And the friends were friend and foe!' |
Winter has fled,
but the lover now that they are estranged wishes the spring away and
November back.
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'Could not November come,
Were the noisy birds struck dumb
At the warning slash
Of the driver's lash—
I would laugh like the valiant Thumb
Facing the castle glum
And the giant's fee faw fum!'
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In fact, he
wishes the world to be stripped of all the adornments which make it
easier for them to remain apart, then
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'The world's hangings ripped,
They were both in a bare-walled crypt!
Each in the crypt would cry
"But one freezes here! and why?
When a heart as chill
At my own would thrill
Back to life, and its fires out-fly?
Heart, shall we live or
die?
The rest, . . . settle it by an by!"' |
The lover having
concluded that each of them would cry out thus, in their hypothetical
November, declares that it is twelve o'clock, and concludes with a
meteorological prediction that a storm will come:—
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'In the worst of the storm's uproar,
I shall pull her
through the door,
I shall have her for evermore!' |
Among, however,
Mr. Browning's inexhaustible variety of poems about lovers—jilted
lovers, deserted lovers, quarrelling lovers, forgiving lovers, fortunate
lovers, unfortunate lovers, and lovers of every denomination, with their
infinite perplexities of love, we come occasionally upon touches as
delicate as the following in 'The Lost Mistress,' where the lover
considers how he shall behave towards the lady in future:—
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'Yes! I will say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!' |
The
self-questioning of a deserted mistress has some noticeable touches in
spite of the lop-sided metre:—
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'Was it something said,
Something done,
Vexed him? was it touch of hand,
Turn of head?
Strange! that very way
Love began:
I as little understand
Love's decay.' |
The peculiar
humour of the 'Lovers' Quarrel,' which we have just noticed, leads us to
speak of Mr. Browning's humour generally, which is of as singular a
character as his poetry—sometimes grim and grotesque as in the
'Heretic's Tragedy,' 'Holy Cross Thursday,' 'Caliban upon Setebos;'
sometimes refining, elaborate, like 'Bishop Blougram's Apology,' or 'Mr.
Sludge the Medium;' sometimes fantastic and trivial, like 'Nationality
in Drinks,' but always partaking of the same queer extravagance, such as
we find in the strange poem called 'Sibrandus Schafnaburensis.'
Here some solitary joker reads an old pedantic volume in his garden:—
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'In the white of a matin-prime
Just when the birds sang all together.' |
Having read the book through from
beginning to end, for what reason, except mere whim, we are unable to
divine, he proceeds to take his revenge on the volume by dropping it
into the mossy hollow of an old plum-tree, in whose bottom there was a
stagnant pool of rain water; he then goes into his home and brings out a
loaf, half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis, lays on the grass and
forgets 'the oaf over a jolly chapter of Rabelais.' After awhile,
when the spider had had time enough to spin his web over the buried
volume, 'and
sat in the midst with arms akimbo,' the ballad-maker took pity
for learning's sake, and got a rake and fished up the 'delectable
treatise,' dried it and put it back on his bookshelf. The hero
then proceeds to make merry over the past sufferings of his victim:—
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'How did he like it when the live creatures
Tickled and toused and browsed him all over,
And worm, slug, elf, with serious features,
Came in, each one, for his right of trover?
—When the water-beetle with great blind deaf
face
Made of her eggs the stately deposit,
And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface
As tiled in the top of his black wife's
closet?' |
Cognate with Mr.
Browning's strange sense of humour is his introduction of new
interjections and combinations of letters into his poetry to express
certain sounds. Thus we have
Gr—sh and a variety of other new interjections, Hy! Zy! Hine!
to represent the sound of a bell; Bang-whang-whang for a drum,
tootle-te-tootle for a fife, wheet-wheet for a mouse, &c.
The peculiar names of such personages as Bluphocks, Blougram, Gigadibs,
&c., must be ascribed to the same quality.
But, whether in sport or in earnest, Mr. Browning has
always chosen to adopt methods of execution, and to remain apart from
the beaten track of the ordinary world; and we can imagine him sharing
in the feelings of his own 'Pictor Ignotus' who refuses, though he
possesses the power of painting 'pictures like that youth's you praise
so,' to enter into competition with him, and thus expresses his contempt
for the vulgar crowd—
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'. . Who summoned those cold faces that begun
To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped
Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun,
They drew me forth, and spite of me . . . enough!
These buy and sell our pictures, take and give,
Count them for garniture and household-stuff,
And where they live our pictures needs must live
And see their faces, listen to their prate,
Partakers of their daily pettiness,
Discussed of—"This I love, or this I hate,
This likes me more, and this affects me less! "
Wherefore I chose my portion.' |
So Mr. Browning
has chosen his portion, and the popularity which he has despised will in
all probability never be thrust upon him.
Having a sincere respect for what we know of Mr.
Browning's character, and for his literary industry, we have not sought
in the foregoing remarks to disparage or ridicule the efforts of his
singular genius; but to enable our readers to form an impartial opinion
of his merits or defects from the extracts we have made. Some of
them will doubtless think that we have devoted too much of our space to
these productions, and will ask, with alarm, whether these are specimens
of the latest fashion of English poetry. We confess that it is to
ourselves a subject of amazement that poems of so obscure and uninviting
a character should find numerous readers, and that successive editions
of them should be in demand. Yet this is undoubtedly the case; and
far from having reason to complain of neglect, Mr. Browning has a
considerable number of admirers in England, and more, we believe, in
America. It would seem that in this practical and mechanical age,
there is some attraction in wild and extravagant language—some
mysterious fascination in obscure half-expressed thoughts. Mr.
Browning in truth more nearly resembles the American writers Emerson,
Wendell Holmes, and Bigelow, than any poet of our own country.
Tried by the standards which have hitherto been supposed to uphold the
force and beauty of the English tongue and of English literature, his
works are deficient in the qualities we should desire to find them.
We do not believe that they will survive, except as a curiosity and a
puzzle. But they undoubtedly exercise a certain degree of
influence over the taste of the present generation; and on this ground
we think they deserve the notice we have bestowed upon them.
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