Browning and Dogma.

by Ethel M. Naish.

LECTURE I

INTRODUCTORY, AND CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS

He at least believed in Soul, was very sure of G.o.d.[1]

To this faith, to this a.s.surance, is largely attributable the influence unquestionably possessed by Browning as a teacher in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. For the intentionally didactic element in the work may not honestly be ignored in whatever degree it is held to militate against artistic merit. Amid the throng of seekers after Truth in the world of poetry, Browning stands pre-eminent as one who not only sought Truth, but, having gained what he held to be Truth, kept it as "the sole prize of Life." Poets of the school of thought of which Matthew Arnold and A. H. Clough may perhaps be regarded as among the more prominent exponents, are able to give no even approximately satisfying answer to the questionings bound inevitably to arise, at some time or other, in all minds whose energies are not dissipated by a too ready compliance with the demands of the hour. In certain moods their work appeals to us irresistibly, but the appeal is one of sympathy with doubt rather than of suggestion of solution. The author of _Obermann_ may indeed in "hours of gloom" remind us that there have been "hours of insight"; that the individual soul, though through prolonged struggle and effort alone, may "mount hardly to eternal life." The consolation he would offer to spiritual depression is that of self-dependence. Nature may soothe, but is powerless to satisfy; the appeal to her is answered by that which, although "severely clear," is but "an air-born voice," directing the enquirer back upon himself--

Resolve to be thyself, and know that he Who finds himself loses his misery.[2]

So, too, Clough, sympathizing fully with doubt, may in his more inspired moments speak of hope and of the a.s.surance

'Tis better to have fought and lost Than never to have fought at all.

Although from his pen has come at least one short poem[3] worthy in invigorating force of the faith of Browning himself, yet the note of defeat rather than the ring of triumph is more generally characteristic of his language. Tennyson had splendid glimpses of the Truth, pa.s.sing visions of glory; yet here, too, the vision was but transitory, the full glory evanescent.

The continued popularity of _In Memoriam_ is undoubtedly due in large measure to the fact that the author has there given poetic utterance to those questionings and aspirations of the human soul, peculiar to no time or place, to no nation or form of creed--to the cry wrung from the heart when inexorable Death brings with it the hour of separation. There is in truth a triumphant note towards the close of _In Memoriam_: the child of the fifty-fourth stanza "crying in the night, and with no language but a cry," though yet crying in the night, becomes in the final section (stanza cxxiv) a child "who knows his father near." But even when the heart rises triumphantly, and in defiance of the arguments of reason a.s.serts "I have felt," the faith so expressed is not the faith of Browning. Beyond all the temporary darkness of _La Saisiaz_ we recognize that the author of _Asolando_ is speaking nothing more than the truth when he tells us that he "never doubted clouds would break." The dispersal of the clouds gathered over La Saleve added confidence to the _Epilogue_ which const.i.tutes so fitting a close to the life's work. The a.s.sertion "I believe in G.o.d and Truth and Love," expressed through the medium of the lover of Pauline, finds its echo in the more direct personal a.s.sertion of the concluding lines of _La Saisiaz_, "He believed in Soul, was very sure of G.o.d." This was the irreducible minimum of Browning's creed. How much more he held as absolute, soul-satisfying truth it is the design of this and the six following lectures to determine.

And here at once on the threshold of our investigation we are confronted by the difficulty inseparable from any consideration of Browning's literary work; the difficulty of eliminating the dramatic and gauging the extent of the purely personal element. Although, as was inevitable, such difficulty has been universally recognized by critics and students, yet the very strength of the dramatic power has in many cases proved misleading. Browning has too completely lost himself in his subject. In the writings of the man capable of merging his personal ident.i.ty in that of an Andrea and a Pippa, of a Caliban and a S. John; of a.s.suming positions as opposed as those of a Guido and a Caponsacchi, it is a sufficiently simple matter to discover opinions supporting directly or indirectly any individual line of thought. To him who seeks with intent to obtain such confirmation may the promise be fairly made

As is your sort of mind So is your sort of search; you'll find What you desire.[4]

Moreover, whilst the obscurity of the writing has been the subject of too general comment, the frequently elusive character of the meaning may be liable to escape notice. A certain course of thought having been detected is accepted to the exclusion of an even more important undercurrent only now and again rising to the surface. Despite the difficulties attendant upon a genuine study of Browning, both from the frequently recondite character of the subject and the amount of literary or historical knowledge demanded of the reader, comparatively slight attempt has so far been made towards a detailed treatment of individual poems such as that, for example, accorded to the plays of Shakespeare. And yet such concentrative labour possesses the highest value as a protection against misconstruction arising from a too hastily formed conception of the relative proportions of personal intention and dramatic presentation.

Having once fallen into the error of accepting an under-estimate (an over-estimate is rarely possible) of the histrionic element in certain avowedly dramatic soliloquies, there is danger lest the temptation of seeking amongst others confirmation of the theory thus suggested should prove too strong for our literary honesty.

Any investigation as to Browning's att.i.tude towards religion in the wider acceptation of the term--as that which relates to the spiritual element in human nature and life--must of necessity be co-extensive with his work.

For him to whom "the development of a soul" was the object alone worthy the devotion of the intellectual faculties, it was inevitable that to the consideration of this spiritual element his mind should continually revert. From _Pauline_ to _Asolando_ it is hardly too much to say such consideration is never absent. With the addition to the t.i.tle of our subject of the term _dogmatic_, the scope of the inquiry is at once narrowed, whilst the difficulty of ascertaining fairly the position is possibly proportionately increased, since the writer, who has been designated "the most Christian poet of the century," is claimed by Unitarians as their own. It is, therefore, of especial importance in dealing with the subject that no a.s.sumption be made, no a.s.sertion advanced, unsupported by adequate proof. The direct statements of the few non-dramatic poems afford us, however, some vantage-ground whence to begin our advance: for the rest, progress must be made through careful comparison of the dramatic poems as to subject and treatment, (we may not judge of one poem apart from the rest) recognizing that the dramatic character of the soliloquy does not necessarily _exclude_, as it does not necessarily _imply_, an expression of the author's own opinions. When, therefore, we find the same theme perpetually treated through the medium of different externals, when we are met by similar expressions of belief emanating from the various soliloquists of the _Dramatis Personae_ and the _Men and Women Series_, we may not unreasonably hold ourselves to possess fair _prima facie_ evidence that in a theory so treated is centred much of the interest of the writer; in the arguments deduced is to be accepted a more or less definite expression of the writer's own belief, or at least of that form of creed to which he is most strongly attracted.

Of the five poems chosen as ill.u.s.trative or explanatory of Browning's att.i.tude towards that which we have designated _dogmatic_ religion, one only, _La Saisiaz_, the latest in point of time, is non-dramatic in character. Between the other four a line of connection is easily established, since all deal with different aspects of the same subject regarded through different media. If, then, beginning with the lowest link of the chain, we gain by means of a consideration of _Caliban_ some realization of the dramatic feats which Browning could accomplish at pleasure, we shall find less difficulty in distinguishing between the dramatic and personal elements in _Christmas Eve and Easter Day_ where the line of demarcation is more finely drawn.

In _Caliban upon Setebos_ (from the _Men and Women Series_ of 1855) is presented the lowest conception of a Deity and of his dealings with the world and humanity, as evolved by a being incapable of aspiration, satisfied with existing conditions in so far, although in so far only, as they afford opportunity for material gratification. With _Cleon_ follows the subst.i.tution of the Greek conception of life at the beginning of the Christian era, speculations as to the design of Zeus in his intercourse with man. The speculator, at once poet, musician, artist, to whom have been accessible all the stores of Greek philosophy and Greek culture, feels inevitably the necessity for the existence of a Deity differing from that of the monster of Prospero's isle. Nevertheless to the Greek thinker the immortality of the soul is not yet more than a vague suggestion, the outcome of desire. His world has come into touch, but at its extreme edge, with the recently promulgated tenets of Christianity. To this inhabitant of "the sprinkled isles" the teaching of the Apostles of Galilee is so far "a doctrine to be held by no sane man": and yet his very yearning, nay, even his reasonable deductions from the experience of life, point to the need of "doctrines" such as those which he now deems impossible of credence. Of the character of the changes separating the world of religious thought of Blougram from that of Cleon, suggestions are afforded by the _Epilogue_ to the _Dramatis Personae_. The Christianity which Cleon criticized from afar has, by the date of the Bishop's _Apology_, become the creed of the civilized world. Not only has the time pa.s.sed when

The Temple filled with a cloud, Even the House of the Lord, Porch bent and pillar bowed: For the presence of the Lord, In the glory of His Cloud, Had filled the House of the Lord. (_Epilogue, Dram. Pers._)

But more than this, the _simplicity_ of the earlier faith is at an end.

Past, too, are those mediaeval days when the faith of a prelate of the Church would have been a.s.sumed without question by the lay world. Both stages of development have been left behind, but the yet later condition has not been attained when scepticism shall cause as little comment as did the childlike faith of the Middle Ages: a condition defined by the lament of Renan--

Gone now! All gone across the dark so far, Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, shutting still, Dwindling into the distance, dies that star Which came, stood, opened once! (_Epilogue, Dram. Pers._)

_Bishop Blougram's Apology_ is a possible exposition of the religious att.i.tude of a professing Christian of the nineteenth century. It matters little whether his form of creed be that of Anglican or Roman Catholic: his position as a dignitary of the Church alone compels apology. From these unquestionably dramatic poems we pa.s.s to one, the cla.s.sification of which appears to be usually regarded as less obvious, judging from the criticisms of commentators. How far the decision of the soliloquist in _Christmas Eve_ may be justly held as that of Browning himself is a question requiring separate and careful consideration (to be given in the Sixth Lecture). Here it is sufficient to notice that, entering the confines of dogmatic religion, in this poem has found more immediate expression that which we may fairly deem one principle, at least, of the teaching which its author would impress upon his public; that in no one form of creed is the Divine influence to be exclusively found; that wherever love dwells, in however limited a degree, there, too, may with confidence be sought the Presence of the Supreme Love. In _Easter Day_ the discussion is again transferred to a wider plane and deals with the individual difficulties involved in an unconditional acceptance of Christianity itself--difficulties in the end not only acknowledged as inevitable, but thankfully accepted by the speaker as essential to the strengthening of personal faith, to the advancement of individual development. Finally, with _La Saisiaz_ we are brought face to face unmistakably with the struggle, with the doubts and yearnings of Browning himself at a critical hour of life, twelve years before the end--a struggle whence he was ultimately to issue with faith in the fundamental articles of his belief confirmed and deepened.

Of other poems bearing more or less directly upon the subject, the most notable as well as the most familiar, are probably _Rabbi Ben Ezra_, _An Epistle of Karshish_, and _A Death in the Desert_. Of these, _Rabbi Ben Ezra_, in its treatment of the theory of asceticism and of the working out of the design of the perfect unity of the individual human life, goes further afield and carries us beyond the limits of any definite dogma: though on the ascetic side it may serve as comment on some of the conclusions of _Easter Day_. _An Epistle of Karshish_ embodies two of Browning's favourite themes: (1) the essentially probationary character of human life as exemplified by the att.i.tude of Lazarus towards things temporal, an att.i.tude at once becoming _super_-human through a revelation obviating the necessity for faith; (2) the collateral suggestions contained in the estimate of Christianity conceived by the Arab physician.

Of these, the first may be well employed as a comparison with the final decision of _Easter Day_, the second with the references of Cleon to the Apostolic teaching. _A Death in the Desert_ offers but another form of refutation of the results of the German methods of Biblical criticism represented by the teaching of the Gottingen Professor of _Christmas Eve_.

Direct declarations of faith such as those contained in _Prospice_ and the _Epilogue_ to _Asolando_ serve but as confirmation of the a.s.sertion standing at the head of this Lecture.

To a superficial consideration the first of the dramatic poems is not pre-eminently attractive, nor as a soliloquist is Caliban attractive in the ordinary acceptation of the term as an appeal to the senses affording distinctly pleasurable sensations. But the attraction peculiar to the grotesque in any form is here present in a marked degree: an attraction frequently stronger than that exerted by the purely beautiful, involving as it does a more direct intellectual appeal; since grotesqueness, whether in Nature or in Art, does not usually denote simplicity. And Caliban is by no means a simple being, rather is he a singularly remarkable creation even for the genius of Browning. As we know, the idea suggested itself whilst the poet was reading _The Tempest_, when there flashed through his mind the pa.s.sage from the Psalms (l, 21) which stands beneath the t.i.tle: "Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself." In a recognition of the full significance of this fact may be found the key to all seeming inconsistencies which have evoked criticisms describing the poem from its theological aspect as a "monstrous Bridgewater treatise,"[5] and "a fragment of Browning's own Christian apologetics,"

the "reasoning" of Caliban as "an initial absurdity,"[6] whilst Caliban himself is designated "a savage with the introspective powers of a Hamlet and the theology of an Evangelical clergyman"[7]--the entire scheme of this "wonderful" work being even summarized as a "design to describe the way in which a primitive nature may at once be afraid of its G.o.ds and yet familiar with them."[8] There is perhaps more to be said for the poem than the suggestions involved in any or all of these comments. A protracted investigation as to how far Browning's Caliban is an immediate development of the Caliban of _The Tempest_ would be beside the main object of these Lectures; but for an understanding of the value to be reasonably attached to the soliloquy it is essential to estimate as fairly as may be possible the character, intellectual and moral, of the soliloquist, since Caliban's conception of his Creator must necessarily be influenced by the limitations of his own powers, whether physical or mental. For here, as elsewhere in the dramatic poems, Browning has completely identified himself with his soliloquist. How far, therefore, we are justified in claiming for Caliban's theology the t.i.tle of "a fragment of Browning's own Christian apologetics" can only be decided by a careful consideration and a comparison with work not avowedly dramatic in character.

Reading again those scenes of _The Tempest_, in which Caliban plays a part, we become more than ever convinced that the Caliban of the poem is but the Caliban of the play seen through the medium of Browning's phantasy. This, however, is not equivalent to the admission of simplicity as a characteristic of this strange being, merely is it a recognition that the potentialities existent in Shakespeare's Caliban are nearer to becoming actualities in the Caliban of Browning. Caliban's may, indeed, be the nature of a primitive being, but the nature is not, therefore, simple; to the peculiarly complex character of his personality is due the main interest of the poem--curiously undeveloped in some departments of his nature, the moral sense appears to be almost non-existent, he is, nevertheless, an imaginative creature with a distinct poetic and artistic vein in his composition. Whilst Prospero's estimate of him seems to have been a fairly accurate one:

The most lying slave Whom stripes may move, not kindness;

as Mr. Stopford Brooke has pointed out "his very cursing is imaginative"[9]--

As wicked dew as e'er my mother brushed With raven's feather from unwholesome fen Drop on you both. (Act I, Sc. ii.)

And it is Caliban who appreciates the music of Ariel which to Trinculo and Stephano, products of civilization so-called, is a thing fearful as the work of the devil.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.

(Act III, Sc. ii.)

Such is the re-a.s.surance offered by the "man-monster" of Shakespeare. But the Caliban of Browning is yet in his primitive condition, untouched by contact with the outer world as represented even by these dregs of a civilization which, whilst checking the expression of the brutish instinct, increases by repression the force of pa.s.sions struggling for an outlet to which conventionality bars the way.

To the Caliban of _The Tempest_ Prospero rather than Setebos is the immediate author of the evils of his environment. He has not yet reached the stage of formulated speculation with regard to the character of his mother's G.o.d--to which Browning's Caliban shows himself to have attained.

And it is worthy of notice that the Caliban of the poem does not accept without examination such information as he has received from Sycorax concerning Setebos. Only after due consideration does he advance his own ideas (not according with those of Sycorax) on the subject; proving himself thus capable not merely of imagination but of reasoning; his intellect is alive whatever limitations may be a.s.signed to its capacity for exercise. Although no immediate evidence is afforded of the capabilities of Shakespeare's Caliban in the regions of abstract thought, yet of the potential existence of the ratiocinative faculty sufficient testimony is afforded by his att.i.tude towards the supernatural powers of Prospero, by his scheme for rendering the new-comers instruments, subserving his own interests in his designs against his employer and tyrant--all this clearly the outcome of something more than a mere brute cunning.

With these aspects of the character of Caliban before him as ground-work, Browning has developed his poem; and in the twenty-three opening lines, introductory to the definite reflections concerning Setebos, are discoverable evidences of all the characteristics of the Caliban of _The Tempest_. Browning has done nothing without intention, and we are here prepared, or should be prepared, for what is to follow later in the poem.

Here the "man-monster" is described as sprawling in the mire, in the enjoyment of such comfort as may be derived from the sunshine in the heat of the day: the sensuous side of the nature finding its satisfaction in

Kicking both feet in the cool slush

and feeling

About his spine small eft things course, Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh. (ll. 5, 6.)

At the same time is recognizable the artistic element in the composition--for not only does he enjoy

A fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,

but he

Looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross And recross till they weave a spider-web (Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times.) (ll. 11-14.)

Here is a.s.suredly the language of no mere savage! Compare with this the later descriptions of the inhabitants of the island as a.s.signed to Setebos (ll. 44-55). No mere dry category of animal life, it suggests the result of the observations of a mind at once poetic and imaginative.

Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech, Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue That p.r.i.c.ks deep into oakwarts for a worm, And says a plain word when she finds her prize, But will not eat the ants: the ants themselves That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks About their hole.

Not because this is the work of a poet, but because it is the work of a _dramatic_ poet do we get these lines: and Browning has unquestionably, I think, given its character to this earlier pa.s.sage with intention. He would suggest that this element--poetic and imaginative--in Caliban's nature must of necessity influence his conception of his Deity.

But whilst emphasis is thus given to the sensuous and artistic aspects of the character of this most complex being, by these introductory lines is more than suggested the obliquity of the moral nature--this, too, influencing, as is inevitable, its theology. Deception is to the Caliban of Browning as to the Caliban of Shakespeare, the very breath of life. His pleasure in inactivity is vastly intensified by the consciousness that he is thereby defrauding Prospero and Miranda of the fruits of his labours.

It is good to cheat the pair, and gibe, Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech. (ll. 22, 23.)