In my allusion to “Pippa Passes,” towards the close of the preceding chapter, as the most imperishable because the most nearly immaculate of Browning’s dramatic poems, I would not have it understood that its pre-eminence is considered from the standpoint of technical achievement, of art, merely. It seems to me, like all simple and beautiful things, profound enough for the searching plummet of the most curious explorer of the depths of life. It can be read, re-read, learned by heart, and the more it is known the wider and more alluring are the avenues of imaginative thought which it discloses. It has, more than any other long composition by its author, that quality of symmetry, that symmetria prisca recorded of Leonardo da Vinci in the Latin epitaph of Platino Piatto; and, as might be expected, its mental basis, what Rossetti called fundamental brain-work, is as luminous, depth within depth, as the morning air. By its side, the more obviously “profound” poems, Bishop Blougram and the rest, are mere skilled dialectics.

The art that is most profound and most touching must ever be the simplest. Whenever AEschylus, Dante, Shakspere, Milton, are at white heat they require no exposition, but meditation only the meditation akin to the sentiment of little children who listen, intent upon every syllable, and passionately eager of soul, to hearth-side tragedies. The play of genius is like the movement of the sea. It has its solemn rhythm: its joy, irradiate of the sun; its melancholy, in the patient moonlight: its surge and turbulence under passing tempests: below all, the deep oceanic music. There are, of course, many to whom the sea is but a waste of water, at best useful as a highway and as the nursery of the winds and rains. For them there is no hint “of the incommunicable dream” in the curve of the rising wave, no murmur of the oceanic undertone in the short leaping sounds, invisible things that laugh and clap their hands for joy and are no more. To them it is but a desert: obscure, imponderable, a weariness. The “profundity” of Browning, so dear a claim in the eyes of the poet’s fanatical admirers, exists, in their sense, only in his inferior work. There is more profound insight in Blake’s Song of Innocence, “Piping down the valleys wild,” or in Wordsworth’s line, “Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,” or in Keats’ single verse, “There is a budding morrow in midnight,” or in this quatrain on Poetry, by a young living poet

“She comes like the husht beauty of the night,
But sees too deep for laughter;
Her touch is a vibration and a light
From worlds before and after ”

there is more “profundity” in any of these than in libraries of “Sludge the Medium” literature. Mere hard thinking does not involve profundity, any more than neurotic excitation involves spiritual ecstasy. De profundis, indeed, must the poet come: there must the deep rhythm of life have electrified his “volatile essence” to a living rhythmic joy. In this deep sense, and this only, the poet is born, not made. He may learn to fashion anew that which he hath seen: the depth of his insight depends upon the depth of his spiritual heritage. If wonder dwell not in his eyes and soul there can be no “far ken” for him. Here it seems apt to point out that Browning was the first writer of our day to indicate this transmutive, this inspired and inspiring wonder-spirit, which is the deepest motor in the evolution of our modern poetry. Characteristically, he puts his utterance into the mouth of a dreamy German student, the shadowy Schramm who is but metaphysics embodied, metaphysics finding apt expression in tobacco-smoke: “Keep but ever looking, whether with the body’s eye or the mind’s, and you will soon find something to look on! Has a man done wondering at women? there follow men, dead and alive, to wonder at. Has he done wondering at men? there’s God to wonder at: and the faculty of wonder may be, at the same time, old and tired enough with respect to its first object, and yet young and fresh sufficiently, so far as concerns its novel one.”

This wonder is akin to that ‘insanity’ of the poet which is but impassioned sanity. Plato sums the matter when he says, “He who, having no touch of the Muse’s madness in his soul, comes to the door and thinks he will get into the temple by the help of Art he, I say, and his poetry, are not admitted.”

In that same wood beyond Dulwich to which allusion has already been made, the germinal motive of “Pippa Passes” flashed upon the poet. No wonder this resort was for long one of his sacred places, and that he lamented its disappearance as fervently as Ruskin bewailed the encroachment of the ocean of bricks and mortar upon the wooded privacies of Denmark Hill.

Save for a couple of brief visits abroad, Browning spent the years, between his first appearance as a dramatic writer and his marriage, in London and the neighbourhood. Occasionally he took long walks into the country. One particular pleasure was to lie beside a hedge, or deep in meadow-grasses, or under a tree, as circumstances and the mood concurred, and there to give himself up so absolutely to the life of the moment that even the shy birds would alight close by, and sometimes venturesomely poise themselves on suspicious wings for a brief space upon his recumbent body. I have heard him say that his faculty of observation at that time would not have appeared despicable to a Seminole or an Iroquois: he saw and watched everything, the bird on the wing, the snail dragging its shell up the pendulous woodbine, the bee adding to his golden treasure as he swung in the bells of the campanula, the green fly darting hither and thither like an animated seedling, the spider weaving her gossamer from twig to twig, the woodpecker heedfully scrutinising the lichen on the gnarled oak-hole, the passage of the wind through leaves or across grass, the motions and shadows of the clouds, and so forth. These were his golden holidays. Much of the rest of his time, when not passed in his room in his father’s house, where he wrote his dramas and early poems, and studied for hours daily, was spent in the Library of the British Museum, in an endless curiosity into the more or less unbeaten tracks of literature. These London experiences were varied by whole days spent at the National Gallery, and in communion with kindred spirits. At one time he had rooms, or rather a room, in the immediate neighbourhood of the Strand, whither he could go when he wished to be in town continuously for a time, or when he had any social or theatrical engagement.

Browning’s life at this period was distraught by more than one episode of the heart. It would be strange were it otherwise. He had in no ordinary degree a rich and sensuous nature, and his responsiveness was so quick that the barriers of prudence were apt to be as shadowy to him as to the author of “The Witch of Atlas.” But he was the earnest student for the most part, and, above all, the poet. His other pleasure, in his happy vagrant days, was to join company with any tramps, gipsies, or other wayfarers, and in good fellowship gain much knowledge of life that was useful at a later time. Rustic entertainments, particularly peripatetic “Theatres Royal,” had a singular fascination for him, as for that matter had rustic oratory, whether of the alehouse or the pulpit. At one period he took the keenest interest in sectaries of all kinds: and often he incurred a gentle reproof from his mother because of his nomad propensities in search of “pastors new.” There was even a time when he seriously deliberated whether he should not combine literature and religious ministry, as Faraday combined evangelical fervour with scientific enthusiasm. “’Twas a girl with eyes like two dreams of night” that saved him from himself, and defrauded the Church Independent of a stalwart orator.

It was, as already stated, while he strolled through Dulwich Wood one day that the thought occurred to him which was to find development and expression in “Pippa Passes.” “The image flashed upon him,” writes his intimate friend, Mrs. Sutherland Orr, “of some one walking thus alone through life; one apparently too obscure to leave a trace of his or her passage, yet exercising a lasting though unconscious influence at every step of it; and the image shaped itself into the little silk-winder of Asolo, Felippa or Pippa.”

It has always seemed to me a radical mistake to include “Pippa Passes” among Browning’s dramas. Not only is it absolutely unactable, but essentially undramatic in the conventional sense. True dramatic writing concerns itself fundamentally with the apt conjunction of events, and the more nearly it approximates to the verity of life the more likely is it to be of immediate appeal. There is a vraie vérité which only the poet, evolving from dramatic concepts rather than attempting to concentrate these in a quick, moving verisimilitude, can attempt. The passing hither and thither of Pippa, like a beneficent Fate, a wandering chorus from a higher amid the discordant medley of a lower world, changing the circumstances and even the natures of certain more or less heedless listeners by the wild free lilt of her happy song of innocence, is of this vraie vérité. It is so obviously true, spiritually, that it is unreal in the commonplace of ordinary life. Its very effectiveness is too apt for the dramatist, who can ill afford to tamper further with the indifferent banalities of actual existence. The poet, unhampered by the exigencies of dramatic realism, can safely, and artistically, achieve an equally exact, even a higher verisimilitude, by means which are, or should be, beyond adoption by the dramatist proper.

But over and above any ‘nice discrimination,’ “Pippa Passes” is simply a poem, a lyrical masque with interspersed dramatic episodes, and subsidiary interludes in prose. The suggestion recently made that it should be acted is a wholly errant one. The finest part of it is unrepresentable. The rest would consist merely of a series of tableaux, with conversational accompaniment.

The opening scene, “the large mean airy chamber,” where Pippa, the little silk-winder from the mills at Asolo, springs from bed, on her New Year’s Day festa, and soliloquises as she dresses, is as true as it is lovely when viewed through the rainbow glow of the poetic atmosphere: but how could it succeed on the stage? It is not merely that the monologue is too long: it is too inapt, in its poetic richness, for its purpose. It is the poet, not Pippa, who evokes this sweet sunrise-music, this strain of the “long blue solemn hours serenely flowing.” The dramatic poet may occupy himself with that deeper insight, and the wider expression of it, which is properly altogether beyond the scope of the playwright. In a word, he may irradiate his theme with the light that never was on sea or land, nor will he thereby sacrifice aught of essential truth: but his comrade must see to it that he is content with the wide liberal air of the common day. The poetic alchemist may turn a sword into pure gold: the playwright will concern himself with the due usage of the weapon as we know it, and attribute to it no transcendent value, no miraculous properties. What is permissible to Blake, painting Adam and Eve among embowering roses and lilies, while the sun, moon, and stars simultaneously shine, is impermissible to the portrait-painter or the landscapist, who has to idealise actuality to the point only of artistic realism, and not to transmute it at the outset from happily-perceived concrete facts to a glorified abstract concept.

In this opening monologue the much-admired song, “All service ranks the same with God,” is no song at all, properly, but simply a beautiful short poem. From the dramatist’s point of view, could anything be more shaped for disaster than the second of the two stanzas?

“Say not ‘a small event!’ Why ‘small’?
Costs it more pain than this, ye call
A ‘great event,’ should come to pass,
Than that? Untwine me from the mass
Of deeds which make up life, one deed
Power shall fall short in or exceed!”

The whole of this lovely prologue is the production of a dramatic poet, not of a poet writing a drama. On the other hand, I cannot agree with what I read somewhere recently that Sebald’s song, at the opening of the most superb dramatic writing in the whole range of Victorian literature, is, in the circumstances, wholly inappropriate. It seems to me entirely consistent with the character of Ottima’s reckless lover. He is akin to the gallant in one of Dumas’ romances, who lingered atop of the wall of the prison whence he was escaping in order to whistle the concluding bar of a blithe chanson of freedom. What is, dramatically, disastrous in the instance of Mertoun singing “There’s a woman like a dewdrop,” when he ought to be seeking Mildred’s presence in profound stealth and silence, is, dramatically, electrically startling in the mouth of Sebald, among the geraniums of the shuttered shrub-house, where he has passed the night with Ottima, while her murdered husband lies stark in the adjoining room.

It must, however, be borne in mind that this thrilling dramatic effect is fully experienced only in retrospection, or when there is knowledge of what is to follow.

A conclusive objection to the drama as an actable play is that three of the four main episodes are fragmentary. We know nothing of the fate of Luigi: we can but surmise the future of Jules and Phene: we know not how or when Monsignor will see Pippa righted. Ottima and Sebald reach a higher level in voluntary death than they ever could have done in life.

It is quite unnecessary, here, to dwell upon this exquisite flower of genius in detail. Every one who knows Browning at all knows “Pippa Passes.” Its lyrics have been unsurpassed, for birdlike spontaneity and a rare high music, by any other Victorian poet: its poetic insight is such as no other poet than the author of “The Ring and the Book” and “The Inn Album” can equal. Its technique, moreover, is superb. From the outset of the tremendous episode of Ottima and Sebald, there is a note of tragic power which is almost overwhelming. Who has not known what Jakob Boehme calls “the shudder of a divine excitement” when Luca’s murderer replies to his paramour,

“morning?
It seems to me a night with a sun added.”

How deep a note, again, is touched when Sebald exclaims, in allusion to his murder of Luca, that he was so “wrought upon,” though here, it may be, there is an unconscious reminiscence of the tenser and more culminative cry of Othello, “but being wrought, perplext in the extreme.” Still more profound a touch is that where Ottima, daring her lover to the “one thing that must be done; you know what thing: Come in and help to carry,” says, with affected lightsomeness, “This dusty pane might serve for looking-glass,” and simultaneously exclaims, as she throws them rejectingly from her nervous fingers, “Three, four four grey hairs!” then with an almost sublime coquetry of horror turns abruptly to Sebald, saying with a voice striving vainly to be blithe

“Is it so you said
A plait of hair should wave across my neck?
No this way.”

Who has not been moved by the tragic grandeur of the verse, as well as by the dramatic intensity of the episode of the lovers’ “crowning night”?

“Ottima. The day of it too, Sebald! When heaven’s pillars seemed o’erbowed with heat, Its black-blue canopy suffered descend Close on us both, to weigh down each to each, And smother up all life except our life. So lay we till the storm came.

Sebald. How it came!

Ottima. Buried in woods we lay, you recollect; Swift ran the searching tempest overhead; And ever and anon some bright white shaft Burned thro’ the pine-tree roof, here burned and there, As if God’s messenger thro’ the close wood screen Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture, Feeling for guilty thee and me: then broke The thunder like a whole sea overhead ”

Surely there is nothing in all our literature more poignantly dramatic than this first part of “Pippa Passes.” The strains which Pippa sings here and throughout are as pathetically fresh and free as a thrush’s song in the heart of a beleaguered city, and as with the same unconsidered magic. There is something of the mavis-note, liquid falling tones, caught up in a moment in joyous caprice, in

“Give her but a least excuse to love me!
When where ”

No one of these songs, all acutely apt to the time and the occasion, has a more overwhelming effect than that which interrupts Ottima and Sebald at the perilous summit of their sin, beyond which lies utter darkness, behind which is the narrow twilit backward way.

“Ottima. Bind it thrice about my brow;
Crown me your queen, your spirit’s arbitress,
Magnificent in sin. Say that!

Sebald. I crown you
My great white queen, my spirit’s arbitress,
Magnificent..

[From without is heard the voice of PIPPA singing ]

The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearled;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn:
God’s in his heaven
All’s right with the world! [PIPPA passes,

Sebald. God’s in his heaven! Do you hear that?
Who spoke?”

This sweet voice of Pippa reaches the guilty lovers, reaches Luigi in his tower, hesitating between love and patriotic duty, reaches Jules and Phene when all the happiness of their unborn years trembles in the balance, reaches the Prince of the Church just when his conscience is sore beset by a seductive temptation, reaches one and all at a crucial moment in the life of each. The ethical lesson of the whole poem is summed up in

“All service ranks the same with God
With God, whose puppets, best and worst,
Are we: there is no last nor first,”

and in

“God’s in his heaven
All’s right with the world!”

“With God there is no lust of Godhood,” says Rossetti in “Hand and Soul”: Und so ist der blaue Himmel grosser als jedes Gewoelk darin, und dauerhafter dazu, meditates Jean Paul: “There can be nothing good, as we know it, nor anything evil, as we know it, in the eye of the Omnipresent and the Omniscient,” utters the Oriental mystic.

It is interesting to know that many of the nature touches were indirectly due to the poet’s solitary rambles, by dawn, sundown, and “dewy eve,” in the wooded districts south of Dulwich, at Hatcham, and upon Wimbledon Common, whither he was often wont to wander and to ramble for hours, and where he composed one day the well-known lines upon Shelley, with many another unrecorded impulse of song. Here, too, it was, that Carlyle, riding for exercise, was stopped by ’a beautiful youth,’ who introduced himself as one of the philosopher’s profoundest admirers.

It was from the Dulwich wood that, one afternoon in March, he saw a storm glorified by a double rainbow of extraordinary beauty; a memorable vision, recorded in an utterance of Luigi to his mother: here too that, in autumnal dusks, he saw many a crescent moon with “notched and burning rim.” He never forgot the bygone “sunsets and great stars” he saw in those days of his fervid youth. Browning remarked once that the romance of his life was in his own soul; and on another occasion I heard him smilingly add, to some one’s vague assertion that in Italy only was there any romance left, “Ah, well, I should like to include poor old Camberwell!” Perhaps he was thinking of his lines in “Pippa Passes,” of the days when that masterpiece came ebullient from the fount of his genius

“May’s warm slow yellow moonlit summer nights
Gone are they, but I have them in my soul!”

There is all the distinction between “Pippa Passes” and “Sordello” that there is between the Venus of Milos and a gigantic Theban Sphinx. The latter is, it is true, proportionate in its vastness; but the symmetry of mere bulk is not the symmetria prisca of ideal sculpture. I have already alluded to “Sordello” as a derelict upon the ocean of poetry. This, indeed, it still seems to me, notwithstanding the well-meaning suasion of certain admirers of the poem who have hoped “I should do it justice,” thereby meaning that I should eulogise it as a masterpiece. It is a gigantic effort, of a kind; so is the sustained throe of a wrestling Titan. That the poem contains much which is beautiful is undeniable, also that it is surcharged with winsome and profound thoughts and a multitude of will-o’-the-wisp-like fancies which all shape towards high thinking.

But it is monotonous as one of the enormous American inland seas to a lover of the ocean, to whom the salt brine is as the breath of delight. The fatal facility of the heroic couplet to lapse into diffuseness, has, coupled with a warped anxiety for irreducible concision, been Browning’s ruin here.

There is one charge even yet too frequently made against “Sordello,” that of “obscurity.” Its interest may be found remote, its treatment verbose, its intricacies puzzling to those unaccustomed to excursions from the familiar highways of old usage, but its motive thought is not obscure. It is a moonlit plain compared with the “silva oscura” of the “Divina Commedia.”

Surely this question of Browning’s obscurity was expelled to the Limbo of Dead Stupidities when Mr. Swinburne, in periods as resplendent as the whirling wheels of Phoebus Apollo’s chariot, wrote his famous incidental passage in his “Essay on Chapman.”

Too probably, in the dim disintegrating future which will reduce all our o’ertoppling extremes, “Sordello” will be as little read as “The Faerie Queene,” and, similarly, only for the gleam of the quenchless lamps amid its long deserted alleys and stately avenues. Sadly enough, for to poets it will always be an unforgotten land a continent with amaranth-haunted Vales of Tempe, where, as Spenser says in one of the Aeclogues of “The Shepherd’s Calendar,” they will there oftentimes “sitten as drouned in dreme.”

It has, for those who are not repelled, a charm all its own. I know of no other poem in the language which is at once so wearisome and so seductive. How can one explain paradoxes? There is a charm, or there is none: that is what it amounts to, for each individual. Tutti ga, i so gusti, e mi go i mii “everybody follows his taste, and I follow mine,” as the Venetian saying, quoted by Browning at the head of his Rawdon Brown sonnet, has it.

All that need be known concerning the framework of “Sordello,” and of the real Sordello himself, will be found in the various Browning hand-books, in Mr. Nettleship’s and other dissertations, and, particularly, in Mrs. Ball’s most circumspect and able historical essay. It is sufficient here to say that while the Sordello and Palma of the poet are traceable in the Cunizza and the strange comet-like Sordello of the Italian and Provencal Chronicles (who has his secure immortality, by Dante set forth in leonine guise a guisa di león quando si posa in the “Purgatorio"), both these are the most shadowy of prototypes. The Sordello of Browning is a typical poetic soul: the narrative of the incidents in the development of this soul is adapted to the historical setting furnished by the aforesaid Chronicles. Sordello is a far more profound study than Aprile in “Paracelsus,” in whom, however, he is obviously foreshadowed. The radical flaw in his nature is that indicated by Goethe of Heine, that “he had no heart.” The poem is the narrative of his transcendent aspirations, and more or less futile accomplishment.

It would be vain to attempt here any adequate excerption of lines of singular beauty. Readers familiar with the poem will recall passage after passage among which there is probably none more widely known than the grandiose sunset lines:

“That autumn eve was stilled:
A last remains of sunset dimly burned
O’er the far forests, like a torch-flame turned
By the wind back upon its bearer’s hand
In one long flare of crimson; as a brand,
The woods beneath lay black.” ...

What haunting lines there are, every here and there such as those of Palma, with her golden hair like spilt sunbeams, or those on Elys, with her

“Few fine locks
Coloured like honey oozed from topmost rocks
Sun-blanched the livelong summer,” ...

or these,

“Day by day
New pollen on the lily-petal grows,
And still more labyrinthine buds the rose ”

or, once more,

“A touch divine
And the sealed eyeball owns the mystic rod;
Visibly through his garden walketh God ”

But, though sorely tempted, I must not quote further, save only the concluding lines of the unparalleled and impassioned address to Dante:

“Dante, pacer of the shore

Where glutted hell disgorgeth filthiest gloom,
Unbitten by its whirring sulphur-spume,
Or whence the grieved and obscure waters slope
Into a darkness quieted by hope;
Plucker of amaranths grown beneath God’s eye
In gracious twilights where his chosen lie ”

It is a fair land, for those who have lingered in its byways: but, alas, a troubled tide of strange metres, of desperate rhythms, of wild conjunctions, of panic-stricken collocations, oftentimes overwhelms it. “Sordello” grew under the poet’s fashioning till, like the magic vapour of the Arabian wizard, it passed beyond his control, “voluminously vast.”

It is not the truest admirers of what is good in it who will refuse to smile at the miseries of conscientious but baffled readers. Who can fail to sympathise with Douglas Jerrold when, slowly convalescent from a serious illness, he found among some new books sent him by a friend a copy of “Sordello.” Thomas Powell, writing in 1849, has chronicled the episode. A few lines, he says, put Jerrold in a state of alarm. Sentence after sentence brought no consecutive thought to his brain. At last the idea occurred to him that in his illness his mental faculties had been wrecked. The perspiration rolled from his forehead, and smiting his head he sank back on the sofa, crying, “O God, I am an idiot!” A little later, adds Powell, when Jerrold’s wife and sister entered, he thrust “Sordello” into their hands, demanding what they thought of it. He watched them intently while they read. When at last Mrs. Jerrold remarked, “I don’t understand what this man means; it is gibberish,” her delighted husband gave a sigh of relief and exclaimed, “Thank God, I am not an idiot!”

Many friends of Browning will remember his recounting this incident almost in these very words, and his enjoyment therein: though he would never admit justification for such puzzlement.

But more illustrious personages than Douglas Jerrold were puzzled by the poem. Lord Tennyson manfully tackled it, but he is reported to have admitted in bitterness of spirit: “There were only two lines in it that I understood, and they were both lies; they were the opening and closing lines, ‘Who will may hear Sordello’s story told,’ and ’Who would has heard Sordello’s story told!’” Carlyle was equally candid: “My wife,” he writes, “has read through ‘Sordello’ without being able to make out whether ‘Sordello’ was a man, or a city, or a book.”

In an article on this poem, in a French magazine, M. Odysse Barot quotes a passage where the poet says “God gave man two faculties” and adds, “I wish while He was about it (pendant qu’il était en train) God had supplied another viz., the power of understanding Mr. Browning.”

And who does not remember the sad experience of generous and delightful Gilead P. Beck, in “The Golden Butterfly”: how, after “Fifine at the Fair,” frightful symptoms set in, till in despair he took up “Red Cotton Nightcap Country,” and fell for hours into a dull comatose misery. “His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was pushed in disorder about his head, his cheeks were flushed, his hands were trembling, the nerves in his face were twitching. Then he arose, and solemnly cursed Robert Browning. And then he took all his volumes, and, disposing them carefully in the fireplace, set light to them. ‘I wish,’ he said, ’that I could put the poet there too.’” One other anecdote of the kind was often, with evident humorous appreciation, recounted by the poet. On his introduction to the Chinese Ambassador, as a “brother-poet,” he asked that dignitary what kind of poetic expression he particularly affected. The great man deliberated, and then replied that his poetry might be defined as “enigmatic.” Browning at once admitted his fraternal kinship.

That he was himself aware of the shortcomings of “Sordello” as a work of art is not disputable. In 1863, Mrs. Orr says, he considered the advisability of “rewriting it in a more transparent manner, but concluded that the labour would be disproportionate to the result, and contented himself with summarising the contents of each ‘book’ in a continuous heading, which represents the main thread of the story.”

The essential manliness of Browning is evident in the famous dedication to the French critic Milsand, who was among his early admirers. “My own faults of expression were many; but with care for a man or book such would be surmounted, and without it what avails the faultlessness of either? I blame nobody, least of all myself, who did my best then and since.”

Whatever be the fate of “Sordello,” one thing pertinent to it shall survive: the memorable sentence in the dedicatory preface “My stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul: little else is worth study.”

The poem has disastrous faults, but is a magnificent failure. “Vast as night,” to borrow a simile from Victor Hugo, but, like night, innumerously starred.