BROWNING AND DOGMA

LONDON: GEORGE BELL AND SONS PORTUGAL ST. LINCOLN’S INN, W.C. CAMBRIDGE: DEIGHTON, BELL & CO. NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO. BOMBAY: A. H. WHEELER & CO.

BROWNING AND DOGMA

SEVEN LECTURES ON BROWNING’S ATTITUDE TOWARDS DOGMATIC RELIGION

BY ETHEL M. NAISH (FORMERLY SCHOLAR OF NEWNHAM COLLEGE, CAMB. HIST. TRIPOS)

LONDON GEORGE BELL AND SONS 1906

[Pg vii]

ERRATA

Page 32, line 21, for “four hundred years” read “five hundred.”

Page 39, line 11, for “men to become” read “man.”

Page 71, line 30, for “interval of six years, in 1847” read “four years, in 1845.”

Page 71, line 31, for “1853” read “1851.”

[Pg 1]

LECTURE IINTRODUCTORY, AND CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS

[Pg 2]

[Pg 3]

BROWNING AND DOGMA

LECTURE I INTRODUCTORY, AND CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS

He at least believed in Soul, was very sure of God.[1]

To this faith, to this assurance, 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[Pg 4] 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 assurance

’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, passing 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 [Pg 5]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 asserts “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 Salève added confidence to the Epilogue which

constitutes so fitting a close to the life’s work. The assertion “I believe in God and Truth and Love,” expressed through the medium of the lover of Pauline, finds its echo in the more direct personal assertion of the concluding lines of La Saisiaz, “He believed in Soul, was very sure of God.” 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 identity in that of an Andrea and a Pippa, of a Caliban and a S. John; of assuming 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[Pg 6] 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 attitude 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[Pg 7] 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 title 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 assumption be made, no assertion 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 illustrative or explanatory of Browning’s attitude towards that which we have designated dogmatic religion, one only, La Saisiaz, the latest in point of[Pg 8] 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 substitution 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[Pg 9] 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 passed 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 assumed 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 attitude 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 pass to one, the classification of which appears to be usually regarded as less obvious, judging from the criticisms of commentators. How far the decision[Pg 10] 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[Pg 11] of human life as exemplified by the attitude of Lazarus towards things temporal, an attitude 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 Göttingen 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 assertion 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 passage from the Psalms (l, 21) which stands beneath the title: “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[Pg 12] 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 gods 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 title 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,[Pg 13] 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-assurance 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,[Pg 14] increases by repression the force of passions struggling for an outlet to which conventionality bars the way.