Pomegranates from an English Garden

Robert Browning

Pomegranates from an English Garden / A selection from the poems of Robert Browning

INTRODUCTORY

The name of Robert Browning has been before the world now for fifty years. For the greater part of the time his work has had so little recognition, that one marvels at his courage in going so steadily on with it. His “Pomegranates” have been produced year after year, decade after decade, in unfailing abundance; and, while critics have kept paring at the rind, and the general public has not even asked if there was anything beneath it, he has laboured on with unremitting energy, calmly awaiting the time when “the heart within, blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity,” should be at length discovered. It can scarcely be said, even yet, that that time has come; but it is coming fast. Already he is something more than “the poet’s poet.” Few intelligent people now are content to know one of the master minds of the age simply as the author of “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” as if that were the only thing he had written worth reading!

That the form in which the thought of Browning is cast is altogether admirable, is what none but his most undiscriminating admirers will assert. It is often, unquestionably, rough and forbidding. But there is strength even in its ruggedness; and in its entire freedom from conventionality there is a charm such as one enjoys in wild mountain scenery, even though only in little patches it may have any suggestion of the garden or the lawn. There are those who have charged the poet with affectation of the uncouth and the bizarre; but careful reading will, we think, render it apparent that it is rather his utter freedom from affectation which determines and perpetuates the peculiarities and oddities of his style; that, in fact, the aphorism of Buffon, “le style est l’homme même,” is undoubtedly true as applied to him. It would, of course, be absurd to claim for the pomegranate the bloom and beauty of the peach; but, equally with the other, it is Nature’s gift, and to toss aside a rough-rinded fruit because it needs to be “cut deep down the middle” before its pulp and juices can be reached, is surely far from wise. Even hard nuts are not to be despised, if the kernels are good; and as to Browning’s “nuts,” we have this to say, that not only are they well worth cracking, but there is in the process excellent exercise for the teeth.

This brings us to the alleged “obscurity” of Browning’s writings, which still continues to be the main obstacle to their general appreciation. It is freely admitted that often it is not quite easy, and sometimes very difficult, to understand him; and it is hard for most people to see why he could not make his meaning plainer, and matter for regret to many, who heartily admire him, that he has not done so. That he has taken some pains to this end is evident from what he says in the preface to “Sordello,” written for an edition issued in 1863, twenty-three years after its original publication: “My own faults of expression were many… I blame nobody, least of all myself, who did my best then and since, for I lately gave time and pains to turn my work into what the many might – instead of what the few must – like.” In a later preface (1872) he says, “Nor do I apprehend any more charges of being wilfully obscure, unconscientiously careless, or perversely harsh.” The true explanation of it seems to be what we have already suggested, that he does not think of his audience as he writes, his only care being to express the thought in the way which comes most natural to him. As a dramatist, he can throw himself with abandonment into the persons he represents; but he never seems to think of putting himself in the position of a listener, or, if he does, he assumes too readily that he has a mind of similar texture and grasp to his own. On the other hand, it is fair to say that the difficulty of understanding him arises in great part from the very excellence of his work. The following considerations will illustrate what we mean: —

1. His work is full of thought, and the thought is never commonplace. There is so much of it, and all is so fresh, and therefore unfamiliar, that some mental effort is necessary to grasp it. The following characteristic remark of Bishop Butler, in his preface to the famous Fifteen Sermons, is worth consideration in this connection: “It must be acknowledged that some of the following Discourses are very abstruse and difficult; or, if you please, obscure; but I must take leave to add that those alone are judges, whether or no and how far this is a fault, who are judges, whether or no and how far it might have been avoided – those only who will be at the trouble to understand what is here said, and to see how far the things here insisted upon, and not other things, might have been put in a plainer manner; which yet I am very far from asserting that they could not.”

2. The expression is always the briefest. Not only are no words wasted, but, where connecting ideas are easily supplied, they are often left unexpressed, the intelligence and mental activity of the reader being always taken for granted.

3. The poems are, for the most part, dramatic in principle. The reader is brought face to face with some soul, in its thoughts and emotions, frequently in the very process of the thinking and the feeling. The poet has stepped aside, and of course supplies no key. The author does not appear, like the chorus in a Greek play, to point a moral or explain the situation. The dramatis personæ must explain themselves. And, just as Shakespeare must be studied in order to an appreciation other than second-hand, so must Browning be studied in order to be appreciated at all; for his writings are not yet old enough to secure much second-hand enthusiasm.

4. The wealth of allusion is another source of difficulty. The learning of our poet is encyclopædic; and though there is no display of it, there is large use of it; and it often happens that passages or phrases, which seem crabbed or obscure, require only the knowledge of some unfamiliar fact in science or in history, or it may be something not readily thought of, and yet within easy range of a keen enough observation, to light them up and reveal unsuspected strength or beauty.

Before leaving the subject of the rough and often tough exterior of Browning’s work, it may be interesting to refer to the characteristic illustration of it he has lately given us in the prologue to “Ferishtah’s Fancies,” his most recent work. He begins by asking the reader whether he has ever “eaten ortolans in Italy,” and then goes on to describe the preparation of them. The following lines will show the use he makes of the illustration:

“First comes plain bread, crisp, brown, a toasted square;Then, a strong sage-leaf;(So we find books with flowers dried here and thereLest leaf engage leaf.)First, food – then, piquancy – and last of allFollows the thirdling;Through wholesome hard, sharp soft, your tooth must biteEre reach the birdling.Now, were there only crust to crunch, you’d wince:Unpalatable!Sage-leaf is bitter-pungent – so’s a quince;Eat each who’s able!But through all three bite boldly – lo, the gust!Flavour – no fixture —Flies permeating flesh and leaf and crustIn fine admixture.So with your meal, my poem; masticateSense, sight and song there!Digest these, and I praise your peptics’ state,Nothing found wrong there.”

This extract also furnishes an example of the strange rhymes in which the poet sometimes indulges, with what appears too little refinement of taste.

The themes of Browning’s poetry are the very greatest that can engage the thought of man. He ranges over a vast variety of topic; but, wherever his thought may lead him, he never loses sight of that which is to him the centre of all, the human soul, with its infinite wants and capabilities. In the preface to “Sordello” he says: “The historical decoration was purposely of no more importance than a background requires; and my stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul: little else is worth study. I, at least, always thought so.” To this principle he has kept true through all his work; and hence it is that, whether the particular subject be love, or home, or country; poetry, painting, or music; life, death, or immortality; it is dealt with in its relation to “the development of a soul.” Hence it is that his poetry is so thoroughly and profoundly spiritual, and so exceedingly valuable as a counteractive to the materialism of the age, which ever tends to merge the soul in the body, and swallow up the real in mere phenomena.

As might be expected of one who deals so profoundly with all that he touches, the great reality of the universe to him is God. Agnosticism has little mercy at his hands; if a man knows anything at all, he knows God. And the God whom he knows is not a God apart, looking down from some infinite or indefinite height upon the world, but one in whom all live and move and have their being. Out of this springs, of course, the hope of immortality, and also that bright and cheerful view of life so completely opposed to the dark pessimism to which much of the unbelieving speculation of the present day so painfully tends. The dark things of human life and destiny are by no means ignored; rather are they dwelt on with a painful and sometimes frightful realism; but even amid deepest darkness the light above is never quite extinguished, and some little “Pippa passes” singing:

“The year’s at the springAnd 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.”

There has been much discussion as to Browning’s personal attitude to Christianity. The profoundly Christian tone of his writings is, of course, universally acknowledged; but attempts are sometimes made to evade the force of those numerous passages in which he speaks of the Incarnation, and Death, and Resurrection of the Lord Jesus, in a way which seems to imply his hearty acceptance of the substance of what is known as evangelical truth. Much has been made in this connection of the way in which, in one of his prefaces, he characterises his work as “poetry always dramatic in principle, and so many utterances of so many imaginary persons, not mine;” and it has been asserted that it is as unwarrantable to consider him to be speaking his own sentiments in a poem like “Christmas Eve,” as in one like “Johannes Agricola,” or “Bishop Blougram’s Apology.” The obvious answer is that this profound sympathy with the Christ of God and His salvation is not found in some solitary production, but appears and reappears, often when least expected, all through his works. In that remarkable little poem, entitled “House,” in which more strongly than anywhere else he claims personal privacy, while he declines to be regarded as having furnished his publishers with tickets to view his own soul’s dwelling, he admits that “whoso desires to penetrate deeper” may do so “by the spirit sense;” and accordingly some of his admirers, who dissent from him most strongly on this point, are the most ready to acknowledge that his Christian faith is no stage suit, but the very garment of his soul. As illustration of this we may refer to the admirable essay by the late James Thomson, published in Part II. of the Browning Society’s Papers, in which, after expressing his amazement that a great mind like Browning’s could be Christian, he asserts the, to him, remarkable but quite undeniable fact in these words: “The devout and hopeful Christian faith, explicitly or implicitly affirmed in such poems as Saul, Kharshish, Cleon, Caliban upon Setebos, A Death in the Desert, Instans Tyrannus, Rabbi Ben Ezra, Prospice, the Epilogue, and throughout that stupendous monumental work, The Ring and the Book, must surely be as clear as noonday to even the most purblind vision.”

That a great Christian poet, in an age when so many of the intellectual magnates of the time are hostile or simply silent, should remain unknown or little known to any large proportion of Christian readers, is certainly very much to be regretted. Surely the admiration which is freely and generously accorded to his work by many who are constrained to it in spite of his faith in a Christ whom they reject, is a rebuke to the indifference of those who, sharing his faith, do not give themselves the trouble to inquire what he has to say about it. There are not so many avowed and outspoken Christians in the highest walks of literature that we can afford to pay only slight attention to the utterances of one who has the ear of the deepest thinkers in every school of thought all the world over.

The immediate object of this selection is to supply an introduction to the study of Browning for the benefit of the readers of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle; but it is hoped that many others, inspired with similar aims, and who have not had such advantages that they can dispense with all assistance in the study of a difficult author, may find help from this little book. It is, of course, better to read for one’s self than to follow the guidance of another; and yet it may be necessary to open a path far enough to lead within sight of the treasures in store. This is all that has been attempted here – only the indication of a few veins near the surface of a rich mine, which the reader is strongly recommended to explore for himself.

The selection has been arranged on the principle of beginning with that which is simple, and proceeding gradually to the more complex, with some regard also to variety and progress in subjects, and at the same time to appropriateness for the use of those younger readers for whom this selection mainly is intended.

The notes are meant to serve only as a guide to beginners; and as guides are proverbially an annoyance when their services are imposed unsought, these are disposed at the end of each poem, and without reference marks to mar the pages, so that the selection may be read, if desired, without any interference from the notes.

Within the limits of a volume like this, only the shorter poems could find a place. Most valuable extracts from the longer works might have been given; but this is always a questionable method of dealing with the best writers, with those especially whose thought is strictly consecutive, while the effect of particular passages depends to a large extent on their setting and their relation to the work as a whole. The only1 exception to this is the treatment of “Christmas Eve and Easter Day,” with extracts from which this volume closes. That remarkable work occupies a middle position between the shorter and the longer poems of our author; and, though too long for insertion entire, is yet so important, that it seemed very desirable to give some idea of it. In furnishing a series of extracts from this work, an attempt has been made to reduce the disadvantage above referred to by supplying along with them a slight sketch or “argument,” so as to give some idea, to those unacquainted with it, of the course of thought throughout.

It is right to say that Mr. Browning has given his kind permission for the publication in the United States of this Selection, and also of the Notes, for which, however, as for the selection itself, he is in no wise responsible.

HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD

Oh, to be in England now that April’s there,And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England – now!And after April, when May follows,And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops – at the bent spray’s edge —That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice overLest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And, though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children’s dower– Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

HOME THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-West died away;Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;In the dimmest North-East distance dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;“Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?” – say,Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

The former of these companion poems may have been written from Italy or the south of Spain, as would appear from the last line of it. Mr. E. C. Stedman, one of the severest of Browning’s appreciative critics, commenting (in his “Victorian Poets”) on the lines beginning “That’s the wise thrush,” says: – “Having in mind Shakespeare and Shelley, I nevertheless think these three lines the finest ever written touching the song of a bird.”

In the latter poem, the course is from the southern point of Portugal through the Straits. “Here and here” – the reference is to the battles of Cape St. Vincent (1796) and Trafalgar (1805), and perhaps to the defence of Gibraltar (1782).

“HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD

NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX.”

[16 – .]II sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;“Good speed!” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;“Speed!” echoed the wall to us galloping through;Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,And into the midnight we galloped abreast.IINot a word to each other; we kept the great paceNeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.III’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew nearLokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;At Düffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,So, Joris broke silence with, “Yet there is time!”IVAt Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one,To stare thro’ the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,With resolute shoulders, each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:VAnd his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backFor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye’s black intelligence, – ever that glanceO’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anonHis fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.VIBy Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, “Stay spur!“Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her,“We’ll remember at Aix” – for one heard the quick wheezeOf her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.VIISo, we were left galloping, Joris and I,Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,And “Gallop,” gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight!”VIII“How they’ll greet us!” – and all in a moment his roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weightOf the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.IXThen I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.XAnd all I remember is, friends flocking roundAs I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground;And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

The indefiniteness of the date at the head of this poem will be best explained by the following extract from a letter of Mr. Browning’s, published in 1881 in the Boston Literary World: —

“There is no sort of historical foundation about ‘Good News From Ghent.’ I wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel off the African coast, after I had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse ‘York,’ then in my stable at home.”

This poem, therefore, widely known and appreciated as one of the most stirring in the language, may be regarded as a living picture to illustrate the pages – no page in particular – of Motley.

As parallels in American literature, reference may be made to “Paul Revere’s Ride,” by Longfellow, and “Sheridan’s Ride,” by T. B. Reade.

ECHETLOS

Here is a story, shall stir you! Stand up, Greeks dead and gone,Who breasted, beat Barbarians, stemmed Persia rolling on,Did the deed and saved the world, since the day was Marathon!No man but did his manliest, kept rank and fought awayIn his tribe and file: up, back, out, down – was the spear-arm play:Like a wind-whipt branchy wood, all spear-arms a-swing that day!But one man kept no rank, and his sole arm plied no spear,As a flashing came and went, and a form i’ the van, the rear,Brightened the battle up, for he blazed now there, now here.Nor helmed nor shielded, he! but, a goat-skin all his wear,Like a tiller of the soil, with a clown’s limbs broad and bare,Went he ploughing on and on: he pushed with a ploughman’s share.Did the weak mid-line give way, as tunnies on whom the sharkPrecipitates his bulk? Did the right-wing halt when, starkOn his heap of slain, lay stretched Kallimachos Polemarch?Did the steady phalanx falter? To the rescue, at the need,The clown was ploughing Persia, clearing Greek earth of weed,As he routed through the Sakian and rooted up the Mede.But the deed done, battle won, – nowhere to be descriedOn the meadow, by the stream, at the marsh, – look far and wideFrom the foot of the mountain, no, to the last blood-plashed sea-side, —Not anywhere on view blazed the large limbs thonged and brown,Shearing and clearing still with the share before which – downTo the dust went Persia’s pomp, as he ploughed for Greece, that clown!How spake the Oracle? “Care for no name at all!Say but just this: We praise one helpful whom we callThe Holder of the Ploughshare. The great deed ne’er grows small.”Not the great name! Sing – woe for the great name Míltiadés,And its end at Paros isle! Woe for Themistokles —Satrap in Sardis court! Name not the clown like these!

The name, Echetlos, is derived from ἐχέτλη, a plough handle. It is not strictly a proper name, but an appellative, meaning “the Holder of the Ploughshare.” The story is found in Pausanias, author of the “Itinerary of Greece” (1, 15, 32). Nothing further is necessary in order to understand this little poem and appreciate its rugged strength than familiarity with the battle of Marathon, and some knowledge of Miltiades and Themistocles, the one known as the hero of Marathon, and the other as the hero of Salamis. The lesson of the poem (“The great deed ne’er grows small, not the great name!”) is taught in a way not likely to be forgotten. One is reminded of another, who wished to be nameless, heard only as “the voice of one crying in the wilderness!”

The ellipsis in thought between the eighth and ninth stanzas is so easily supplied that it is noticed here only as a simple illustration of what is sometimes the occasion of difficulty (see Introduction, p. iii). It would only have lengthened the poem and weakened it to have inserted a stanza telling in so many words that when the hero could not be found, a message was sent to the Oracle to enquire who it could be.

As a companion to “Echetlos” may be read the stirring poem of “Hervé Riel.”

HELEN’S TOWER

Ἑλένη ἐπὶ πύργῳWho hears of Helen’s Tower, may dream perchance,How the Greek Beauty from the Scæan GateGazed on old friends unanimous in hate,Death-doom’d because of her fair countenance.Hearts would leap otherwise, at thy advance,Lady, to whom this Tower is consecrate:Like hers, thy face once made all eyes elate,Yet, unlike hers, was bless’d by every glance.The Tower of Hate is outworn, far and strange:A transitory shame of long ago,It dies into the sand from which it sprang:But thine, Love’s rock-built Tower, shall fear no change:God’s self laid stable Earth’s foundations so,When all the morning-stars together sang.

The tower is one built by Lord Dufferin, in memory of his mother Helen, Countess of Gifford, on one of his estates in Ireland. “The Greek Beauty” is, of course, Helen of Troy, and the reference in the alternative heading is apparently to that fine passage in the third book of the “Iliad,” where Helen meets the Trojan chiefs at the Scæan Gate (see line 154, which speaks of “Helen at the Tower”).