THE BROWNING CENTENARY.

Otago Witness, Issue 3033, 1 May 1912, Page 80

THE BROWNING CENTENARY.

By C. Oscar Palmer.

MAY 7, 1912.

That tlie robust optimism of Robert Browning should have Been contemporaneous with the metaphysical melancholy of Alfred Tennyson, the canine-like meanings of Matthew Arnold, is quite in the line of Nature, for never yet has she or he left himself without a witness, an ; age without its mystic, or a people without their prophet, one who can say with truth— The rest may reason and welcome, 'Tis we musicians know. Burns, Shelley, Byron, smashers of the outworn gods, had, unfortunately, passed in before they had outlived the follie of youth ere yet their constructive energies had borne fruit, and, save for Wordsworth, Britain was without its master mind. The inspired ploughman, the dauntless traveller, the melodious visionary—Mrs Grundy could point to their mental aberrations, their personal weaknesses, and, holding up her hands in holy horror, could brush tlieir fervid utterances aside as low, unchristian, or revolutionary. But' the spendthrift bard who, living, wrought for bread, was honoured now with unavailing stones, the untimely ashes of Shelley lay in far-off Italy, and Byron, who went out with scorn, was carried back, and slept with England’s honoured dead. When a youth of 20 years he slipped out evenings unobserved of his parents to correct" the proofs of a little volume he was publishing, thanks to his aunt, as a surprise for them. (But 14 copies of that first publication, “Pauline,” are now said to exist, and Maggs Bros., dealers in old and rare books, etc., are asking £2OO for one little volume, so much aro they prized. Fortunate, we think, was the yo.uth to find a publisher so soon, and on such obtuse accounts as A FRAGMENT OF A CONFESSION. - They came to me in my first dawn of life, Which passed alone with wisest ancient books All halo-girt with fancies of miy own; And I myself went with the tale —a god Wandering after beauty, or a giant Standing vast in the sunset —an old hunter Talking with gods, or a high-crested chief, Sailing with troops of friends to Tenedos, I tell you, nought has ever been so clear As the place, the time, the fashion of those lives: And nothing ever will surprise me now— Wire stood beside the naked swift-footed, Who bound my forelxead with Proserpine’s hair. soon to be referred to by the “indolent reviewer ” as a piece of pure bewilderment. Not so, however! Much better would it have been for young Browning then, and for his would-be admirers now, had he been set to task in the school of necessity, so to attune his music to the general comprehension ; or it may have been that drudgery would have crushed, for later on we find “ Robert’s noor back very bad over a little clay modelling.” “ Pauline,” favourably reviewed by John Stuart Mill, who had just started Tennyson’s reputation, was followed by “ Paraclesus,” a poem of great power anil much promise. In completed man begins anew A tendency to God. Prognostics told Mian’s near approach; so in man’s self arise | August anticipations, symbols, types Of a dim splendour ever on liefore, In that eternal circle run by life: For men begin to pass tlieir nature’s bound, And find new hopes and oares which fast ; supplant | Their proper joys and griefs, and outgrow all j The narrow creeds of right and wrong, which fade j Before the unmeasured thirst for good; while 1 peace Rises within them ever more and more. | In 1840 appeared the much-criticised , and seldom-comprehended “ Sordellq.” It j may be that Browning lias the best of i the commonplaces, the smile of the learned societies. But pore, puzzle, ponder, and speculate as they will But few will hear Sordello’a story told. They turn over to “ Pippa Passes,” with her sweet refrain — Morning’s at seven, The hillside’s dew-pearled God’s in his heaven — All’s right with the world. whose day of innocent freedom wrought so much. * The learned societies did not then expound the obscurities of Browning. They left him—as learned societies and institutes will to such general readers as he could obtain, and slowly but surely he came into his own, for “ Bells and Pomegranates ” as they appeared announced the man, the poet, the maker; the “Ring and the Book” affirmed the master. “ How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix ” is the rhyme of a ride worthy of Australasia’s Gordon : Not a word to each oilier; wo kept the great

pace Neck by neck stride by stride, never changing our place; Though why under such stress Roland should have been burdened with the rider's hufferat, holsters, and jackboots is still a puzzle to me. “The Confessional” and “A Woman’s Last Word ” led on to “ Home Thoughts From Abroad ” and “ Homo Thoughts From the Sea ” : When “ Sunset ran one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay. And bluish ’mid the burning water full in face Trafalgar lay.” Thence to “ Aht Vogler” and to “Rabbi Ben Ezra,” the psalm for the age.

. But someone worth a host of general reader's, Miss Elizabeth Barrett, the gifted poetess, tells in her “ Lady Geraldine’s Courtship ” how the young Read from Browning some “Pomegranate,” , which, if cut deep down the middle, Shows a heart within blood-tincturod, of a viewed humanity. -Through the good offices of her cousin, John Kenyon Browning entered into correspondence with the young lady, and

later met her where she was confined, an invalid, to her father’s house. Barrett, a tyrant, could not bear anyone making love to his ’ daughter, and these great kindred spirits wrote and loved in silence until such time as Robert, despairing of -winning a willing father-in-law, persuaded the lady to a private marriage and a journey to his beloved Italy. The brutality of her father must have cut him to the heart. With the poet’s love and the freer life, Mrs Browning’s health improved, and three years after her marriage their only child, Robert Wiedemana Barrett Browning, was born at Cara Guidi, Florence. Her love for her husband is beautifully immortalised in her “Sonnets from the Portuguese.’’ I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely as they turn from Praise j I love thee with the passion put to us© In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith; I love thee with a love I seemed to lose Wth my lost saints, —I love thee with the breath. Smiles, tears of all my life! —and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. Yet, even despite that wifely love, Browning had to undergo the mental torture, the spirit-searing that must have been his as he watched his wife giving way to the fascinations of clairvoyance and the arts of “ Mr Sludge, the medium.” The devoted John Kenyon left substantial sums to his cousin and her husband when he died, and from 1856 until 1861 their lives were beyond the need of thriftinees. Then Robert Browning was left to the great desolation of widowerhood, and his salvation became work. From 1871 until “ Asolander ” was published, on the day of his death, December 12, 1889, he worked steadily on, true to his own verse. One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right was worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, Sleep to wake. Westminster Abbey shrines no more sacred dust than his, and the learned societies (thank God they wakened in time) paid tribute to one well worthy of their honours. Browning’s obscurities are only on the surface. To the spirit attuned to the deeper melodies his appeal is strong, true, and deep. The marvellous settings to many of his pieces, such as “ A Death in the Desert,” seem almost supernatural. At a time when much of the old faith seems inadequate for our closer knowledge of Nature, Browning is here to inspire trust in the eternal Purpose, Power, and Love. As he' sings in RABBI BEN EZRA. Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The laet of life for which the first was made;' Our times aire in His hand Who raid “A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid.” Then welcome each rebuff That turns earth’s smoothness rough. Each sting that bids nor sit, nor stand, bw» go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive and hold cheap the strain ; ■Loam, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! Lo! All that is at all. Lasts ever,' past recall; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure; .What entered into thee. That was, is, and shall be: Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure. God take and use Thy work! Amend what flaws may lurk, What strain o’ the stuff, what warpings part the aim! My times be in Thy hand! Perfect the cup as planned! Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same.