BERNARD DE MANDEVILLE

I felt beginThe Judgment-Day: to retrocedeWas too late now. "In very deed,"(I uttered to myself) "that Day!"The intuition burned awayAll darkness from my spirit too:There, stood I, found and fixed, I knew,Choosing the world. The choice was made;And naked and disguiseless stayed,And unevadable, the fact.My brain held all the same compactIts senses, nor my heart declinedIts office; rather, both combinedTo help me in this juncture. ILost not a second,—agonyGave boldness: since my life had endAnd my choice with it—best defend,Applaud both! I resolved to say,"So was I framed by thee, such wayI put to use thy senses here!It was so beautiful, so near,Thy world,—what could I then but chooseMy part there? Nor did I refuseTo look above the transient boonOf time; but it was hard so soonAs in a short life, to give upSuch beauty: I could put the cupUndrained of half its fulness, by;But, to renounce it utterly,—That was too hard! Nor did the cry397Which bade renounce it, touch my brainAuthentically deep and plainEnough to make my lips let go.But Thou, who knowest all, dost knowWhether I was not, life's brief while,Endeavoring to reconcileThose lips (too tardily, alas!)To letting the dear remnant pass,One day,—some drops of earthly goodUntasted! Is it for this mood,That Thou, whose earth delights so well,Hast made its complement a hell?"

A final belch of fire like blood,Overbroke all heaven in one floodOf doom. Then fire was sky, and skyFire, and both, one brief ecstasy,Then ashes. But I heard no noise(Whatever was) because a voiceBeside me spoke thus, "Life is done,Time ends, Eternity's begun,And thou art judged for evermore."

I looked up; all seemed as before;Of that cloud-Tophet overheadNo trace was left: I saw insteadThe common round me, and the skyAbove, stretched drear and emptilyOf life. 'Twas the last watch of night,Except what brings the morning quite;When the armed angel, conscience-clear,His task nigh done, leans o'er his spear398And gazes on the earth he guards,Safe one night more through all its wards,Till God relieve him at his post."A dream—a waking dream at most!"(I spoke out quick, that I might shakeThe horrid nightmare off, and wake.)"The world gone, yet the world is here?Are not all things as they appear?Is Judgment past for me alone?—And where had place the great white throne?The rising of the quick and dead?Where stood they, small and great? Who readThe sentence from the opened book?"So, by degrees, the blood forsookMy heart, and let it beat afresh;I knew I should break through the meshOf horror, and breathe presently:When, lo, again, the voice by me!

I saw.... Oh brother, 'mid far sandsThe palm-tree-cinctured city stands,Bright-white beneath, as heaven, bright-blue,Leans o'er it, while the years pursueTheir course, unable to abateIts paradisal laugh at fate!One morn,—the Arab staggers blindO'er a new tract of death, calcinedTo ashes, silence, nothingness,—And strives, with dizzy wits, to guessWhence fell the blow. What if, 'twixt skiesAnd prostrate earth, he should surpriseThe imaged vapor, head to foot,Surveying, motionless and mute,399Its work, ere, in a whirlwind raptIt vanished up again?—So haptMy chance.Hestood there. Like the smokePillared o'er Sodom, when day broke,—I saw Him. One magnific pallMantled in massive fold and fallHis head, and coiled in snaky swathesAbout His feet: night's black, that bathesAll else, broke, grizzled with despair,Against the soul of blackness there.A gesture told the mood within—That wrapped right hand which based the chin,That intense meditation fixedOn His procedure,—pity mixedWith the fulfilment of decree.Motionless, thus, He spoke to me,Who fell before His feet, a mass,No man now.

"All is come to pass.Such shows are over for each soulThey had respect to. In the rollOf judgment which convinced mankindOf sin, stood many, bold and blind,Terror must burn the truth into:Their fate for them!—thou hadst to doWith absolute omnipotence,Able its judgments to dispenseTo the whole race, as every oneWere its sole object. Judgment done,God is, thou art,—the rest is hurledTo nothingness for thee. This world,This finite life, thou hast preferred,In disbelief of God's plain word,400To heaven and to infinity.Here the probation was for thee,To show thy soul the earthly mixedWith heavenly, it must choose betwixt.The earthly joys lay palpable,—A taint, in each, distinct as well;The heavenly flitted, faint and rare,Above them, but as truly wereTaintless, so, in their nature, best.Thy choice was earth: thou didst attest'Twas fitter spirit should subserveThe flesh, than flesh refine to nerveBeneath the spirit's play. AdvanceNo claim to their inheritanceWho chose the spirit's fugitiveBrief gleams, and yearned, 'This were to liveIndeed, if rays, completely pureFrom flesh that dulls them, could endure,—Not shoot in meteor-light athwartOur earth, to show how cold and swartIt lies beneath their fire, but standAs stars do, destined to expand,Prove veritable worlds, our home!'Thou saidst,—'Let spirit star the domeOf sky, that flesh may miss no peak,No nook of earth,—I shall not seekIts service further!' Thou art shutOut of the heaven of spirit; glutThy sense upon the world: 'tis thineFor ever—take it!"

"How? Is mine,The world?" (I cried, while my soul broke401Out in a transport.) "Hast Thou spokePlainly in that? Earth's exquisiteTreasures of wonder and delight,For me?"

The austere voice returned,—"So soon made happy? Hadst thou learnedWhat God accounteth happiness,Thou wouldst not find it hard to guessWhat hell may be his punishmentFor those who doubt if God inventBetter than they. Let such men restContent with what they judged the best.Let the unjust usurp at will:The filthy shall be filthy still:Miser, there waits the gold for thee!Hater, indulge thine enmity!And thou, whose heaven self-ordainedWas, to enjoy earth unrestrained,Do it! Take all the ancient show!The woods shall wave, the rivers flow,And men apparently pursueTheir works, as they were wont to do,While living in probation yet.I promise not thou shalt forgetThe past, now gone to its account;But leave thee with the old amountOf faculties, nor less nor more,Unvisited, as heretofore,By God's free spirit, that makes an end.So, once more, take thy world! ExpendEternity upon its shows,Flung thee as freely as one roseOut of a summer's opulence,402Over the Eden-barrier whenceThou art excluded. Knock in vain!"

I sat up. All was still again.I breathed free: to my heart, back fledThe warmth. "But, all the world!"—I said.I stooped and picked a leaf of fern,And recollected I might learnFrom books, how many myriad sortsOf fern exist, to trust reports,Each as distinct and beautifulAs this, the very first I cull.Think, from the first leaf to the last!Conceive, then, earth's resources! VastExhaustless beauty, endless changeOf wonder! And this foot shall rangeAlps, Andes,—and this eye devourThe bee-bird and the aloe-flower?

Then the voice, "Welcome so to rateThe arras-folds that variegateThe earth, God's antechamber, well!The wise, who waited there, could tellBy these, what royalties in storeLay one step past the entrance-door.For whom, was reckoned, not so much,This life's munificence? For suchAs thou,—a race, whereof scarce oneWas able, in a million,To feel that any marvel layIn objects round his feet all day;Scarce one, in many millions more,403Willing, if able, to exploreThe secreter, minuter charm!—Brave souls, a fern-leaf could disarmOf power to cope with God's intent,—Or scared if the south firmamentWith north-fire did its wings refledge!All partial beauty was a pledgeOf beauty in its plenitude:But since the pledge sufficed thy mood,Retain it! plenitude be theirsWho looked above!"

Though sharp despairsShot through me, I held up, bore on."What matter though my trust were goneFrom natural things? Henceforth my partBe less with nature than with art!For art supplants, gives mainly worthTo nature; 'tis man stamps the earth—And I will seek his impress, seekThe statuary of the Greek,Italy's painting—there my choiceShall fix!"

"Obtain it!" said the voice,"—The one form with its single act,Which sculptors labored to abstract,The one face, painters tried to draw,With its one look, from throngs they saw.And that perfection in their soul,These only hinted at? The whole,They were but parts of? What each laidHis claim to glory on?—afraid404His fellow-men should give him rankBy mere tentatives which he shrankSmitten at heart from, all the more,That gazers pressed in to adore!'Shall I be judged by only these?'If such his soul's capacities,Even while he trod the earth,—think, now,What pomp in Buonarroti's brow,With its new palace-brain where dwellsSuperb the soul, unvexed by cellsThat crumbled with the transient clay!What visions will his right hand's swayStill turn to forms, as still they burstUpon him? How will he quench thirst,Titanically infantine,Laid at the breast of the Divine?Does it confound thee,—this first pageEmblazoning man's heritage?—Can this alone absorb thy sight,As pages were not infinite,—Like the omnipotence which tasksItself to furnish all that asksThe soul it means to satiate?What was the world, the starry stateOf the broad skies,—what, all displaysOf power and beauty intermixed,Which now thy soul is chained betwixt,—What else than needful furnitureFor life's first stage? God's work, be sure,No more spreads wasted, than falls scant!He filled, did not exceed, man's wantOf beauty in this life. But throughLife pierce,—and what has earth to do,Its utmost beauty's appanage,405With the requirement of next stage?Did God pronounce earth 'very good'?Needs must it be, while understoodFor man's preparatory state;Nought here to heighten nor abate;Transfer the same completeness here,To serve a new state's use,—and drearDeficiency gapes every side!The good, tried once, were bad, retried.See the enwrapping rocky niche,Sufficient for the sleep in whichThe lizard breathes for ages safe:Split the mould—and as light would chafeThe creature's new world-widened sense,Dazzled to death at evidenceOf all the sounds and sights that brokeInnumerous at the chisel's stroke,—So, in God's eye, the earth's first stuffWas, neither more nor less, enoughTo house man's soul, man's need fulfil.Man reckoned it immeasurable?So thinks the lizard of his vault!Could God be taken in default,Short of contrivances, by you,—Or reached, ere ready to pursueHis progress through eternity?That chambered rock, the lizard's world,Your easy mallet's blow has hurledTo nothingness for ever; so,Has God abolished at a blowThis world, wherein his saints were pent,—Who, though found grateful and content,With the provision there, as thou,Yet knew he would not disallow406Their spirit's hunger, felt as well,—Unsated,—not unsatable,As paradise gives proof. DerideTheir choice now, thou who sit'st outside!"

I cried in anguish, "Mind, the mind,So miserably cast behind,To gain what had been wisely lost!Oh, let me strive to make the mostOf the poor stinted soul, I nippedOf budding wings, else now equippedFor voyage from summer isle to isle!And though she needs must reconcileAmbition to the life on ground,Still, I can profit by late foundBut precious knowledge. Mind is best—I will seize mind, forego the rest,And try how far my tethered strengthMay crawl in this poor breadth and length.Let me, since I can fly no more,At least spin dervish-like about(Till giddy rapture almost doubtI fly) through circling sciences,Philosophies and historiesShould the whirl slacken there, then verse,Fining to music, shall asperseFresh and fresh fire-dew, till I strainIntoxicate, half-break my chain!Not joyless, though more favored feetStand calm, where I want wings to beatThe floor. At least earth's bond is broke!"

407

Then, (sickening even while I spoke)"Let me alone! No answer, pray,To this! I know what Thou wilt say!All still is earth's,—to know, as muchAs feel its truths, which if we touchWith sense, or apprehend in soul,What matter? I have reached the goal—'Whereto does knowledge serve!' will burnMy eyes, too sure, at every turn!I cannot look back now, nor stakeBliss on the race, for running's sake.The goal's a ruin like the rest!—And so much worse thy latter quest,"(Added the voice) "that even on earth—Whenever, in man's soul, had birthThose intuitions, grasps of guess,Which pull the more into the less,Making the finite comprehendInfinity,—the bard would spendSuch praise alone, upon his craft,As, when wind-lyres obey the waft,Goes to the craftsman who arrangedThe seven strings, changed them and rechanged—Knowing it was the South that harped.He felt his song, in singing, warped;Distinguished his and God's part: whenceA world of spirit as of senseWas plain to him, yet not too plain,Which he could traverse, not remainA guest in:—else were permanentHeaven on the earth its gleams were meantTo sting with hunger for full light,408—Made visible in verse, despiteThe veiling weakness,—truth by meansOf fable, showing while it screens,—Since highest truth, man e'er supplied,Was ever fable on outside.Such gleams made bright the earth an age;Now the whole sun's his heritage!Take up thy world, it is allowed,Thou who hast entered in the cloud!"

Then I—"Behold, my spirit bleeds,Catches no more at broken reeds,—But lilies flower those reeds above:I let the world go, and take love!Love survives in me, albeit thoseI love be henceforth masks and shows,Not living men and women: stillI mind how love repaired all ill,Cured wrong, soothed grief, made earth amendsWith parents, brothers, children, friends!Some semblance of a woman yetWith eyes to help me to forget,Shall look on me; and I will matchDeparted love with love, attachOld memories to new dreams, nor scornThe poorest of the grains of cornI save from shipwreck on this isle,Trusting its barrenness may smileWith happy foodful green one day,More precious for the pains. I pray,—Leave to love, only!"

409

At the word,The form, I looked to have been stirredWith pity and approval, roseO'er me, as when the headsman throwsAxe over shoulder to make end—I fell prone, letting Him expendHis wrath, while thus the inflicting voiceSmote me. "Is this thy final choice?Love is the best? 'Tis somewhat late!And all thou dost enumerateOf power and beauty in the world,The mightiness of love was curledInextricably round about.Love lay within it and without,To clasp thee,—but in vain! Thy soulStill shrunk from Him who made the whole,Still set deliberate asideHis love!—Now take love! Well betideThy tardy conscience! Haste to takeThe show of love for the name's sake,Remembering every moment Who,Beside creating thee untoThese ends, and these for thee, was saidTo undergo death in thy steadIn flesh like thine: so ran the tale.What doubt in thee could countervailBelief in it? Upon the ground'That in the story had been foundToo much love! How could God love so?'He who in all his works belowAdapted to the needs of man,Made love the basis of the plan,410—Did love, as was demonstrated:While man, who was so fit insteadTo hate, as every day gave proof,—Man thought man, for his kind's behoof,Both could and did invent that schemeOf perfect love: 'twould well beseemCain's nature thou wast wont to praise,Not tally with God's usual ways!"

And I cowered deprecatingly—"Thou Love of God! Or let me die,Or grant what shall seem heaven almost!Let me not know that all is lost,Though lost it be—leave me not tiedTo this despair, this corpse-like bride!Let that old life seem mine—no more—With limitation as before,With darkness, hunger, toil, distress:Be all the earth a wilderness!Only let me go on, go on,Still hoping ever and anonTo reach one eve the Better Land!"

Then did the form expand, expand—I knew Him through the dread disguiseAs the whole God within His eyesEmbraced me.

When I lived again,The day was breaking,—the grey plainI rose from, silvered thick with dew.Was this a vision? False or true?411Since then, three varied years are spent,And commonly my mind is bentTo think it was a dream—be sureA mere dream and distemperature—The last day's watching: then the night,—The shock of that strange Northern LightSet my head swimming, bred in meA dream. And so I live, you see,Go through the world, try, prove, reject,Prefer, still struggling to effectMy warfare; happy that I canBe crossed and thwarted as a man,Not left in God's contempt apart,With ghastly smooth life, dead at heart,Tame in earth's paddock as her prize.Thank God, she still each method triesTo catch me, who may yet escape,She knows,—the fiend in angel's shape!Thank God, no paradise stands barredTo entry, and I find it hardTo be a Christian, as I said!Still every now and then my headRaised glad, sinks mournful—all grows drearSpite of the sunshine, while I fearAnd think, "How dreadful to be grudgedNo ease henceforth, as one that's judged.Condemned to earth for ever, shutFrom heaven!"But Easter-Day breaks! ButChrist rises! Mercy every wayIs infinite,—and who can say?

This poem has often been cited as a proof of Browning's own belief in historical Chris412tianity. It can hardly be said to be more than a doubtful proof, for it depends upon a subjective vision of which the speaker, himself, doubts the truth. The speaker in this poem belongs in the same category with Bishop Blougram. A belief in infinite Love can come to him only through the dogma of the incarnation, he therefore holds to that, no matter how tossed about by doubts. The failure of all human effort to attain the Absolute and, as a consequence, the belief in an Absolute beyond this life is a dominant note in Browning's own philosophy. The nature of that Absolute he further evolves from the intellectual observation of power that transcends human comprehension, and the even more deep-rooted sense of love in the human heart.

Much of his thought resembles that of the English scientist, Herbert Spencer. The relativity of knowledge and the relativity of good and evil are cardinal doctrines with both of them. Herbert Spencer's mystery behind all phenomena and Browning's failure of human knowledge are identical—the negative proof of the absolute,—but where Spencer contents himself with the statement that though we cannot know the Absolute, yet it must transcend all that the human mind has con413ceived of perfection, Browning, as we have already seen, declares that wecanknow something of the nature of that Absolute through the love which we know in the human heart as well as the power we see displayed in Nature.

In connection with this subject, which for lack of space can merely be touched on in the present volume, it will be instructive to round out Browning's presentations of his own contributions to nineteenth-century thought with two quotations, one from "The Parleyings:" "With Bernard de Mandeville," and one from a poem in his last volume "Reverie." In the first, human love is symbolized as the image made by a lens of the sun, which latter symbolizes Divine Love.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Boundingly up through Night's wall dense and dark,Embattled crags and clouds, outbroke the SunAbove the conscious earth, and one by oneHer heights and depths absorbed to the last sparkHis fluid glory, from the far fine ridgeOf mountain-granite which, transformed to gold,Laughed first the thanks back, to the vale's dusk foldOn fold of vapor-swathing, like a bridge414Shattered beneath some giant's stamp. Night wistHer work done and betook herself in mistTo marsh and hollow there to bide her timeBlindly in acquiescence. EverywhereDid earth acknowledge Sun's embrace sublimeThrilling her to the heart of things: since thereNo ore ran liquid, no spar branched anew,No arrowy crystal gleamed, but straightway grewGlad through the inrush—glad nor more nor lessThan, 'neath his gaze, forest and wilderness,Hill, dale, land, sea, the whole vast stretch and spread,The universal world of creatures bredBy Sun's munificence, alike gave praise—All creatures but one only: gaze for gaze,Joyless and thankless, who—all scowling can—Protests against the innumerous praises? Man,Sullen and silent.Stand thou forth then, stateThy wrong, thou sole aggrieved—disconsolate—While every beast, bird, reptile, insect, gayAnd glad acknowledges the bounteous day!

Stand thou forth then, stateThy wrong, thou sole aggrieved—disconsolate—While every beast, bird, reptile, insect, gayAnd glad acknowledges the bounteous day!

Man speaks now:—"What avails Sun's earth-felt thrillTo me? Sun penetrates the ore, the plant—They feel and grow: perchance with subtler skillHe interfuses fly, worm, brute, untilEach favored object pays life's ministrantBy pressing, in obedience to his will,Up to completion of the task prescribed,So stands and stays a type. Myself imbibedSuch influence also, stood and stand complete—The perfect Man,—head, body, hands and feet,415True to the pattern: but does that suffice?How of my superadded mind which needs—Not to be, simply, but to do, and pleadsFor—more than knowledge that by some deviceSun quickens matter: mind is nobly fainTo realize the marvel, make—for senseAs mind—the unseen visible, condense—Myself—Sun's all-pervading influenceSo as to serve the needs of mind, explainWhat now perplexes. Let the oak increaseHis corrugated strength on strength, the palmLift joint by joint her fan-fruit, ball and balm,—Let the coiled serpent bask in bloated peace,—The eagle, like some skyey derelict,Drift in the blue, suspended glorying,—The lion lord it by the desert-spring,—What know or care they of the power which prickedNothingness to perfection? I, instead,When all-developed still am found a thingAll-incomplete: for what though flesh had forceTranscending theirs—hands able to unringThe tightened snake's coil, eyes that could outcourseThe eagle's soaring, voice whereat the kingOf carnage couched discrowned? Mind seeks to see,Touch, understand, by mind inside of me,The outside mind—whose quickening I attainTo recognize—I only. All in vainWould mind address itself to render plainThe nature of the essence. Drag what lurksBehind the operation—that which worksLatently everywhere by outward proof—Drag that mind forth to face mine? No! aloofI solely crave that one of all the beamsWhich do Sun's work in darkness, at my will416Should operate—myself for once have skillTo realize the energy which streamsFlooding the universe. Above, around,Beneath—why mocks that mind my own thus foundSimply of service, when the world grows dark,To half-surmise—were Sun's use understood,I might demonstrate him supplying food,Warmth, life, no less the while? To grant one sparkMyself may deal with—make it thaw my bloodAnd prompt my steps, were truer to the markOf mind's requirement than a half-surmiseThat somehow secretly is operantA power all matter feels, mind only triesTo comprehend! Once more—no idle vaunt'Man comprehends the Sun's self!' MysteriesAt source why probe into? Enough: display,Make demonstrable, how, by night as day,Earth's centre and sky's outspan, all's informedEqually by Sun's efflux!—source from whenceIf just one spark I drew, full evidenceWere mine of fire ineffably enthroned—Sun's self made palpable to Man!"

Thus moanedMan till Prometheus helped him,—as we learn,—Offered an artifice whereby he drewSun's rays into a focus,—plain and true,The very Sun in little: made fire burnAnd henceforth do Man service—glass-conglobedThough to a pin-point circle—all the sameComprising the Sun's self, but Sun disrobedOf that else-unconceived essential flameBorne by no naked sight. Shall mind's eye strive417Achingly to companion as it mayThe supersubtle effluence, and contriveTo follow beam and beam upon their wayHand-breadth by hand-breadth, till sense faint—confessedFrustrate, eluded by unknown unguessedInfinitude of action? Idle quest!Rather ask aid from optics. Sense, descryThe spectrum—mind, infer immensity!Little? In little, light, warmth, life are blessed—Which, in the large, who sees to bless? Not IMore than yourself: so, good my friend, keep stillTrustful with—me? with thee, sage Mandeville!

The second "Reverie" has the effect of a triumphant swan song, especially the closing stanzas, the poem having been written very near the end of the poet's life.

"In a beginning GodMade heaven and earth." Forth flashedKnowledge: from star to clodMan knew things: doubt abashedClosed its long period.Knowledge obtained Power praise.Had Good been manifest,Broke out in cloudless blaze,Unchequered as unrepressed,In all things Good at best—Then praise—all praise, no blame—Had hailed the perfection. No!As Power's display, the sameBe Good's—praise forth shall flowUnisonous in acclaim!418Even as the world its life,So have I lived my own—Power seen with Love at strife,That sure, this dimly shown,—Good rare and evil rife.Whereof the effect be—faithThat, some far day, were foundRipeness in things now rathe,Wrong righted, each chain unbound,Renewal born out of scathe.Why faith—but to lift the load,To leaven the lump, where liesMind prostrate through knowledge owedTo the loveless Power it triesTo withstand, how vain! In flowedEver resistless fact:No more than the passive clayDisputes the potter's act,Could the whelmed mind disobeyKnowledge the cataract.But, perfect in every part,Has the potter's moulded shape,Leap of man's quickened heart,Throe of his thought's escape,Stings of his soul which dartThrough the barrier of flesh, till keenShe climbs from the calm and clear,Through turbidity all between,From the known to the unknown here,Heaven's "Shall be," from Earth's "Has been"?419Then life is—to wake not sleep,Rise and not rest, but pressFrom earth's level where blindly creepThings perfected, more or less,To the heaven's height, far and steep,Where, amid what strifes and stormsMay wait the adventurous quest,Power is Love—transports, transformsWho aspired from worst to best,Sought the soul's world, spurned the worms'.I have faith such end shall be:From the first, Power was—I knew.Life has made clear to meThat, strive but for closer view,Love were as plain to see.When see? When there dawns a day,If not on the homely earth,Then yonder, worlds away,Where the strange and new have birth,And Power comes full in play.

"In a beginning GodMade heaven and earth." Forth flashedKnowledge: from star to clodMan knew things: doubt abashedClosed its long period.

Knowledge obtained Power praise.Had Good been manifest,Broke out in cloudless blaze,Unchequered as unrepressed,In all things Good at best—

Then praise—all praise, no blame—Had hailed the perfection. No!As Power's display, the sameBe Good's—praise forth shall flowUnisonous in acclaim!

418Even as the world its life,So have I lived my own—Power seen with Love at strife,That sure, this dimly shown,—Good rare and evil rife.

Whereof the effect be—faithThat, some far day, were foundRipeness in things now rathe,Wrong righted, each chain unbound,Renewal born out of scathe.

Why faith—but to lift the load,To leaven the lump, where liesMind prostrate through knowledge owedTo the loveless Power it triesTo withstand, how vain! In flowed

Ever resistless fact:No more than the passive clayDisputes the potter's act,Could the whelmed mind disobeyKnowledge the cataract.

But, perfect in every part,Has the potter's moulded shape,Leap of man's quickened heart,Throe of his thought's escape,Stings of his soul which dart

Through the barrier of flesh, till keenShe climbs from the calm and clear,Through turbidity all between,From the known to the unknown here,Heaven's "Shall be," from Earth's "Has been"?

419Then life is—to wake not sleep,Rise and not rest, but pressFrom earth's level where blindly creepThings perfected, more or less,To the heaven's height, far and steep,

Where, amid what strifes and stormsMay wait the adventurous quest,Power is Love—transports, transformsWho aspired from worst to best,Sought the soul's world, spurned the worms'.

I have faith such end shall be:From the first, Power was—I knew.Life has made clear to meThat, strive but for closer view,Love were as plain to see.

When see? When there dawns a day,If not on the homely earth,Then yonder, worlds away,Where the strange and new have birth,And Power comes full in play.

420

ART CRITICISM INSPIRED BY THE ENGLISH MUSICIAN, AVISON

Inthe "Parleying" "With Charles Avison," Browning plunges into a discussion of the problem of the ephemeralness of musical expression. He hits upon Avison to have his colloquy with because a march by this musician came into his head, and the march came into his head for no better reason than that it was the month of March. Some interest would attach to Avison if it were only for the reason that he was organist of the Church of St. Nicholas in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. In the earliest accounts St. Nicholas was styled simply, "The Church of Newcastle-upon-Tyne," but in 1785 it became a Cathedral. This was after Avison's death in 1770. All we know about the organ upon which Avison performed is found in a curious old history of Newcastle by Brand. "I have found," he writes, "no account of any organ in this church during the times of popery though it is very probable there has been one.Aboutthe year 1676,421the corporation of Newcastle contributed £300 towards the erection of the present organ. They added a trumpet stop to it June 22d, 1699."

The year that Avison was born, 1710, it is recorded further that "the back front of this organ was finished which cost the said corporation £200 together with the expense of cleaning and repairing the whole instrument."

June 26, 1749, the common council of Newcastle ordered a sweet stop to be added to the organ. This was after Avison became organist, his appointment to that post having been in 1736. So we know that he at least had a "trumpet stop" and a "sweet stop," with which to embellish his organ playing.

The church is especially distinguished for the number and beauty of its chantries, and any who have a taste for examining armorial bearings will find two good-sized volumes devoted to a description of those in this church, by Richardson. Equal distinction attaches to the church owing to the beauty of its steeple, which has been called the pride and glory of the Northern Hemisphere. According to the enthusiastic Richardson it is justly esteemed on account of its peculiar excellency of design and delicacy of execution one of the finest specimens of architectural beauty in Europe.422This steeple is as conspicuous a feature of Newcastle as the State House Dome is of Boston, situated, as it is, almost in the center of the town. Richardson gives the following minute description of this marvel. "It consists of a square tower forty feet in width, having great and small turrets with pinnacles at the angles and center of each front tower. From the four turrets at the angles spring two arches, which meet in an intersecting direction, and bear on their center an efficient perforated lanthorne, surmounted by a tall and beautiful spire: the angles of the lanthorne have pinnacles similar to those on the turrets, and the whole of the pinnacles, being twelve in number, and the spire, are ornamented with crockets and vanes."

There is a stirring tradition in regard to this structure related by Bourne to the effect that in the time of the Civil Wars, when the Scots had besieged the town for several weeks, and were still as far as at first from taking it, the general sent a messenger to the mayor of the town, and demanded the keys, and the delivering up of the town, or he would immediately demolish the steeple of St. Nicholas. The mayor and aldermen upon hearing this, immediately ordered a certain number of the chiefest of the Scottish prisoners to be carried423up to the top of the tower, the place below the lanthorne and there confined. After this, they returned the general an answer to this purpose,—that they would upon no terms deliver up the town, but would to the last moment defend it: that the steeple of St. Nicholas was indeed a beautiful and magnificent piece of architecture, and one of the great ornaments of the town; but yet should be blown into atoms before ransomed at such a rate: that, however, if it was to fall, it should not fall alone, that the same moment he destroyed the beautiful structure he should bathe his hands in the blood of his countrymen who were placed there on purpose either to preserve it from ruin or to die along with it. This message had the desired effect. The men were there kept prisoners during the whole time of the siege and not so much as one gun fired against it.

Avison, however, had other claims to distinction, besides being organist of this ancient church. He was a composer, and was remembered by one of his airs, at least, into the nineteenth century, namely "Sound the Loud Timbrel." He appears not to be remembered, however, by his concertos, of which he published no less than five sets for a full band of stringed instruments, nor by his424quartets and trios, and two sets of sonatas for the harpsichord and two violins. All we have to depend on now as to the quality of his music are the strictures of a certain Dr. Hayes, an Oxford Professor, who points out many errors against the rules of composition in the works of Avison, whence he infers that his skill in music is not very profound, and the somewhat more appreciative remarks of Hawkins who says "The music of Avison is light and elegant, but it wants originality, a necessary consequence of his too close attachment to the style of Geminiani which in a few particulars only he was able to imitate."

Geminiani was a celebrated violin player and composer of the day, who had come to England from Italy. He is said to have held his pupil, Avison, in high esteem and to have paid him a visit at Newcastle in 1760. Avison's early education was gained in Italy; and in addition to his musical attainments he was a scholar and a man of some literary acquirements. It is not surprising, considering all these educational advantages that he really made something of a stir upon the publication of his "small book," as Browning calls it, with, we may add, its "large title."

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