ROBERT BROWNING AND J. W. MARSTON. "One midnight dark a Spirit electric came, * "A poet hidden in the light of thought." "The art of the poet is to separate from the fable whatever does not essentially belong to it; whatever, in the daily necessities of real life, and the petty occupations to which they give rise, interrupts the progress of important actions." A. W. SCHLEGEL. Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature. "Break Phantasy, from thy cave of cloud, And spread thy purple wings! Now all thy figures are allowed,' And various shapes of things." BEN JONSON. THE spirit of passionate and imaginative poetry is not dead among us in the "ignorant present "-it is alive, and of great splendour, filling the eyes and ears of those who by nature and study are fitted to receive such influences. If dazzling lines, passages, and scenes, were asked in proof of this, what an array might instantly be selected from the comparatively little known works of Mr. Browning, Mr. Darley, -the author of the "Manuscripts of Erdely," the author of" Festus," and several others still less known. While the struggle of this spirit to ascend visibly from the denser masses around-a struggle understood by so few, interesting to fewer, believed in by fewer still-while this is going on, there is also a struggle of a more practical kind in the field of letters, which is well patronized, greatly assisted, and expected to be successful-the spirit of reality, or of the artistical representation of reality. Such is apparently the creed, as it has hitherto been the practice, of Mr. Marston and many others. This is the principle which is thought to be the true representative of the tendency of the present age; so much easier to understand than the ideal; and so sure eventually of triumphant success. Believing in this, Madame Vestris carpeted and upholstered the stage, and Mr. Macready carried the ruinous error to a still greater extent in his "gettings up." But this principle is not the true representative of the age; it is not understood much better than the ideal and imaginative, though all mechanical-minded men fully believe they can grasp it,-so palpable it seems; and it will not be successful. Hitherto it has always failed. It cannot even obtain a temporary success, for all the spirit of railroads, and all the steam. Their success is no prece The dent for art. Art is in a false position among them. spirit of the Fine Arts cannot be identical with the material forces and improvements of the age, which are progressive -the former is not. Its greatness is self-centered, and revolves in its own proper orbit. The career of the author of "Paracelsus," extending at present over not much more than half the period of Mr. Tennyson, presents different features, some of which appear more fortunate and some less. His reception was comparatively good; we may say very good. Several of those periodicals, in which the critics seem disposed to regard poetry of a superior kind as a thing to be respected and studied, hailed the appearance of Mr. Robert Browning with all the honours which can reasonably be expected to be awarded to a new comer, who is moreover alive. In more than one quarter the young poet was fairly crowned. The less intelligent class of critics spoke of him with praise; guarding their expressions with an eye to retreat, if necessary, at any future time, made various extracts, and set him to grow. The rest did what is usual. Now, this reception was, all things considered, very good and promising; the poet had no enemies banded together to hunt and hoot him down, and he had admirers among the best class of critics. Here was a fine table-land whereon to build a reputation, and to make visible to all men those new fabrics of loveliness and intellectual glory which were manifestly germinating in his brain. Mr. Browning's next production was a tragedy, which, "marvellous to relate," he got acted immediatelyan event quite unprecedented on the modern stage, except with those two or three dramatic authors who have previously passed through the customary delays preceding representation. It succeeded, as the saying is, but was not very attractive, and being printed "as acted," did not advance the poet's reputation. After this, Mr. Browning went to Italy, where he appears to have felt himself far too happy for the work that was before him; his spiritual existence drinking in draughts too deep and potent of the divine air, and all the intense associations of the scenes in which he dwelt, and dreamed, and revelled, to suffer him to apply a steady strength, to master his own impulses, and to subdue the throng of elementary materials, so as to compress them into one definite design, suited to the general understandings of mankind. After a silence of four years, the poet published "Sordello," which has proved, and will inevitably continue to prove, the richest puzzle to all lovers of poetry which was ever given to the world. Never was extraordinary wealth squandered in so extraordinary a manner by any prodigal son of Apollo. Its reception, if not already known to the reader, may be guessed without much difficulty; but the poem has certainly never been fairly estimated. The last publications of Mr. Browning are in a dramatic form and spirit; they were issued at intervals, and we trust will continue the series bearing the title of " Bells and Pomegranates." The public has treated them hitherto, we believe, with less neglect than is usual with dramatic productions which have not been substantiated to the understanding by stage representation, although it is still to be feared that the title of the series has not induced any anticipative sympathy. Mr. Marston's first work was the play of the "Patrician's Daughter," and was the subject of a second" marvel," for this also obtained speedy representation. To this play, as to Mr. Browning's "Strafford," Mr. Macready took a sudden fancy-fatal omen of invariable results! Both of these works are examples of men of genius going astray, the one turning tragedy into a spasmodic skeleton, the other carrying the appointments of what is technically and degradingly termed " a coat-and-breeches comedy" into the tragic arena, and wounding Art with real-life weapons. The play has had some temporary success; but it will only be temporary. Mr. Marston's next work was 66 Gerald," a poem in a dramatic form, illustrative of the old melancholy story of the struggles of Genius with the experiences of the actual world. The subject of Mr. Browning's first work, was in some respects similar; but the struggles of" Paracelsus" are always treated poetically, while those of" Gerald" have a harsh matter-offact tone-for such is the principle of "realizing" in art. "Paracelsus" is evidently the work of a young poet of premature powers-of one who sought to project his imagination beyond the bounds of his future, as well as present, experience, and whose intellect had resolved to master all the results thus obtained. We say the powers were premature, simply because such a design could only be conceived by the most vigorous energies of a spirit just issuing forth with "blazing wings," too full of strength and too far of sight to believe in the ordinary laws and boundaries of mortality. It is the effort of a mind that wilfully forgets, and resolves to set aside its corporeal conditions. Even its possible failure is airily alluded to at the outset, and treated in the same way, not merely as no sort of reason for hesitating to make the attempt to gain "forbidden knowledge," but as a result which is solely referable to the Cause of its own aspirations and impulses. Shall I require to my authentic mission Than this fierce energy? This instinct striving By the security of no broad course Where error is not, but success is sure. That works within me? Is it for human will What full-grown power informs her from the first, Paracelsus, pp. 18, 19. It should be observed that reference is made exclusively to the poet's creation, not to the "Paracelsus" of history. The higher destinies of man, which are conceived by the "Paracelsus" we are contemplating, as attainable on earth. are thus sublimely intimated : "The wide East, where old Wisdom sprung; Paracelsus, p. 20. A Promethean character pervades the poem throughout; in the main design, as well as the varied aspirations and struggles to attain knowledge, and power, and happiness for mankind. But at the same time there is an intense craving after the forbidden secrets of creation, and eternity, and power, which place "Paracelsus" in the same class as "Faust," and in close affinity with all those works, the object of which is an attempt to penetrate the mysteries of existence the infinity within us and without us. Need it be said, that the result is in all the same?-and the baffled magic-the sublime occult-the impassioned poetry-all display the same ashes which were once wings. The form, the mode, the impetus and course of thought and emotion, admit, however, of certain varieties, and "Paracelsus" is an original work. Its aim is of the highest kind; in full accord and harmony with the spirit of the age; and we admit that it has been accomplished, in so far as such a design can well be; for since the object of all such abstractions as Paracelsus must necessarily fail, individually and practically, the true end obtained is that of refining and elevating others, by the contemplation of such efforts, and giving a sort of polarity to the vague impulses of mankind towards the lofty and the beneficent. It also endeavours to sound the depths of existence for hidden treasures of being. Living a long life-dreaming a lofty dream-working and suffering, Paracelsus now lies dead before us! Behold an epitome of the course he ran! Paracelsus aspires. He has a glorious vision of the discovery of hidden knowledge never as yet revealed to man. He believes that if he constantly seeks it, and works for it, he shall attain it; and that, were it not possible, these "vast longings" would not be" sent to direct us." He stands at first, where all aspire at last," and pursues the ever-fleeting "secret of the world," of man and our ultimate destiny. He searches at |