Browning's England Part 47

G.o.d who registers the cup Of mere cold water, for his sake To a disciple rendered up, Disdains not his own thirst to slake At the poorest love was ever offered: And because my heart I proffered, With true love trembling at the brim, He suffers me to follow him For ever, my own way,--dispensed From seeking to be influenced By all the less immediate ways That earth, in wors.h.i.+ps manifold, Adopts to reach, by prayer and praise, The garment's hem, which, lo, I hold!"

The vision of high ma.s.s at St. Peters in Rome is the antipode of the little Methodist Chapel. The Catholic Church is the church of all others which has gathered about itself the marvels of art in sculpture, painting and music. As the chapel depressed with its ugliness, the great cathedral entrances with its beauty.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Transfiguration _Fra Angelico_]

X

And so we crossed the world and stopped.

For where am I, in city or plain, Since I am 'ware of the world again?

And what is this that rises propped With pillars of prodigious girth?

Is it really on the earth, This miraculous Dome of G.o.d?

Has the angel's measuring-rod Which numbered cubits, gem from gem, 'Twixt the gates of the New Jerusalem, Meted it out,--and what he meted, Have the sons of men completed?

--Binding, ever as he bade, Columns in the colonnade With arms wide open to embrace The entry of the human race To the breast of ... what is it, yon building, Ablaze in front, all paint and gilding, With marble for brick, and stones of price For garniture of the edifice?

Now I see; it is no dream; It stands there and it does not seem; For ever, in pictures, thus it looks, And thus I have read of it in books Often in England, leagues away, And wondered how these fountains play, Growing up eternally Each to a musical water-tree, Whose blossoms drop, a glittering boon, Before my eyes, in the light of the moon, To the granite lavers underneath.

Liar and dreamer in your teeth!

I, the sinner that speak to you, Was in Rome this night, and stood, and knew Both this and more. For see, for see, The dark is rent, mine eye is free To pierce the crust of the outer wall, And I view inside, and all there, all, As the swarming hollow of a hive, The whole Basilica alive!

Men in the chancel, body and nave, Men on the pillars' architrave, Men on the statues, men on the tombs With popes and kings in their porphyry wombs, All famis.h.i.+ng in expectation Of the main-altar's consummation.

For see, for see, the rapturous moment Approaches, and earth's best endowment Blends with heaven's; the taper-fires Pant up, the winding brazen spires Heave loftier yet the baldachin; The incense-gaspings, long kept in, Suspire in clouds; the organ blatant Holds his breath and grovels latent, As if G.o.d's hus.h.i.+ng finger grazed him, (Like Behemoth when he praised him) At the silver bell's shrill tinkling, Quick cold drops of terror sprinkling On the sudden pavement strewed With faces of the mult.i.tude.

Earth breaks up, time drops away, In flows heaven, with its new day Of endless life, when He who trod, Very man and very G.o.d, This earth in weakness, shame and pain, Dying the death whose signs remain Up yonder on the accursed tree,-- Shall come again, no more to be Of captivity the thrall, But the one G.o.d, All in all, King of kings, Lord of lords, As His servant John received the words, "I died, and live for evermore!"

XI

Yet I was left outside the door.

"Why sit I here on the threshold-stone Left till He return, alone Save for the garment's extreme fold Abandoned still to bless my hold?"

My reason, to my doubt, replied, As if a book were opened wide, And at a certain page I traced Every record undefaced, Added by successive years,-- The harvestings of truth's stray ears Singly gleaned, and in one sheaf Bound together for belief.

Yes, I said--that he will go And sit with these in turn, I know.

Their faith's heart beats, though her head swims Too giddily to guide her limbs, Disabled by their palsy-stroke From propping mine. Though Rome's gross yoke Drops off, no more to be endured, Her teaching is not so obscured By errors and perversities, That no truth s.h.i.+nes athwart the lies: And he, whose eye detects a spark Even where, to man's the whole seems dark, May well see flame where each beholder Acknowledges the embers smoulder.

But I, a mere man, fear to quit The clue G.o.d gave me as most fit To guide my footsteps through life's maze, Because himself discerns all ways Open to reach him: I, a man Able to mark where faith began To swerve aside, till from its summit Judgment drops her d.a.m.ning plummet, p.r.o.nouncing such a fatal s.p.a.ce Departed from the founder's base: He will not bid me enter too, But rather sit, as now I do, Awaiting his return outside.

--'Twas thus my reason straight replied And joyously I turned, and pressed The garment's skirt upon my breast, Until, afresh its light suffusing me, My heart cried--What has been abusing me That I should wait here lonely and coldly, Instead of rising, entering boldly, Baring truth's face, and letting drift Her veils of lies as they choose to s.h.i.+ft?

Do these men praise him? I will raise My voice up to their point of praise!

I see the error; but above The scope of error, see the love.-- Oh, love of those first Christian days!

--Fanned so soon into a blaze, From the spark preserved by the trampled sect, That the antique sovereign Intellect Which then sat ruling in the world, Like a change in dreams, was hurled From the throne he reigned upon: You looked up and he was gone.

Gone, his glory of the pen!

--Love, with Greece and Rome in ken, Bade her scribes abhor the trick Of poetry and rhetoric, And exult with hearts set free, In blessed imbecility Scrawled, perchance, on some torn sheet Leaving Sall.u.s.t incomplete.

Gone, his pride of sculptor, painter!

--Love, while able to acquaint her While the thousand statues yet Fresh from chisel, pictures wet From brush, she saw on every side, Chose rather with an infant's pride To frame those portents which impart Such unction to true Christian Art.

Gone, music too! The air was stirred By happy wings: Terpander's bird (That, when the cold came, fled away) Would tarry not the wintry day,-- As more-enduring sculpture must, Till filthy saints rebuked the gust With which they chanced to get a sight Of some dear naked Aphrodite They glanced a thought above the toes of, By breaking zealously her nose off.

Love, surely, from that music's lingering, Might have filched her organ-fingering, Nor chosen rather to set prayings To hog-grunts, praises to horse-neighings.

Love was the startling thing, the new: Love was the all-sufficient too; And seeing that, you see the rest: As a babe can find its mother's breast As well in darkness as in light, Love shut our eyes, and all seemed right.

True, the world's eyes are open now: --Less need for me to disallow Some few that keep Love's zone unbuckled, Peevish as ever to be suckled, Lulled by the same old baby-prattle With intermixture of the rattle, When she would have them creep, stand steady Upon their feet, or walk already, Not to speak of trying to climb.

I will be wise another time, And not desire a wall between us, When next I see a church-roof cover So many species of one genus, All with foreheads bearing _lover_ Written above the earnest eyes of them; All with b.r.e.a.s.t.s that beat for beauty, Whether sublimed, to the surprise of them, In n.o.ble daring, steadfast duty, The heroic in pa.s.sion, or in action,-- Or, lowered for sense's satisfaction, To the mere outside of human creatures, Mere perfect form and faultless features.

What? with all Rome here, whence to levy Such contributions to their appet.i.te, With women and men in a gorgeous bevy, They take, as it were, a padlock, clap it tight On their southern eyes, restrained from feeding On the glories of their ancient reading, On the beauties of their modern singing, On the wonders of the builder's bringing, On the majesties of Art around them,-- And, all these loves, late struggling incessant, When faith has at last united and bound them, They offer up to G.o.d for a present?

Why, I will, on the whole, be rather proud of it,-- And, only taking the act in reference To the other recipients who might have allowed it, I will rejoice that G.o.d had the preference.

XII

So I summed up my new resolves: Too much love there can never be.

And where the intellect devolves Its function on love exclusively, I, a man who possesses both, Will accept the provision, nothing loth, --Will feast my love, then depart elsewhere, That my intellect may find its share.

In his next experience the speaker learns what the effect of scientific criticism has been upon historical Christianity.

The warfare between science and religion forms one of the most fascinating and terrible chapters in the annals of the development of the human mind. About the middle of the nineteenth century the war became general. It was no longer a question of a skirmish over this or that particular discovery in science which would cause some long-cherished dogma to totter; it was a full battle all along the line, and now that the smoke has cleared away, it is safe to say that science sees, on the one hand, it cannot conquer religion, and religion sees, on the other, it cannot conquer science. What each has done is to strip the other of its untruths, leaving its truths to grow by the light each holds up for the other. Together they advance toward the knowledge of the Most High.

XIII

No sooner said than out in the night!

My heart beat lighter and more light: And still, as before, I was walking swift, With my senses settling fast and steadying, But my body caught up in the whirl and drift Of the vesture's amplitude, still eddying On just before me, still to be followed, As it carried me after with its motion, --What shall I say?--as a path were hollowed, And a man went weltering through the ocean, Sucked along in the flying wake Of the luminous water-snake.

XIV

Alone! I am left alone once more-- (Save for the garment's extreme fold Abandoned still to bless my hold) Alone, beside the entrance-door Of a sort of temple,--perhaps a college, --Like nothing I ever saw before At home in England, to my knowledge.

The tall old quaint irregular town!

It may be ... though which, I can't affirm ... any Of the famous middle-age towns of Germany; And this flight of stairs where I sit down, Is it Halle, Weimar, Ca.s.sel, Frankfort Or Gottingen, I have to thank for 't?

It may be Gottingen,--most likely.

Through the open door I catch obliquely Glimpses of a lecture-hall; And not a bad a.s.sembly neither, Ranged decent and symmetrical On benches, waiting what's to see there; Which, holding still by the vesture's hem, I also resolve to see with them, Cautious this time how I suffer to slip The chance of joining in fellows.h.i.+p With any that call themselves his friends; As these folk do, I have a notion.

But hist--a buzzing and emotion!

All settle themselves, the while ascends By the creaking rail to the lecture-desk, Step by step, deliberate Because of his cranium's over-freight, Three parts sublime to one grotesque, If I have proved an accurate guesser, The hawk-nosed high-cheek-boned Professor.

I felt at once as if there ran A shoot of love from my heart to the man-- That sallow virgin-minded studious Martyr to mild enthusiasm, As he uttered a kind of cough-preludious That woke my sympathetic spasm, (Beside some spitting that made me sorry) And stood, surveying his auditory With a wan pure look, well nigh celestial,-- Those blue eyes had survived so much!

While, under the foot they could not s.m.u.tch, Lay all the fleshly and the b.e.s.t.i.a.l.

Over he bowed, and arranged his notes, Till the auditory's clearing of throats Was done with, died into a silence; And, when each glance was upward sent, Each bearded mouth composed intent, And a pin might be heard drop half a mile hence,-- He pushed back higher his spectacles, Let the eyes stream out like lamps from cells, And giving his head of hair--a hake Of undressed tow, for color and quant.i.ty-- One rapid and impatient shake, (As our own Young England adjusts a jaunty tie When about to impart, on mature digestion, Some thrilling view of the surplice-question) --The Professor's grave voice, sweet though hoa.r.s.e, Broke into his Christmas-Eve discourse.

XV

And he began it by observing How reason dictated that men Should rectify the natural swerving, By a reversion, now and then, To the well-heads of knowledge, few And far away, whence rolling grew The life-stream wide whereat we drink, Commingled, as we needs must think, With waters alien to the source; To do which, aimed this eve's discourse; Since, where could be a fitter time For tracing backward to its prime This Christianity, this lake, This reservoir, whereat we slake, From one or other bank, our thirst?

So, he proposed inquiring first Into the various sources whence This Myth of Christ is derivable; Demanding from the evidence, (Since plainly no such life was liveable) How these phenomena should cla.s.s?

Whether 'twere best opine Christ was, Or never was at all, or whether He was and was not, both together-- It matters little for the name, So the idea be left the same.

Only, for practical purpose's sake, 'Twas obviously as well to take The popular story,--understanding How the inept.i.tude of the time, And the penman's prejudice, expanding Fact into fable fit for the clime, Had, by slow and sure degrees, translated it Into this myth, this Individuum,-- Which, when reason had strained and abated it Of foreign matter, left, for residuum, A man!--a right true man, however, Whose work was worthy a man's endeavor: Work, that gave warrant almost sufficient To his disciples, for rather believing He was just omnipotent and omniscient, As it gives to us, for as frankly receiving His word, their tradition,--which, though it meant Something entirely different From all that those who only heard it, In their simplicity thought and averred it, Had yet a meaning quite as respectable: For, among other doctrines delectable, Was he not surely the first to insist on The natural sovereignty of our race?-- Here the lecturer came to a pausing-place.

And while his cough, like a drouthy piston, Tried to dislodge the husk that grew to him, I seized the occasion of bidding adieu to him, The vesture still within my hand.

XVI

I could interpret its command.

This time he would not bid me enter The exhausted air-bell of the Critic.

Truth's atmosphere may grow mephitic When Papist struggles with Dissenter, Impregnating its pristine clarity, --One, by his daily fare's vulgarity, Its gust of broken meat and garlic; --One, by his soul's too-much presuming To turn the frankincense's fuming And vapors of the candle starlike Into the cloud her wings she buoys on.

Each, that thus sets the pure air seething, May poison it for healthy breathing-- But the Critic leaves no air to poison; Pumps out with ruthless ingenuity Atom by atom, and leaves you--vacuity.

Thus much of Christ does he reject?

And what retain? His intellect?

What is it I must reverence duly?

Poor intellect for wors.h.i.+p, truly, Which tells me simply what was told (If mere morality, bereft Of the G.o.d in Christ, be all that's left) Elsewhere by voices manifold; With this advantage, that the stater Made nowise the important stumble Of adding, he, the sage and humble, Was also one with the Creator.

You urge Christ's followers' simplicity: But how does s.h.i.+fting blame, evade it?

Have wisdom's words no more felicity?

The stumbling-block, his speech--who laid it?

How comes it that for one found able To sift the truth of it from fable, Millions believe it to the letter?

Christ's goodness, then--does that fare better?

Strange goodness, which upon the score Of being goodness, the mere due Of man to fellow-man, much more To G.o.d,--should take another view Of its possessor's privilege, And bid him rule his race! You pledge Your fealty to such rule? What, all-- From heavenly John and Attic Paul, And that brave weather-battered Peter, Whose stout faith only stood completer For buffets, sinning to be pardoned, As, more his hands hauled nets, they hardened,-- All, down to you, the man of men, Professing here at Gottingen, Compose Christ's flock! They, you and I, Are sheep of a good man! And why?

The goodness,--how did he acquire it?

Was it self-gained, did G.o.d inspire it?

Choose which; then tell me, on what ground Should its possessor dare propound His claim to rise o'er us an inch?

Were goodness all some man's invention, Who arbitrarily made mention What we should follow, and whence flinch,-- What qualities might take the style Of right and wrong,--and had such guessing Met with as general acquiescing As graced the alphabet erewhile, When A got leave an Ox to be, No Camel (quoth the Jews) like G, For thus inventing thing and t.i.tle Wors.h.i.+p were that man's fit requital.