BROWNING AND DOGMA

LECTURE I
INTRODUCTORY, AND CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS

He at least believed in Soul, was very sure of God.[1]

To this faith, to this assurance, is largely attributable the influence unquestionably possessed by Browning as a teacher in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. For the intentionally didactic element in the work may not honestly be ignored in whatever degree it is held to militate against artistic merit. Amid the throng of seekers after Truth in the world of poetry, Browning stands pre-eminent as one who not only sought Truth, but, having gained what he held to be Truth, kept it as “the sole prize of Life.” Poets of the school of thought of which Matthew Arnold and A. H. Clough may perhaps be regarded as among the more prominent exponents, are able to give no even approximately satisfying answer to the questionings bound inevitably to arise, at some time or other, in all minds whose energies are not dissipated by a too ready compliance with the demands of the hour. In certain moods their work appeals to us irresistibly, but the appeal is one of sympathy with doubt rather than of suggestion of solution. The author of Obermann may indeed in “hours of gloom” remind us that there have been “hours of insight”; that the individual soul, though through prolonged struggle and effort alone, may “mount hardly to eternal life.” The consolation he would offer to spiritual depression is that of self-dependence. Nature may soothe, but is powerless to satisfy; the appeal to her is answered by that which, although “severely clear,” is but “an air-born voice,” directing the enquirer back upon himself—

Resolve to be thyself, and know that he
Who finds himself loses his misery.[2]

So, too, Clough, sympathizing fully with doubt, may in his more inspired moments speak of hope and of the assurance

’Tis better to have fought and lost
Than never to have fought at all.

Although from his pen has come at least one short poem[3] worthy in invigorating force of the faith of Browning himself, yet the note of defeat rather than the ring of triumph is more generally characteristic of his language. Tennyson had splendid glimpses of the Truth, passing visions of glory; yet here, too, the vision was but transitory, the full glory evanescent.

The continued popularity of In Memoriam is undoubtedly due in large measure to the fact that the author has there given poetic utterance to those questionings and aspirations of the human soul, peculiar to no time or place, to no nation or form of creed—to the cry wrung from the heart when inexorable Death brings with it the hour of separation. There is in truth a triumphant note towards the close of In Memoriam: the child of the fifty-fourth stanza “crying in the night, and with no language but a cry,” though yet crying in the night, becomes in the final section (stanza cxxiv) a child “who knows his father near.” But even when the heart rises triumphantly, and in defiance of the arguments of reason asserts “I have felt,” the faith so expressed is not the faith of Browning. Beyond all the temporary darkness of La Saisiaz we recognize that the author of Asolando is speaking nothing more than the truth when he tells us that he “never doubted clouds would break.” The dispersal of the clouds gathered over La SalÈve added confidence to the Epilogue which constitutes so fitting a close to the life’s work. The assertion “I believe in God and Truth and Love,” expressed through the medium of the lover of Pauline, finds its echo in the more direct personal assertion of the concluding lines of La Saisiaz, “He believed in Soul, was very sure of God.” This was the irreducible minimum of Browning’s creed. How much more he held as absolute, soul-satisfying truth it is the design of this and the six following lectures to determine.

And here at once on the threshold of our investigation we are confronted by the difficulty inseparable from any consideration of Browning’s literary work; the difficulty of eliminating the dramatic and gauging the extent of the purely personal element. Although, as was inevitable, such difficulty has been universally recognized by critics and students, yet the very strength of the dramatic power has in many cases proved misleading. Browning has too completely lost himself in his subject. In the writings of the man capable of merging his personal identity in that of an Andrea and a Pippa, of a Caliban and a S. John; of assuming positions as opposed as those of a Guido and a Caponsacchi, it is a sufficiently simple matter to discover opinions supporting directly or indirectly any individual line of thought. To him who seeks with intent to obtain such confirmation may the promise be fairly made

As is your sort of mind
So is your sort of search; you’ll find
What you desire.[4]

Moreover, whilst the obscurity of the writing has been the subject of too general comment, the frequently elusive character of the meaning may be liable to escape notice. A certain course of thought having been detected is accepted to the exclusion of an even more important undercurrent only now and again rising to the surface. Despite the difficulties attendant upon a genuine study of Browning, both from the frequently recondite character of the subject and the amount of literary or historical knowledge demanded of the reader, comparatively slight attempt has so far been made towards a detailed treatment of individual poems such as that, for example, accorded to the plays of Shakespeare. And yet such concentrative labour possesses the highest value as a protection against misconstruction arising from a too hastily formed conception of the relative proportions of personal intention and dramatic presentation. Having once fallen into the error of accepting an under-estimate (an over-estimate is rarely possible) of the histrionic element in certain avowedly dramatic soliloquies, there is danger lest the temptation of seeking amongst others confirmation of the theory thus suggested should prove too strong for our literary honesty.

Any investigation as to Browning’s attitude towards religion in the wider acceptation of the term—as that which relates to the spiritual element in human nature and life—must of necessity be co-extensive with his work. For him to whom “the development of a soul” was the object alone worthy the devotion of the intellectual faculties, it was inevitable that to the consideration of this spiritual element his mind should continually revert. From Pauline to Asolando it is hardly too much to say such consideration is never absent. With the addition to the title of our subject of the term dogmatic, the scope of the inquiry is at once narrowed, whilst the difficulty of ascertaining fairly the position is possibly proportionately increased, since the writer, who has been designated “the most Christian poet of the century,” is claimed by Unitarians as their own. It is, therefore, of especial importance in dealing with the subject that no assumption be made, no assertion advanced, unsupported by adequate proof. The direct statements of the few non-dramatic poems afford us, however, some vantage-ground whence to begin our advance: for the rest, progress must be made through careful comparison of the dramatic poems as to subject and treatment, (we may not judge of one poem apart from the rest) recognizing that the dramatic character of the soliloquy does not necessarily exclude, as it does not necessarily imply, an expression of the author’s own opinions. When, therefore, we find the same theme perpetually treated through the medium of different externals, when we are met by similar expressions of belief emanating from the various soliloquists of the Dramatis Personae and the Men and Women Series, we may not unreasonably hold ourselves to possess fair prima facie evidence that in a theory so treated is centred much of the interest of the writer; in the arguments deduced is to be accepted a more or less definite expression of the writer’s own belief, or at least of that form of creed to which he is most strongly attracted.

Of the five poems chosen as illustrative or explanatory of Browning’s attitude towards that which we have designated dogmatic religion, one only, La Saisiaz, the latest in point of time, is non-dramatic in character. Between the other four a line of connection is easily established, since all deal with different aspects of the same subject regarded through different media. If, then, beginning with the lowest link of the chain, we gain by means of a consideration of Caliban some realization of the dramatic feats which Browning could accomplish at pleasure, we shall find less difficulty in distinguishing between the dramatic and personal elements in Christmas Eve and Easter Day where the line of demarcation is more finely drawn.

In Caliban upon Setebos (from the Men and Women Series of 1855) is presented the lowest conception of a Deity and of his dealings with the world and humanity, as evolved by a being incapable of aspiration, satisfied with existing conditions in so far, although in so far only, as they afford opportunity for material gratification. With Cleon follows the substitution of the Greek conception of life at the beginning of the Christian era, speculations as to the design of Zeus in his intercourse with man. The speculator, at once poet, musician, artist, to whom have been accessible all the stores of Greek philosophy and Greek culture, feels inevitably the necessity for the existence of a Deity differing from that of the monster of Prospero’s isle. Nevertheless to the Greek thinker the immortality of the soul is not yet more than a vague suggestion, the outcome of desire. His world has come into touch, but at its extreme edge, with the recently promulgated tenets of Christianity. To this inhabitant of “the sprinkled isles” the teaching of the Apostles of Galilee is so far “a doctrine to be held by no sane man”: and yet his very yearning, nay, even his reasonable deductions from the experience of life, point to the need of “doctrines” such as those which he now deems impossible of credence. Of the character of the changes separating the world of religious thought of Blougram from that of Cleon, suggestions are afforded by the Epilogue to the Dramatis Personae. The Christianity which Cleon criticized from afar has, by the date of the Bishop’s Apology, become the creed of the civilized world. Not only has the time passed when

The Temple filled with a cloud,
Even the House of the Lord,
Porch bent and pillar bowed:
For the presence of the Lord,
In the glory of His Cloud,
Had filled the House of the Lord. (Epilogue, Dram. Pers.)

But more than this, the simplicity of the earlier faith is at an end. Past, too, are those mediaeval days when the faith of a prelate of the Church would have been assumed without question by the lay world. Both stages of development have been left behind, but the yet later condition has not been attained when scepticism shall cause as little comment as did the childlike faith of the Middle Ages: a condition defined by the lament of Renan—

Gone now! All gone across the dark so far,
Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, shutting still,
Dwindling into the distance, dies that star
Which came, stood, opened once! (Epilogue, Dram. Pers.)

Bishop Blougram’s Apology is a possible exposition of the religious attitude of a professing Christian of the nineteenth century. It matters little whether his form of creed be that of Anglican or Roman Catholic: his position as a dignitary of the Church alone compels apology. From these unquestionably dramatic poems we pass to one, the classification of which appears to be usually regarded as less obvious, judging from the criticisms of commentators. How far the decision of the soliloquist in Christmas Eve may be justly held as that of Browning himself is a question requiring separate and careful consideration (to be given in the Sixth Lecture). Here it is sufficient to notice that, entering the confines of dogmatic religion, in this poem has found more immediate expression that which we may fairly deem one principle, at least, of the teaching which its author would impress upon his public; that in no one form of creed is the Divine influence to be exclusively found; that wherever love dwells, in however limited a degree, there, too, may with confidence be sought the Presence of the Supreme Love. In Easter Day the discussion is again transferred to a wider plane and deals with the individual difficulties involved in an unconditional acceptance of Christianity itself—difficulties in the end not only acknowledged as inevitable, but thankfully accepted by the speaker as essential to the strengthening of personal faith, to the advancement of individual development. Finally, with La Saisiaz we are brought face to face unmistakably with the struggle, with the doubts and yearnings of Browning himself at a critical hour of life, twelve years before the end—a struggle whence he was ultimately to issue with faith in the fundamental articles of his belief confirmed and deepened.

Of other poems bearing more or less directly upon the subject, the most notable as well as the most familiar, are probably Rabbi Ben Ezra, An Epistle of Karshish, and A Death in the Desert. Of these, Rabbi Ben Ezra, in its treatment of the theory of asceticism and of the working out of the design of the perfect unity of the individual human life, goes further afield and carries us beyond the limits of any definite dogma: though on the ascetic side it may serve as comment on some of the conclusions of Easter Day. An Epistle of Karshish embodies two of Browning’s favourite themes: (1) the essentially probationary character of human life as exemplified by the attitude of Lazarus towards things temporal, an attitude at once becoming super-human through a revelation obviating the necessity for faith; (2) the collateral suggestions contained in the estimate of Christianity conceived by the Arab physician. Of these, the first may be well employed as a comparison with the final decision of Easter Day, the second with the references of Cleon to the Apostolic teaching. A Death in the Desert offers but another form of refutation of the results of the German methods of Biblical criticism represented by the teaching of the GÖttingen Professor of Christmas Eve. Direct declarations of faith such as those contained in Prospice and the Epilogue to Asolando serve but as confirmation of the assertion standing at the head of this Lecture.

To a superficial consideration the first of the dramatic poems is not pre-eminently attractive, nor as a soliloquist is Caliban attractive in the ordinary acceptation of the term as an appeal to the senses affording distinctly pleasurable sensations. But the attraction peculiar to the grotesque in any form is here present in a marked degree: an attraction frequently stronger than that exerted by the purely beautiful, involving as it does a more direct intellectual appeal; since grotesqueness, whether in Nature or in Art, does not usually denote simplicity. And Caliban is by no means a simple being, rather is he a singularly remarkable creation even for the genius of Browning. As we know, the idea suggested itself whilst the poet was reading The Tempest, when there flashed through his mind the passage from the Psalms (l, 21) which stands beneath the title: “Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself.” In a recognition of the full significance of this fact may be found the key to all seeming inconsistencies which have evoked criticisms describing the poem from its theological aspect as a “monstrous Bridgewater treatise,”[5] and “a fragment of Browning’s own Christian apologetics,” the “reasoning” of Caliban as “an initial absurdity,”[6] whilst Caliban himself is designated “a savage with the introspective powers of a Hamlet and the theology of an Evangelical clergyman”[7]—the entire scheme of this “wonderful” work being even summarized as a “design to describe the way in which a primitive nature may at once be afraid of its gods and yet familiar with them.”[8] There is perhaps more to be said for the poem than the suggestions involved in any or all of these comments. A protracted investigation as to how far Browning’s Caliban is an immediate development of the Caliban of The Tempest would be beside the main object of these Lectures; but for an understanding of the value to be reasonably attached to the soliloquy it is essential to estimate as fairly as may be possible the character, intellectual and moral, of the soliloquist, since Caliban’s conception of his Creator must necessarily be influenced by the limitations of his own powers, whether physical or mental. For here, as elsewhere in the dramatic poems, Browning has completely identified himself with his soliloquist. How far, therefore, we are justified in claiming for Caliban’s theology the title of “a fragment of Browning’s own Christian apologetics” can only be decided by a careful consideration and a comparison with work not avowedly dramatic in character.

Reading again those scenes of The Tempest, in which Caliban plays a part, we become more than ever convinced that the Caliban of the poem is but the Caliban of the play seen through the medium of Browning’s phantasy. This, however, is not equivalent to the admission of simplicity as a characteristic of this strange being, merely is it a recognition that the potentialities existent in Shakespeare’s Caliban are nearer to becoming actualities in the Caliban of Browning. Caliban’s may, indeed, be the nature of a primitive being, but the nature is not, therefore, simple; to the peculiarly complex character of his personality is due the main interest of the poem—curiously undeveloped in some departments of his nature, the moral sense appears to be almost non-existent, he is, nevertheless, an imaginative creature with a distinct poetic and artistic vein in his composition. Whilst Prospero’s estimate of him seems to have been a fairly accurate one:

The most lying slave
Whom stripes may move, not kindness;

as Mr. Stopford Brooke has pointed out “his very cursing is imaginative”[9]—

As wicked dew as e’er my mother brushed
With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen
Drop on you both. (Act I, Sc. ii.)

And it is Caliban who appreciates the music of Ariel which to Trinculo and Stephano, products of civilization so-called, is a thing fearful as the work of the devil.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. (Act III, Sc. ii.)

Such is the re-assurance offered by the “man-monster” of Shakespeare. But the Caliban of Browning is yet in his primitive condition, untouched by contact with the outer world as represented even by these dregs of a civilization which, whilst checking the expression of the brutish instinct, increases by repression the force of passions struggling for an outlet to which conventionality bars the way.

To the Caliban of The Tempest Prospero rather than Setebos is the immediate author of the evils of his environment. He has not yet reached the stage of formulated speculation with regard to the character of his mother’s god—to which Browning’s Caliban shows himself to have attained. And it is worthy of notice that the Caliban of the poem does not accept without examination such information as he has received from Sycorax concerning Setebos. Only after due consideration does he advance his own ideas (not according with those of Sycorax) on the subject; proving himself thus capable not merely of imagination but of reasoning; his intellect is alive whatever limitations may be assigned to its capacity for exercise. Although no immediate evidence is afforded of the capabilities of Shakespeare’s Caliban in the regions of abstract thought, yet of the potential existence of the ratiocinative faculty sufficient testimony is afforded by his attitude towards the supernatural powers of Prospero, by his scheme for rendering the new-comers instruments, subserving his own interests in his designs against his employer and tyrant—all this clearly the outcome of something more than a mere brute cunning.

With these aspects of the character of Caliban before him as ground-work, Browning has developed his poem; and in the twenty-three opening lines, introductory to the definite reflections concerning Setebos, are discoverable evidences of all the characteristics of the Caliban of The Tempest. Browning has done nothing without intention, and we are here prepared, or should be prepared, for what is to follow later in the poem. Here the “man-monster” is described as sprawling in the mire, in the enjoyment of such comfort as may be derived from the sunshine in the heat of the day: the sensuous side of the nature finding its satisfaction in

Kicking both feet in the cool slush

and feeling

About his spine small eft things course,
Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh. (ll. 5, 6.)

At the same time is recognizable the artistic element in the composition—for not only does he enjoy

A fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,

but he

Looks out o’er yon sea which sunbeams cross
And recross till they weave a spider-web
(Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times.) (ll. 11-14.)

Here is assuredly the language of no mere savage! Compare with this the later descriptions of the inhabitants of the island as assigned to Setebos (ll. 44-55). No mere dry category of animal life, it suggests the result of the observations of a mind at once poetic and imaginative.

Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech,
Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam,
That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown
He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye
By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue
That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm,
And says a plain word when she finds her prize,
But will not eat the ants: the ants themselves
That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks
About their hole.

Not because this is the work of a poet, but because it is the work of a dramatic poet do we get these lines: and Browning has unquestionably, I think, given its character to this earlier passage with intention. He would suggest that this element—poetic and imaginative—in Caliban’s nature must of necessity influence his conception of his Deity.

But whilst emphasis is thus given to the sensuous and artistic aspects of the character of this most complex being, by these introductory lines is more than suggested the obliquity of the moral nature—this, too, influencing, as is inevitable, its theology. Deception is to the Caliban of Browning as to the Caliban of Shakespeare, the very breath of life. His pleasure in inactivity is vastly intensified by the consciousness that he is thereby defrauding Prospero and Miranda of the fruits of his labours.

It is good to cheat the pair, and gibe,
Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech. (ll. 22, 23.)

Immediately combined with this is the form of cowardice distinctive of the lowest moral grade, the cowardice which would insult whilst occupying a position of security, but which grovels before the object of its antipathy as soon as it sees reason to fear approaching vengeance. To the mere physical pleasure of basking in the sunlight is added not alone the negative gratification of the consciousness of defrauding his employer, but the more active enjoyment of soliloquizing concerning “that Setebos whom his dam called God.” And why? With the sole purpose of affording him annoyance. In the winter-time such discussion might prove dangerous to the speaker, as Caliban possesses an insurmountable dread of that “cold” so powerful a weapon in the hands of his Deity. Even in summer he deems it desirable to avoid a too openly offered challenge to Setebos; hence the employment throughout his soliloquy of the third person, singular, in a curious attempt to mislead his hearer.

And what according to Browning’s theory as expressed elsewhere are we to expect of the god of this untaught, half-savage being, morally undeveloped, with artistic and poetic faculties already awakening? More or less will it necessarily be the outcome of his own experiences. A commentary on that familiar passage which S. John in A Death in the Desert (ll. 412-419) puts into the mouth of the objector to the truth of the facts of Christianity, who would regard the conception of the Godhead as subjective rather than objective in character. First in the history of the race came the ascription to the Deity of hands, feet, and bodily parts; then followed the human passions of pride and anger. Finally, all yield to the higher attributes of “power, love, and will,” these succeeding to and supplanting the earlier characteristics. In his imaginary answer the Evangelist is represented as attributing these changes of conception to the necessity of growth in human nature whereby man uses such aids to his development as may be attainable. The Truth itself remaining unaltered and unalterable, man obtains from time to time fuller glimpses thereof, the greater superseding, even apparently falsifying, the less. Caliban, uniting the two earlier conceptions of the Deity—as a being possessed of bodily parts and human passions—offers but the merest suggestion of any further and higher development. Yet there are such indirect, should we rather say negative, suggestions observable towards the close of the poem.

To Setebos is assigned as a dwelling-place “the cold o’ the moon,” possibly because the speaker feels it satisfactory that the god whom he fears should be at what he deems a distance sufficiently remote from his own habitation; partly also because to him “the cold o’ the moon” or, indeed, any cold, is suggestive of intensely disagreeable sensations, and to his unsatisfactory environment he ascribes the attempts of Setebos towards creation as designed to effect a change in his own condition. All things animate or inanimate inhabiting the island have been, according to Caliban, the work of Setebos. What still lies beyond the range of his creative power? Not the sun, as might have been anticipated, since to Caliban its agency is purely beneficial, and its influence apparently of limitless extent; not the sun, “clouds, winds, meteors,” but the stars. These “came otherwise,” how or by what means the soliloquist is unable to determine.

Then arises the further question. If, indeed, Setebos is the author of the visible creation, what has been the motive instigating him to the work? In accordance with Caliban’s experience of his own nature, it is impossible that any motive other than self-interest in some form or another should have actuated the Creator: hence he attributes the design to the discomfort of the dwelling-place “in the cold o’ the moon.” Nevertheless, even after the creation of the sun its warmth proved insufficient for comfort, the god failed to enjoy “the air he was not born to breathe.” Again, in the constitution of the animate beings inhabiting the island he strove to realize (so says Caliban) “what himself would fain in a manner be.” Hence the creatures made by Setebos are “weaker in most points” than is the god himself, yet “stronger in a few.” A theory suggesting an interesting comparison with the arguments by which David in Saul deduces the necessity of an Incarnation. Caliban ascribes to Setebos the power of originating faculties which he does not himself possess, and which in the nature of things he might, therefore, be deemed incapable of realizing. The illustration or comparison offered is that of Caliban’s own imagined occupation in an idle moment, when the idea occurs to him to make a bird of clay, endowing it with the power of flight, a power not numbered amongst his own capabilities. Thus he holds that Setebos, too, may create living beings, bestowing upon them faculties which he is himself incapable of exercising, making them, though, “weaker in some points, stronger in a few.” To the more cultivated intelligence of the Hebrew psalmist, as represented by Browning, such theory is untenable. That “the creature [should] surpass the Creator—the end what Began”[10] is as incomprehensible as it is illogical. Love existent in the creature is to David proof sufficient of the existence of love in the Creator. So thinks not Caliban. And yet with the curious inconsistency marking the reasoning of the slowly developing intellect, Setebos is represented as mocking his creatures whilst envying the capabilities with which he has gifted them. Thus:

So brave, so better though they be,
It nothing skills if He begins to plague. (ll. 66, 67.)

As the creation has been the result of mere wantonness, so the recognition of all appeal from created beings to the Creator will be governed by the same caprice. As with Caliban’s imagined dealings with his clay bird, he would do good or ill accordingly

As the chance were this might take or else
Not take my fancy. (ll. 90-91.)

So also is the action of the Deity towards his creation in all relations of life. He has elected Prospero for a career of “knowledge and power,” and, as his servant judges, one of supreme comfort, whilst he has appointed Caliban, equally deserving—in his own estimation—to hold the position of slave.

He hath a spite against me, that I know,
Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why? (ll. 202-203.)

Power which is irresponsible is exercised in a manner wholly capricious. There is no more satisfactory explanation of the dealings of Setebos with his creatures than that which Caliban can offer for his own treatment of the crabs

That march now from the mountain to the sea,

when he may

Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first,
Loving not, hating not, just choosing so. (ll. 101-103.)

Of one thing the savage deems himself assured, again judging from the pettiness which he finds existent in his own nature. Of one thing he is assured—that the wrath of the god is most readily to be kindled through envy, envy of the very objects of his own creation. A display of happiness is the surest method of incurring his vengeance; therefore

Even so, ’would have Him misconceive, suppose
This Caliban strives hard and ails no less,
And always, above all else, envies Him: (ll. 263-265.)

a belief inherent in all pre-Christian creeds in intimate connection with the doctrine of sacrifice, the place of which in the theology of Caliban must receive separate consideration. So does Herakles warn Admetus against indulgence in a supreme happiness,

Only the rapture must not grow immense:
Take care, nor wake the envy of the Gods.[11]

Thus will Caliban in spite kill two flies, basking “on the pompion-bell above,” whilst he gives his aid to

Two black painful beetles [who] roll their ball
On head and tail as if to save their lives. (ll. 260-261.)

Such are, according to Browning, some of the main features of the “Natural Theology in the Island,” suggesting conditions of life at once depressing and degrading: no satisfaction for the present but in deception of the over-ruling power, the sole hope for the future, that this dread being may tire of his early creation and hence relax his malicious watch in favour of a new and distant world, made “to please him more.” It is not difficult to conceive of such a creed as the outcome of deductions from the teaching of Sycorax, who held that “the Quiet” was the virtual creator, the work of Setebos being limited to disturbing and “vexing” these creations of the Quiet. In this aspect Setebos would appear as representative of the powers of evil. And of great interest in any study of Browning are the suggestions resulting from Caliban’s treatment of the subject. (1) He holds that the author of evil must be supreme. That the Quiet, had he been the creator, could unquestionably, and, therefore, would most certainly have rendered his creatures of strength sufficient to be impervious to the attacks of Setebos. Therefore he attributes the weaknesses of humanity to design on the part of a creator who would wantonly torment.

His dam held that the Quiet made all things
Which Setebos vexed only: ’holds not so.
Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex.
Had He meant other, while His hand was in,
Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick,
Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow,
Or overscale my flesh ’neath joint and joint,
Like an orc’s armour? Ay,—so spoil His sport! (ll. 170-177.)

(2) Again, and later in the poem, he treats Setebos—or Evil—not merely as a negative aspect of good, but as that which may in time become transmuted into good. He may

Surprise even the Quiet’s self
Some strange day—or, suppose, grow into it
As grubs grow butterflies. (ll. 246-248.)

(3) One further alternative suggests itself—and this yet more probable—that evil may finally be overcome of good, or may of itself become inoperative.

That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch
And conquer Setebos, or likelier He
Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die. (ll. 281-283.)Two or three less obvious thoughts may not be omitted in any consideration of a poem containing much which is characteristic of Browning’s work wherever found. From the theology of Caliban inevitably results the doctrine of sacrifice, though in its lowest, crudest form. Since that condition most likely to excite the wrath of Setebos, as we have already had occasion to notice, is the happiness of his creations, Caliban would, therefore, present himself as a creature full of misery, moaning even in the sun; only in secret rejoicing that he is making Setebos his dupe. Should he be discovered in his deception, in order to avoid the greater evil attendant on the expression of the god’s wrath, he would of his own will submit to the lesser ill;

Cut a finger off,
Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best,
Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree,
Or push my tame beast for the orc to taste. (ll. 271-274.)

A sacrifice the outcome of fear. Spare me, and I will do all to appease thy wrath. Into the midst of the meditations of Caliban breaks the thunder-storm, and what he has depicted as a possible event of the future has become a present danger.

White blaze,
A tree’s head snaps—and there, there, there, there, there,
His thunder follows! Fool to gibe at Him! (ll. 289-291.)

The prospective vows are now made in earnest.

’Lieth flat and loveth Setebos!
’Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip,
Will let those quails fly, will not eat this mouth
One little mess of whelks, so he may ’scape. (ll. 292-295.)

Sacrifice as distinguished from or opposed to the principle of self-sacrifice. Whilst self-sacrifice, self-abnegation, self-suppression—call it what we may—marks the crowning height of spiritual attainment, scaled alone by the few, and those the pioneers and saviours of the race, all early forms of religion bear witness to the existence of this belief in sacrifice—the propitiation of the Deity—as an element inherent in human nature, whether embodied in the legend of Polycrates, in the vow of Jacob at Bethel,[12] or in that condition of his descendants when in accordance with the prophetic denunciation[13] sacrifice had superseded mercy and burnt-offerings constituted a substitute for the knowledge of God. Again and again on different soil, amid men of alien races, the principle of sacrifice is found reappearing throughout history. As the enthusiasm of self-sacrifice becomes enfeebled, by a retrograde process of moral development the barren growth of sacrifice would appear to thrive. The echo of the unquestioning outcry, “God wills it,” had died away when, in the crusading vows of the later era of the movement, expression was too frequently given to the theory of sacrifice. How far may the one be regarded as the outcome of the other, the higher the development of the lower instinct? When man has learned

To know even hate is but a mask of love’s
To see a good in evil, and a hope
In ill-success;[14]

then, too, may the links between sacrifice and self-sacrifice become apparent. Along this line of connection we have to pass in traversing the ground between Caliban and Easter Day.

And what place does the creed of the unwilling slave of Setebos accord to the life beyond the grave? Will the future, if future there be, prove but an indefinite prolongation of the present? From the evils of this life the groveller in the mud sees no escape. He has discarded that tenet of his mother’s creed which included a theory of retribution after death when Setebos “both plagued enemies and feasted friends.” Such theory would indeed have been wholly inconsistent with that which represented the god as indifferent to his creatures, as utterly capricious in his dealings for good or ill—whereby he may be said to have neither enemies nor friends. No, poor Caliban, brutal and selfish, can but hold that “with the life, the pain shall stop.” What satisfaction to be derived from the continuance of a loveless existence? Without love, life to the author of Caliban upon Setebos would have lost its use, would be fearful of contemplation; the “can it be, and must, and will it?” of La Saisiaz[15] finds no faintest echo on Prospero’s isle. In the one case the utterances are the utterances of Caliban, in the other those of Browning himself. From the calculations of the one the doctrine of immortality is as inevitably excluded as it is inevitably included in those of the other.

Finally, whilst in the various scattered references to “the Quiet” are to be found some of the most striking evidences of the existence of the artistic element in Caliban’s nature—“the something Quiet” which he deems resting “o’er the head of Setebos”

Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief.
········
[The] stars the outposts of its couch; (ll. 132-138.)

yet far more than this is involved in the suggestions of the relations subsisting between the Quiet and Setebos and the creation to which Caliban belongs. The Quiet too far from Caliban’s sphere of existence for him to be in any way affected by it. He only surmises as to its possible influence upon, and ultimate triumph over, Setebos, who partakes sufficiently of his own nature to call forth fear and enmity, who lives in a proximity to His creations which renders advisable the avoidance of any action calculated to excite His wrath. The Quiet, the impersonation of supreme power, is beyond the reach of all the ills attendant upon this lower phase of existence, hence is equally incapable of experiencing joy and grief, since both alike are relative terms. Although here suggested as incidental to Caliban’s reflections, the theory involved is one appearing more or less frequently elsewhere in Browning’s work, notably in A Death in the Desert, and again in Cleon, when it is, however, applied to “the lower and inconscious forms of life.” To the Supreme Power beyond man, as to the world of animal life below, is denied “man’s distinctive mark,” progress. Thus incidentally in these references to the Quiet may be traced a suggestion foreshadowing in a degree, however remote, the necessity of an Incarnation. Not that this outcome of his theories would appear to have found any place in Caliban’s mind; it may possibly indeed be an assumption, wanting sufficient warrant, to assign to Browning himself any definite intention in the matter. Nevertheless, even the suggestion, remote as we may admit it to be, leads up to the argument used by David in Saul in the extremity of his anxiety to relieve the sufferings of the object of his affections. Through sympathy alone may suffering be relieved, and genuine sympathy may be best attained through personal experience of suffering. Humanity suffers, but is unequal to the task of aiding effectively its fellow-sufferers. The Deity, whilst possessing the necessary power, is yet untouched by the sympathy resultant from fellow-feeling. A suffering God! Can this be? Only, therefore, through union of the human with the Divine, through an Incarnation alone, can the relief of human suffering be fully accomplished. Even Caliban feels the need of contact between the Creator and His creatures. The Quiet, incapable of experiencing joy or grief, is also beyond the reach of mortal intercourse or worship. He cannot be God even in the sense in which Setebos is God until, through an approach to His creatures. He experiences something of the sorrows as of the joys of humanity. This in brief is the general course of Browning’s arguments for the reasonable necessity of an Incarnation. The suggestion, if suggestion we may call it, here made constitutes the lowest rung in the ladder which leads us to the confession of S. John.

The acknowledgment of God in Christ
Accepted by thy reason, solves for thee
All questions in the earth and out of it.[16]