Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery grey,
CHORUS.—Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

II

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;
Many's the friend there, will listen and pray
"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay—"
CHORUS.—"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

III

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array:
Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,"
CHORUS.—"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

IV

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!
I've better counsellors; what counsel they?"
CHORUS.—"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

THE LOST LEADER

1845

I

Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat—
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed:
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves!
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
—He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

II

We shall march prospering,—not thro' his presence;
Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre;
Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we master his own;
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

The poem Cristina (1842), while not very remarkable as poetry, is notable because it contains thus early in Browning's career, four of his most important doctrines. The more one studies Browning, the more one is convinced that the poet's astonishing mental vigor is shown not in the number and variety of his ideas, but rather in the number and variety of illustrations of them. I can not at this moment think of any poet, dramatist or novelist who has invented so many plots as Browning. He seems to present to us a few leading ideas in a vast series of incarnations. Over and over again the same thoughts, the same doctrines are repeated; but the scenery, the situations, and the characters are never alike. Here is where he remains true to the theory set forth in Transcendentalism; the poet should not produce thoughts but rather concrete images of them; or, as he says in the closing lines of The Ring and the Book, Art must do the thing that breeds the thought.

In Cristina, four of Browning's fundamental articles of faith are expressed: the doctrine of the elective affinities; the doctrine of success through failure; the doctrine that time is measured not by the clock and the calendar, but by the intensity of spiritual experiences; the doctrine that life on earth is a trial and a test, the result of which will be seen in the higher and happier development when the soul is freed from the limitations of time and space.

The expression "elective affinities" as applied to human beings was first brought into literature, I believe, by no less a person than Goethe, who in his novel, published in 1809, which he called Elective Affinities (Wahlverwandschaften), showed the tremendous force which tends to draw together certain persons of opposite sexes. The term was taken from chemistry, where an elective affinity means the "force by which the atoms of bodies of dissimilar nature unite"; elective affinity is then simply a chemical force.

In Goethe's novel, Charlotte thus addresses the Captain: "Would you tell me briefly what is meant here by Affinities?" The Captain replied, "In all natural objects with which we are acquainted, we observe immediately that they have a certain relation." Charlotte: "Let me try and see whether I can understand where you are bringing me. As everything has a reference to itself, so it must have some relation to others." Edward interrupts: "And that will be different according to the natural differences of the things themselves. Sometimes they will meet like friends and old acquaintances; they will come rapidly together, and unite without either having to alter itself at all—as wine mixes with water." Charlotte: "One can almost fancy that in these simple forms one sees people that one is acquainted with." The Captain: "As soon as our chemical chest arrives, we can show you a number of entertaining experiments, which will give you a clearer idea than words, and names, and technical expressions." Charlotte: "It appears to me that if you choose to call these strange creatures of yours related, the relationship is not so much a relationship of blood as of soul or of spirit." The Captain: "We had better keep to the same instances of which we have already been speaking. Thus, what we call limestone is a more or less pure calcareous earth in combination with a delicate acid, which is familiar to us in the form of a gas. Now, if we place a piece of this stone in diluted sulphuric acid, this will take possession of the lime, and appear with it in the form of gypsum, the gaseous acid at the same time going off in vapour. Here is a case of separation: a combination arises, and we believe ourselves now justified in applying to it the words 'Elective Affinity;' it really looks as if one relation had been deliberately chosen in preference to another." Charlotte: "Forgive me, as I forgive the natural philosopher. I can not see any choice in this; I see a natural necessity rather, and scarcely that. Opportunity makes relations as it makes thieves: and as long as the talk is only of natural substances, the choice appears to be altogether in the hands of the chemist who brings the creatures together. Once, however, let them be brought together, and then God have mercy on them." The scientific conversation is summed up by their all agreeing that the chemical term "elective affinities" can properly be applied in analogy to human beings.

An elective affinity as applied to men and women may result in happiness or misery; or may be frustrated by a still superior prudential or moral force. The law of elective affinity being a force, it is naturally unaware of any human artificial obstacles, such as a total difference in social rank, or the previous marriage of one or both of the parties. If two independent individuals meet and are drawn together by the law of elective affinities, they may marry and live happily forever after; if another marriage has already taken place, as in Goethe's story, the result may be tragedy. In Cristina, the elective affinities assert their force between a queen and a private individual; the result is, at least temporarily, unfortunate for the simple reason that the lady, although drawn toward the man by the workings of this mysterious force, is controlled even more firmly by the bondage of social convention; she behaves in a contrary manner to that shown by the stooping lady in Maurice Hewlett's story. This force needs only one moment, one glance, to assert its power:

She should never have looked at me
If she meant I should not love her!

Love in Browning is often love at first sight; no prolonged acquaintance is necessary; not even a spoken word, or any physical contact.

Doubt you whether
This she felt as, looking at me,
Mine and her souls rushed together?

In Tennyson's Locksley Hall (published the same year), contact was important:

And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.

Browning's portrayal of love shows that it can be a wireless telegraphy, that, in the instance of Cristina and her lover, exerted its force across a crowded room; in The Statue and the Bust, it is equally powerful across a public square in Florence. The glance, or as Donne expresses it, the "twisted eye-beams," is an important factor in Browning's poetry—sufficient to unite two souls throughout all eternity, as it does in Tristan und Isolde. Browning repeats his favorite doctrine of the elective affinities in Evelyn Hope, Count Gismond, In a Gondola, Dis Aliter Visum, Youth and Art, and other poems; and its noblest expression is perhaps in that wonderful scene in the crowded theatre at Arezzo; whilst the flippant audience are gazing at a silly musical comedy, the sad eyes of Pompilia encounter the grave, serious regard of Caponsacchi, and the two young hearts are united forever.

Another leading idea in Browning's philosophy is Success in Failure. This paradox is indeed a corner-stone in the construction of his thought. Every noble soul must fail in life, because every noble soul has an ideal. We may be encouraged by temporary successes, but we must be inspired by failure. Browning can forgive any daring criminal; but he can not forgive the man who is selfishly satisfied with his attainments and his position, and thus accepts compromises with life. The soul that ceases to grow is utterly damned. The damnation of contentment is shown with beauty and fervor in one of Browning's earliest lyrics, Over the Sea Our Galleys Went. The voyagers were weary of the long journey, they heeded not the voice of the pilot Conscience, they accommodated their ideals to their personal convenience. The reason why Browning could not forgive Andrea was not because he was Andrea del Sarto, the son of a tailor; it was because he was known as the Faultless Painter, because he could actually realise his dreams. The text of that whole poem is found in the line

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp.

In Cristina, the man's love is not rewarded here, he fails; but he has aimed high, he has loved a queen. He will always love her—in losing her he has found a guiding principle for his own life, which will lead him ever up and on.

She has lost me, I have gained her;
Her soul's mine: and thus, grown perfect,
I shall pass my life's remainder.

Her body I have lost: some other man will possess that: but her soul I gained in the moment when our eyes met, and my life has reached a higher plane and now has a higher motive. In failure I reach real success.

This doctrine, illustrated repeatedly in Browning's works, is stated explicitly in Rabbi Ben Ezra:

For thence,—a paradox
Which comforts while it mocks,—
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me:
A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

The thought that life is not measured by length of days is brought out clearly in Cristina. We constantly read in the paper interviews with centenarians, who tell us how to prolong our lives by having sufficient sleep, by eating moderately, by refraining from worry. But, as a writer in a southern journal expressed it, Why do these aged curiosities never tell us what use they have made of this prolonged existence? Mark Twain said cheerfully, "Methuselah lived nine hundred and sixty-nine years; but what of that? There was nothing doing." No drama on the stage is a success unless it has what we call a supreme moment; and the drama of our individual lives can not be really interesting or important unless it has some moments when we live intensely, when we live longer than some persons live in years; moments that settle our purpose and destiny.

Oh, we're sunk enough here, God knows!
But not quite so sunk that moments,
Sure, tho' seldom, are denied us,
When the spirit's true endowments
Stand out plainly from its false ones,
And apprise it if pursuing
Or the right way or the wrong way,
To its triumph or undoing.
There are flashes struck from midnights,
There are fire-flames noondays kindle,
Whereby piled-up honours perish,
Whereby swollen ambitions dwindle.

An American public man who one day fell in public esteem as far as Lucifer, said that it had taken him fifty years to build up a great reputation, and that he had lost it all in one forenoon. The dying courtier in Paracelsus had such a moment.

Finally, in Cristina, we find that ardent belief in a future life that lifts its head so often and so resolutely in Browning's poetry, and on which, as we shall see later, his optimism is founded. Science tells us that the matter of which the universe is composed is indestructible; Browning believes even more strongly in the permanence of spirit. Aspiration, enthusiasm, love would not be given to us to have their purposes broken off, not if this is a rational and economic universe; the important thing is not to have our hopes fulfilled here, the important thing is to keep hoping. Such love as the man had for Cristina must eventually find its full satisfaction so long as it remains the guiding principle of his life, which will serve as a test of his tenacity.

Life will just hold out the proving
Both our powers, alone and blended:
And then, come next life quickly!
This world's use will have been ended.

Precisely the same situation and the same philosophical result of it are illustrated in the exquisite lyric, Evelyn Hope. The lover is frustrated not by social distinctions, but by death. The girl is lost to him here, but the power of love is not quenched nor even lessened by this disaster. The man's ardor will steadily increase during the remaining years of his earthly existence; and then his soul will start out confident on its quest.

God above
Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love:
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few:
Much is to learn, much to forget,
Ere the time be come for taking you.

This doctrine, that earthly existence is a mere test of the soul to determine its fitness for entering upon an eternal and freer stage of development, is frequently set forth in Browning. The apostle John makes it quite clear in A Death in the Desert; and in Abt Vogler, the inspired musician sings

And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence
For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonised?
Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue
thence?
Why rushed the discords in but that harmony might be prized?

From the above discussion it should be plain that the short poem Cristina deserves patient and intense study, for it contains in the form of a dramatic lyric, some of Browning's fundamental ideas.