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THE BATTLE OF MIND AND SPIRIT

During the nineteenth century, which has already receded far enough into the perspective of the past for us to be able to take a comprehensive view of it, the advance guard of the human race found itself in a position entirely different from that ever before occupied by it. Through the knowledge of cosmic, animal, and social evolution gradually accumulated by the laborious and careful studies of special students in every department of historical research and scientific experiment, a broader and higher state of self-consciousness was attained. Mankind, on its most perceptive plane, no longer pinned its faith to inherited traditions, whether of religion, art, or morals. Every conceivable fact and every conceivable myth was to be tested in the laboratory of the intellect, even the intellect itself was to undergo dissection, with the result that, once for all, it has been decided what particular range of human knowledge lies within the reach of mental perception, and what particular range of human knowledge can be grasped only through spiritual perception.

Such a momentous decision as this in the history of thought has not been reached without a long and protracted struggle extending back into the early days of Christianity, nor, it may be said, is the harmony as yet complete, for there are to-day, and perhaps always will be, human beings whose consciousness is not fully orbed and who either seek their point of equilibrium too entirely in the plane of mind or too entirely in the plane of spirit.

In the early days, before Christianity came to bring its “sword upon earth,” there seems to have been little or no consciousness of such a struggle. The ancient Hindu, observing Nature and meditating upon the universe, arrived intuitively at a perception of life and its processes wonderfully akin to that later experimentally proved by the nineteenth century scientist, nor did he have a suspicion that such truth was in any way antagonistic to religious truth. On the contrary, he considered that, by it, the beauty and mystery of religion was immeasurably enhanced, and, letting his imagination play upon his intuition, he brought forth a theory of spiritual evolution in which the world to-day is bound to recognize many elements of beauty and power necessary to any complete conception of religion in the future.

Even the Babylonians made their guesses at an evolutionary theory of the universe. Greek philosophy, later, was permeated with the idea, it having been derived by them perhaps from the Chaldeans through the Phœnicians, or if the theories of Aryan migrations be correct, perhaps through inheritance from a remote Aryan ancestry.

When Christian thought gained its hold upon the world, the account of creation given in Genesis became so thoroughly impressed upon the minds of men that it was regarded as the orthodox view, rooted in divine revelation, and to question it was to incur the danger of being called an atheist, with its possibly uncomfortable consequences of being martyred.

Strangely enough, the early Church adopted into its fold many pagan superstitions, such as a belief in witchcraft and in signs and wonders, as well as some myths, but this great truth upon which the pagan mind had stumbled, it would have none of.

These two circumstances—the adoption on the part of Christianity of pagan superstitions and its utter repudiation of the pagan guesses upon evolution, carrying within it the germs of truth, later to be unearthed by scientific research—furnished exactly the right conditions for the throwing down of the gauntlet between the mind and the spirit. The former, following intellectual guidance, found itself coming more and more into antagonism with the spirit, not yet freed from the trammels of imagination. The latter, guided by imagination, continued to exercise a mythopœic faculty, which not only brought it more and more into antagonism with the mind, but set up within its own realm an internecine warfare which has blackened the pages of religious history with crimes and martyrdoms so terrible as to force the conviction that the true devil in antagonism to spiritual development has been the imagination of mankind, masquerading as verity, and not yet having found its true function in art.

Regarded from the point of view of the student of intellectual development, this conflict of two thousand years has the fascination of a great drama of which the protagonist is the mind struggling to free the spirit from its subjection to the evil aspects of the imagination. Great thinkers in the field of science, philosophy, and religion are the dramatis personæ, and in the onward rush of this world-drama the sufferings of those who have fallen by the way seem insignificant.

But when the student of history takes his more intimate survey of the purely human aspects of the struggle, heartrending, indeed, become the tragedies resulting from the exercise of human bigotry and stupidity.

Indignation and sorrow take possession of us when we think upon such a spectacle as that of Roger Bacon, making ready to perform a few scientific experiments before a small audience at Oxford, confronted by an uproar in which monks, fellows, and students rushed about, their garments streaming in the wind, crying out, “Down with the magician!” And this was only the beginning of a persecution which ended in his teaching being solemnly condemned by the authorities of the Franciscan order and himself thrown for fourteen years into prison, whence he issued an old and broken man of eighty.

More barbarous still was the treatment of Giordano Bruno, a strange sort of man who developed his philosophy in about twenty-five works, some prose, some poetry, some dialogues, some comedies, with such enticing titles as “The Book of the Great Key,” “The Explanation of the Thirty Seals,” “The Expulsion of the Triumphant Beast,” “The Threefold Minimum,” “The Composition of Images,” “The Innumerable, the Immense and the Unfigurable.” His utterances were vague, especially to the intellects of his time, yet not so vague that theology, whether Catholic or Calvinistic, did not at once take fright.

He held that the investigation of nature in the unbiased light of reason is our only guide to truth. He rejected antiquity, tradition, faith, and authority; he exclaimed, “Let us begin by doubt. Let us doubt till we know.” Acting upon these principles, he began to unfold again that current of Greek thought which the system imposed by the Church had intercepted for more than a thousand years, and arrived at a conception of evolution prefiguring the modern theories.

He conceived the law of the universe to be unceasing change. “Each individual,” he declared, “is the resultant of innumerable individuals; each species is the starting point for the next.” Furthermore, he maintained that the perfecting of the individual soul is the aim of all progress.

Tenets so opposite to the orthodox view of special creation and the fall of man could not be allowed to go unchallenged. It is to be remembered that he was a priest in holy orders in the Convent of St. Dominic, and in the year 1576 he was accused by the Provincial of his order of heresy on one hundred and thirty counts. He did not await his trial, but fled to Rome, thence to northern Italy, and became for some years a wanderer. He was imprisoned at Geneva; at Toulouse he spent a year lecturing on Aristotle; in Paris, two years as professor extraordinary in the Sorbonne; three years in London, where he became the friend of Sir Philip Sidney, and influenced the philosophy of both Bacon and Shakespeare. Oxford, however, was unfriendly to his teachings and he was obliged to flee from England also. Then he wandered for five years from city to city in Germany—at one time warned to leave the town, at another excommunicated, at another not even permitted to lodge within the gates. Finally, he accepted the invitation of a noble Venetian, Zuane Mocenigo, to visit Venice and teach him the higher and secret learning. The two men soon quarreled, and Bruno was betrayed by the count into the hands of the Inquisition. He was convicted of heresy in Venice and delivered to the Inquisition in Rome. He spent seven years in its dungeons, and was again tried and convicted, and called upon to recant, which he stoutly refused to do. Sentence of death was then passed upon him and he was burned at the stake on February 17, 1600, on the Campo de’ Fiori, where there now stands a statue erected by Progressive Italy in his honor.

His last words were, “I die a martyr, and willingly.” Then they cast his ashes into the Tiber and placed his name among the accused on the rolls of the Church. And there it probably still remains, for no longer ago than 1889, when his statue was unveiled on the ninth of June, on the site of his burning, in full view of the Vatican, Pope Leo XIII, it is said, refused food and spent hours in an agony of prayer at the foot of the statue of St. Peter. Catholic, and even Protestant, denunciation of Bruno at this time showed that the smoke from this particular battle in the war of mind with spirit was still far from being laid.

With the fate of Giordano Bruno still fresh in his mind, Galileo succumbed to the demands of the Inquisition and recanted, saying that he no longer believed what he, himself, with his telescope had proved to be true.

“I, Galileo, being in my seventieth year, being a prisoner and on my knees, and before your Eminences, having before my eyes the Holy Gospel, which I touch with my hands, abjure, curse, and detest the error and the heresy of the movement of the earth.”

If this recantation had brought any comfort or peace into his life it might have been hard to forgive Galileo’s perjury of himself. His persecution, however, continued to the end. He was exiled from his family and friends, and, even when he had become blind and wasted by sorrow and disease, he was still closely watched lest he might utter the awful heresy that the earth moved.

A hundred years later than this, when Buffon attempted to teach the simple truths of geology, he was deposed from his high position and made to recant by the theological faculty of the Sorbonne. The man who promulgated geological principles, as firmly established to-day as that of the rotation of the earth upon its axis, was forced to write: “I declare that I had no intention to contradict the text of Scripture; that I believe most firmly all therein related about the creation, both as to order of time and matter of fact. I abandon everything in my book respecting the formation of the earth, and generally all which may be contrary to the narrative of Moses.”

Such are the more heinous examples of the persecution of the men who discovered the truths of science. To these should be added the wholesale persecution of witches and magicians, for unusual knowledge of any sort ran the chance of being regarded as contrary to biblical teaching and of being attributed to the machinations of the Prince of Darkness.

Every new step made in the direction of scientific truth has had thus to face the most determined opposition. Persecution by torture and death died out, but up to the nineteenth century, and well on through it, denunciation, excommunication, suppression, the loss of honorable positions have all been used as weapons by church or university in the attempt to stamp out whatever it considered dangerous and subverting doctrines of science.

The decisive battle was not to be inaugurated until the latter half of the nineteenth century, with the advent in the field of such names in science as Spencer, Darwin, Tyndall and Huxley, and such names in biblical criticism as Strauss and Renan.

The outposts, it is true, had been won by advancing scientific thought, for step by step the Church had compromised, and had admitted one scientific doctrine after another as not incompatible with biblical truth. But now, not only theology, the imperfect armor in which the spirit had been clothed, was attacked, but the very existence of spirit itself was to be questioned. The thinking world was to be divided into materialists and supernaturalists. Now, at last, mind and spirit, who in the ages long gone had been brothers, were to stand face to face as enemies. Was this mortal combat to end in the annihilation of either, or would this, too, end in a compromise leading to harmony?

At the dawn of this century, in 1812, came into the world its master poetic mind. I say this to-day without hesitation, for no other English poet of the century has been so thoroughly aware of the intellectual tendencies of his century, and has so emotionalized them and brought them before us under the humanly real conditions of dramatic utterance.

It is not surprising, considering this fact, that in his second poem, written in 1835, Browning ventures into the arena and at once tackles the supreme problem of the age, what is to be the relation of mind and spirit?

It is characteristic of the poetic methods, which dominated his work, that he should have presented this problem through the personality of a historical figure who played no inconsiderable part in the intellectual development of his time, though not a man to whom general historians have been in the habit of assigning much space in their pages. Browning, however, as Hall Griffin informs us, had been familiar with the name of Paracelsus from his childhood, of whom he had read anecdotes in a queer book, Wanley’s “Wonders of the Little World.” Besides, his father’s library, wherein as a boy he was wont to browse constantly, contained the Opera Omnia of Paracelsus.

With the confidence of youth and of genius the poet attempts in this poem a solution of the problem. To mind he gives the attribute of knowledge, to spirit the attribute of love.

The poem as a whole does not concern us here except as a background for its final thoughts. In order, however, to put the situation clearly before readers not already familiar with it, I venture to transcribe a portion of a former analysis of my own.

Paracelsus aspires to the acquisition of absolute knowledge and feels born within him the capabilities for attaining this end, and, when attained, it is to be devoted to enlarging the possibilities of man’s life. The whole race is to be elevated at once. Man may not be doomed to cope with seraphs, yet by the exercise of human strength alone he hopes man may one day beat God’s angels.

He is a revolter, however, against the magical and alchemistic methods of his age, which seek for the welfare of men through the elixir of youth or the philosopher’s stone. He especially disclaims such puerile schemes in the passionate moment when he has realized how futile all his lifelong efforts have been. He stands, indeed, at the threshold of a new world. He has a glimmering of the true scientific methods which would discover first the secrets of life’s laws, and then use these natural laws to bring about life’s betterment, instead of hoping for salvation through the discovery of some magic secret by means of which life’s laws might be overcome. Yet he is sufficiently of his own superstitious age to desire and expect fairly magical results from the laws he hopes to discover. The creed which spurs him to his quest is his belief that truth is inborn in the soul, but to set this truth free and make it of use to mankind correspondences in outer nature must be found. An intuitive mind like Paracelsus’s will recognize these natural corollaries of the intuition wherever it finds them; and these are what Paracelsus goes forth over the earth to seek and find, sure he will “arrive.” One illustration of the results so obtained is seen in the doctrine of the signatures of plants according to which the flowers, leaves, and fruits of plants indicate by their color or markings, etc., the particular diseases they are intended to cure. The real Paracelsus practised medicine upon this theory.

Though such methods are a long distance from those of the modern scientist, who deduces his laws from careful and patient observation of nature, they go a step toward his in seeking laws in nature to correspond to hypotheses born of intuition.

Browning’s presentation of the attitude of mind and the place held by Paracelsus in the development of science is exactly in line with the most recent criticisms of this extraordinary man’s life. According to these he fluctuated between the systems of magic then prevalent and scientific observation, but always finally threw in the balance of his opinion on the side of scientific ways of working; and above all made the great step from a belief in the influence of nature upon man to that of the existence of parallelisms between nature processes and human processes.

Though he thus opened up new vistas for the benefit of man, he must necessarily be a failure, from his own point of view, with his “India” not found, his absolute truth unattained; and it is upon this side that the poet dwells. For a moment he is somewhat reassured by the apparition of Aprile, scarcely a creature of flesh and blood, more the spirit of art who aspires to love infinitely and has found the attainment of such love as impossible as Paracelsus has found the attainment of knowledge. Both have desired to help men, but Paracelsus has desired to help them rather through the perfecting, even immortalizing, of their physical being; Aprile, through giving man, as he is, infinite sympathy and through creating forms of beauty which would show him his own thoughts and hopes glorified by the all-seeing touch of the artist.

Paracelsus recognizes his deficient sympathy for mankind, and tries to make up for it in his own way by giving out of the fulness of his knowledge to men. The scornful and proud reformer has not, however, truly learned the lesson of love, and verily has his reward when he is turned against by those whom he would teach. Then the old ideal seizes upon him again, and still under the influence of Aprile he seeks in human experience the loves and passions of mankind which he learns through Aprile he had neglected for the ever-illusive secret, but neither does success attend him here, and only on his deathbed does his vision clear up, and he is made to indulge in a prophetic utterance quite beyond the reach of the original Paracelsus.

In this passage is to be found Browning’s first contribution to a solution of the great problem. That it is instinct with the idea of evolution has become a commonplace of Browning criticism, a fact which was at least independently or, as far as I know, first pointed out by myself in an early essay upon Browning. At the time, I was reading both Browning and Spencer, and could not but be impressed by the parallelisms in thought between the two, especially those in this seer-like passage and “The Data of Ethics.”

Writers whose appreciation of a poet is in direct ratio to the number of exact historical facts to be found in a poem like to emphasize this fact that the doctrine of evolution can be found in the works of Paracelsus. Why not? Since, as we have seen it had been floating about in philosophical thought in one form or another for some thousands of years.

Indeed, it has been stated upon good authority that the idea of a gradual evolution according to law and of a God from whom all being emanates, from whom all power proceeds, is an inherent necessity of the Aryan mind as opposed to the Semitic idea of an outdwelling God and of supernaturalism. Thus, all down the ages the Aryan mind has revolted from time to time against the religious ideas superimposed upon it by the Semitic mind. This accounts for the numerous heresies within the bosom of the Church as well as for the scientific advance against the superstitions of the Church.

Generalizations of this sweeping order are apt to contain only partial truth. It would probably be nearer the whole truth, as we are enabled to-day to trace historical development, to say that, starting with opposite conceptions, these two orders of mind have worked toward each other and the harmonization of their respective points of view, and, furthermore, that this difference in mind belongs to a period prior even to the emergence of the Aryan or the Semitic. Researches in mythology and folklore seem to indicate that no matter how far back one may go in the records of human thought there will be found these two orders of mind—one which naturally thinks of the universe as the outcome of law, and one which naturally thinks of it as the outcome of creation. There are primitive myths in which mankind is supposed to be descended from a primitive ancestor, which may range all the way from a serpent to an oak tree, or, as in a certain Zulu myth, a bed of reeds growing on the back of a small animal. And there are equally primitive myths in which mankind is created out of the trees or the earth by an external agent, varying in importance from a grasshopper to a more or less spiritual being.

Browning did not need to depend upon Paracelsus for his knowledge of evolution. He may not have known that the ancient Hindu in the dim mists of the past had an intuition of the cosmic egg from which all life had evolved, and that he did not know of the theory as it is developed in the great German philosophers we are certain, because he, himself, asseverated that he had never read the German philosophers, but it is hardly possible that he did not know something of it as it appears in the writings of the Greek philosophers, for Greek literature was among the earliest of his studies. He might, for instance, have taken a hint from the speculations of that half mythical marvel of a man, Empedocles, with which the Paracelsus theory of the universe, as it appears in the passage under discussion, has many points of contact.

According to Empedocles, the four primal elements, earth, air, fire and water, are worked upon by the forces of love and discord. By means of these forces, out of the primal elements are evolved various and horrible monstrosities before the final form of perfection is reached. It is true he did not correctly imagine the stages in the processes of evolution, for instead of a gradual development of one form from another, he describes the process as a haphazard and chaotic one. “Many heads sprouted up without necks, and naked arms went wandering forlorn of shoulders, and solitary eyes were straying destitute of foreheads.” These detached portions of bodies coming together by haphazard produced the earlier monstrous forms. “Many came forth with double faces and two breasts, some shaped like oxen with a human front, others, again, of human race with a bull’s head.” However, the latter part of the evolutionary process as described by Empedocles, when Love takes command, seems especially pertinent as a possible source of Browning’s thought:

“When strife has reached the very bottom of the seething mass, and love assumes her station in the center of the ball, then everything begins to come together, and to form one whole—not instantaneously, but different substances come forth, according to a steady process of development. Now, when these elements are mingling, countless kinds of things issue from their union. Much, however, remains unmixed, in opposition to the mingling elements, and these, malignant strife still holds within his grasp. For he has not yet withdrawn himself altogether to the extremities of the globe; but part of his limbs still remain within its bounds, and part have passed beyond. As strife, however, step by step retreats, mild and innocent love pursues him with her force divine; things which had been immortal instantly assume mortality; the simple elements become confused by interchange of influences. When these are mingled, then the countless kinds of mortal beings issue forth, furnished with every sort of form—a sight of wonder.”

Though evolution was no new idea, it had been only a hypothesis arrived at intuitionally or suggested by crude observations of nature until by perfected methods of historical study and of scientific experimentation proof was furnished of its truth as a scientific verity.

Let us glance at the situation at the time when Paracelsus was published. In 1835 science had made great strides in the direction of proving the correctness of the hypothesis. Laplace had lived and died and had given to the world in mathematical reasoning of remarkable power proof of the nebular hypothesis, which was later to be verified by Fraunhofer’s discoveries in spectrum analysis. Lamarck had lived and died and had given to the world his theory of animal evolution. Lyall in England had shown that geological formations were evolutionary rather than cataclysmal. In fact, greater and lesser scientific lights in England and on the continent were every day adding fresh facts to the burden of proof in favor of the hypothesis. It was in the air, and denunciations of it were in the air.

Most interesting of all, however, in connection with our present theme is the fact that Herbert Spencer was still a lad of fifteen, who was independently of Darwin to work out a complete philosophy of evolution, which was to be applied in every department of cosmic, geologic, plant, animal and human activity, but (and this is of special interest) he was not to give to the world his plan for a synthetic philosophy until 1860, and not to publish his “First Principles” until 1862, nor the first instalment of the “Data of Ethics,” the fruit of his whole system, until 1879.

Besides being familiar with the idea as it crops out in Greek thought, it is impossible that the young Browning was not cognizant of the scientific attitude of the time. In fact, he tells us as much himself, for when Doctor Wonivall asked him some questions as to his attitude toward Darwin, Browning responded in a letter: “In reality all that seems proved in Darwin’s scheme was a conception familiar to me from the beginning.”

Entirely familiar with the evolutionary idea, then, however he may have derived it, it is just what might be expected that he should have worked it into Paracelsus’s final theory of life. The remarkable thing is that he should have applied its principles in so masterly a fashion—namely, that he should have made a complete philosophical synthesis by bringing the idea of evolution to bear upon all natural, human and spiritual processes of growth twenty-five years before Herbert Spencer, who is regarded on this particular ground as the master mind of the century, gave his synthetic philosophy of evolution to the world.

A momentary glance at the passage in question will make this clear. Paracelsus traces first development as illustrated in geological forms:

“The center-fire heaves underneath the earth,

And the earth changes like a human face;

The molten one bursts up among the rocks,

Winds into the stone’s heart, outbranches bright

In hidden mines, spots barren river beds,

Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask.”

Next he touches upon plant life and animal life. The grass grows bright, the boughs are swollen with blooms, ants make their ado, birds fly in merry flocks, the strand is purple with its tribe of nested limpets, savage creatures seek their loves in wood and plain. Then he shows how in all this animal life are scattered attributes foreshadowing a being that will combine them. Then appears primitive man, only half enlightened, who gains knowledge through the slow, uncertain fruit of toil, whose love is not serenely pure, but strong from weakness, a love which endures and doubts and is oppressed. And out of the travail of the human soul as it proceeds from lower to higher forms is finally evolved self-conscious man—man who consciously looks back upon all that has preceded him and interprets nature by means of his own human perceptions. The winds are henceforth voices, wailing or a shout, a querulous mutter or a quick, gay laugh, never a senseless gust, now man is born.

But development does not end with the attainment of this self-consciousness. After this stage has been reached there continues an evolution which is distinctively spiritual, a tendency to God. Browning was not content with the evolution of man, he was prophetic of the final flowering of man in the superman, although he had never heard of Nietszche.

The corollary to this progressive theory of life, a view held by scientific thinkers, is that sin is not depravity, but is merely a lack of development. Paracelsus is therefore made wise to know even hate is but a mask of love, to see a good in evil, a hope in ill-success, to sympathize, even be proud of man’s half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim struggles for truth—all with a touch of nobleness despite their error, upward tending all, though weak.

Though there are points of contact between the thought of the true Paracelsus and of Browning, the points of contact between Spencer and Browning are far more significant, for Browning seems intuitively to have perceived the fundamental truths of social and psychic evolution at the early age of twenty-three—truths which the philosopher worked out only after years of laborious study.

We, who, to-day, are familiar with the application of the theory of evolution to every object from a dustpan to a flying machine, can hardly throw ourselves into the atmosphere of the first half of the last century when this dynamic ideal was flung into a world with static ideals. The Christian world knew little and cared less about the guesses of Greek philosophers, whom they regarded when they did know about them as unregenerate pagans. German thought was caviare to the general, and what new thought of a historical or scientific nature made its way into the strongholds of conservatism filled people with suspicion and dread. Such a sweeping synthesis, therefore, as Browning gives of dawning scientific theories in Paracelsus was truly phenomenal. That it did not prove a bone of contention and arouse controversies as hot as those which were waged later around such scientific leaders as Spencer, Darwin, Huxley, and Clifford was probably due to the circumstance that the poem was little read and less understood, and also to the fact that it contained other elements which overlaid the bare presentation of the doctrines of evolution.

So far I have spoken only of the form of the Paracelsus theory of life, but a theory of life to be complete must have soul as well as form. Only in adding the soul side to his theory of life does Browning really give his solution of the problem, what is to be the relation of mind and spirit?

One other point of resemblance is to be noted between the thought of Browning’s Paracelsus and Herbert Spencer. They agree that ultimate knowledge is beyond the grasp of the intellect. Neither was this a new idea; but up to the time of Spencer it was taken simply as a negative conclusion. Spencer, however, having found this negation makes it the body of his philosophy—a body so shadowy that many of his critics consider it too ghostly to stand as a substantial basis for philosophical thought. He regards the failure of the intellect to picture the nature of the absolute as the most certain proof that our intuitions of its existence are trustworthy, and upon this he bases all religious aspiration. Like the psalmist, he exclaims, “Who by searching can find out God?”

The attitude of Paracelsus is identical as far as the intellect is concerned. His life, spent in the search for knowledge, had proved it to him. But he does not, like Spencer, make it the body of his philosophy. Through the influence of Aprile he is led to a definite conception of the Infinite as a Being whose especial characteristic is that he feels!—feels unbounded joy in his own creations. This is eminently an artist’s or poet’s perception of the relation of God to his universe. As Aprile in one place says, “God is the perfect poet, who in his person acts his own creations.”

As I have already pointed out, the evil of pain, of decay, of degeneration is taken no account of.

There is the constant passing onward from joy to joy. All the processes of nature from the simplest to the most complex bring, in their turn, a delight to their Creator until man appears, and is not only a joy to his Creator, but is the first in the order of creation to share in the joy of existence, the first to arrive at the full consciousness of beauty. So overwhelming is this consciousness of beauty that man perceives it struggling for expression in the hates and fallacies of undeveloped natures.

All this is characteristic of the artistic way of looking at life. The artist is prone either to ignore the ugly or to transmute it by art into something possessing beauty of power if not of loveliness. What are plays like “Hamlet” and “Macbeth,” “Brand” and “Peer Gynt,” music like “Tristan and Isolde” or the “Pathetic Symphony,” Rodin’s statues, but actual, palpable realizations of the fact that hate is but a mask of love, or that human fallacies and human passions have within them the seeds of immense beauty if only there appear the artist who can bring them forth. If this is true of the human artist, how much more is it true of the divine artist in whose shadow, as Pompilia says, even a Guido may find healing.

The optimism of such a theory of existence is intoxicating. Not only does this artist-man look backward and rejoice in all the beauty of past phases of creation, but he looks forward to endless progression in the enjoyment of fresh phases of beauty—“a flying point of bliss remote.” This is a universe in which the Prometheus of the old myths is indeed unbound. Mankind is literally free to progress forever upward. If there are some men in darkness, they are like plants in mines struggling to break out into the sunlight they see beyond.

The interesting question arises here, was Browning, himself, entirely responsible for the soul of his Paracelsus theory of life or was there some source beyond him from which he drew inspiration?

It has frequently been suggested that Aprile in this poem is a sort of symbolic representation of Shelley. Why not rather a composite of both Shelley and Keats, the poet of love and the poet of beauty? An examination of the greatest poems of these two writers, “Prometheus Unbound” and “Hyperion,” will bring out the elements in both which I believe entered into Browning’s conception.

In the exalted symbolism of the “Prometheus Unbound” Shelley shows that, in his view, evil and suffering were not inherent in the nature of things, the tyranny of evil having gained its ascendancy through the persistence of out-worn ideals, such as that of Power or Force symbolized in the Greek idea of Jupiter. Prometheus is the revolting mind of mankind, enslaved by the tyranny of Jupiter, hating the tyrant, yet determined to endure all the tyrant can inflict upon him rather than admit his right to rule. The freeing of Prometheus and the dethronement of Jupiter come through the awakening in the heart of Prometheus of pity for the tyrant—that is, Prometheus has learned to love his enemies as he loves his friends. The remainder of the poem is occupied with showing the effects upon humanity of this universal awakening of love.

In the fine passage where the Spirit of the Earth hears the trumpet of the Spirit of the Hour sound in a great city, it beholds all ugly human shapes and visages which had caused it pain pass floating through the air, and fading still

“Into the winds that scattered them, and those

From whom they passed seemed mild and lovely forms

After some foul disguise had fallen, and all

Were somewhat changed, and after brief surprise

And greetings of delighted wonder, all

Went to their sleep again.”

And the Spirit of the Hour relates:

“Soon as the sound had ceased whose thunder filled

The abysses of the sky and the wide earth,

There was a change: the impalpable thin air

And the all-circling sunlight were transformed

As if the sense of love dissolved in them

Had folded itself around the sphered world.”

In the meantime, the over-souls of humanity—Prometheus, symbolic of thought or knowledge, is reunited to Asia, his spouse, symbolic of Nature or emotion, from whom he has long been separated and together with Asia’s sisters, Panthea and Ione—retire to the wonderful cave where they are henceforth to dwell and where their occupations are inspired by the most childlike and exalted moods of the soul.

Before considering the bearing of their life of love and art in the cave upon the character of Aprile let us turn our attention for a moment to a remarkable passage in “Hyperion,” which poem was written as far back as 1820. Keats, like Shelley, deals with the dethronement of gods, but it is the older dynasty of Titans—Saturn and Hyperion usurped by Jupiter and Apollo. Shelley’s thought in the “Prometheus” is strongly influenced by Christian ideals, but Keats’s is thoroughly Greek.

The passing of one series of gods and the coming into power of another series of gods was a familiar idea in Greek mythology. It reflected at once the literal fact that ever higher and higher forces of nature had been deified by them, beginning with crude Nature gods and ending with symbols of the most ideal human attributes, and at the same time that their thought leaned in the direction of interpreting nature as an evolutionary process. Seizing upon this, Keats has presented in the words of the old Titan Oceanus a theory of the evolution of beauty quite as startling as a prophecy of psychological theories upon this subject as Browning’s is of cosmic and social theories. Addressing Saturn, Oceanus says:

“We fall by course of Nature’s law, not force

Of thunder, or of love....

... As thou wast not the first of powers

So art thou not the last; it cannot be:

From chaos and parental darkness came

Light, the first fruits of that intestine broil,

That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends

Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour came

And with it light, and light, engendering

Upon its own producer, forthwith touched,

The whole enormous matter into life.

Upon that very hour, our parentage

The Heavens and the Earth were manifest;

Then thou first-born, and we the giant-race,

Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms

······ As Heaven and Earth are fairer far Than chaos and blank darkness, though once chiefs, And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth In form and shape compact and beautiful, In will, in action free, companionship And thousand other signs of purer life, So on our heels a fresh perfection treads, A power more strong in beauty, born of us And fated to excel us, as we pass In glory that old darkness: nor are we Thereby more conquered than by us the rule Of shapeless chaos. For ’tis the eternal law That first in beauty should be first in might. Yea, by that law, another race may drive Our conquerors to mourn as we do now.”

There is in the attitude of Oceanus a magnificent acceptance of this ruthless course of nature reminding one of that taken by such men as Huxley and Clifford in the face of their own scientific discoveries, but one is immediately struck by the absence of love in the idea. An Apollo, no matter what new beauty he may have, himself, to offer, who yet disregards the beauty of Hyperion and calmly accepts the throne of the sun in his stead, does not satisfy us. What unreason it is that so splendid a being as Hyperion should be deposed! As a matter of fact, he was not deposed. He is left standing forever in our memories in splendor like the morn, for Keats did not finish the poem and no picture of the enthroned Apollo is given. Perhaps Keats remembered his earlier utterance, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” and cared for his own Hyperion too much to banish him for the sake of Apollo.

Be that as it may, the points in relation to our subject are that Shelley’s emphasis is upon the conservation of beauty, while Keats’s emphasis is upon the evolution of new beauty.

In the cave where Prometheus and Asia dwell—the cave of universal spirit—is given forth the inspiration to humanity for painting, poetry and arts, yet to be born, and all these arts return to delight them, fashioned into form by human artists. Love is the ruling principle. Therefore all forms of beautiful art are immortal. Aprile,[1] as he first appears, is an elaboration upon this idea. He would love all humanity with such intensity that he would immortalize in all forms of art—painting, poetry, music—every thought and emotion of which the human soul is capable, and this done he would say:

“His spirits created—

God grants to each a sphere to be its world,

Appointed with the various objects needed

To satisfy its own peculiar want;

So, I create a world for these my shapes

Fit to sustain their beauty and their strength.”

In short, he would found a universal art museum exactly like the cave in which Prometheus dwelt. The stress is no more than it is in Shelley upon a search for new beauty, and there is not a hint that a coming beauty shall blot out the old until Aprile recognizes Paracelsus as his king. Then he awakes to the fact that his own ideal has been partial, because he has not been a seeker after knowledge, or new beauty, and in much the same spirit as Oceanus, he exclaims:

“Lo, I forget my ruin, and rejoice

In thy success, as thou! Let our God’s praise

Go bravely through the world at last! What care

Through me or thee?”

But Paracelsus had learned a lesson through Aprile which the Apollo of Keats had not learned. He does not accept kingship at the expense of Aprile as Apollo would do at the expense of Hyperion. He includes in his final theory of life all that is beautiful in Aprile’s or Shelley’s ideal and adds to it all that is beautiful of the Keats ideal. The form of his philosophy is evolutionary, and up to the time of his meeting with Aprile had expressed itself as the search for knowledge. Through Aprile his philosophy becomes imbued with soul, the attributes of which are the spirit of love and the spirit of beauty, one of which conserves and immortalizes beauty, the other of which searches out new beauty.

So, working hand in hand, they become one, while the search for knowledge, thus spiritualized, becomes the search for beauty always inspired by love. The aim of the evolutionary process thus becomes the unfolding of ever new phases of beauty in which God takes endless delight, and to the final enjoyment of which mankind shall attain.

To sum up, Browning’s solution of the problem in the Paracelsus theory of life is reached not only through a synthesis of the doctrines of evolution as applied to universal activities, cosmic and human, prophetic, on the one hand, of the most advanced scientific thought of the century, but it is a synthesis of these and of the art-spirit in its twofold aspect of love and beauty as already expressed in the poetry of Shelley and Keats.

It is not in the least probable that Browning set to work consciously to piece together these ideals. That is not the method of the artist! But being familiar to him in the two best beloved poets of his youth, they had sunk into his very being, and welled forth from his own subconsciousness, charged with personal emotion, partly dramatic, partly the expression of his own true feeling at the time, and the result be it said is one of the most inspiring and beautiful passages in English poetry.