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of sonnets, "The Lamp of Gold," will be issued shortly from the press of a Chicago publishing company. Miss Snow chose Browning's Paracelsus for her theme.
This poem does not lose its red-veined humanity even in repeated readings. It shows well the poet's natural bent, his psychological insight, and the simplicity of his treatment of dramatic themes.
The real Paracelsus was born in Einsiedeln near Zurich in 1490. After receiving some instruction in the rudiments of alchemy and medicine, he started on a ten years pilgrimage for the pursuit of knowledge. He returned to the school of his youth as professor of physics, medicine and surgery and died at the age of forty.
His only passion was to know. He was proud of his skill, self assertive and presumptuous. By some he is considered a charlatan and a vagabond; by others revered as the father of modern chemistry. It is safest to adopt a middle course. He had a firm belief in himself and God; he sought in the black arts the spirit that transcends all possible skill; he was a genius, but his attitude toward the verities of life was twisted and strained.
Paracelsus was sure to appeal to a poet who deemed "Little else worth studying but the development of the soul." The desire for knowledge had been employed before, in Byron's Manfred and in Goethe's epic. But Browning discards all symbolic machinery, for the drama of the spirit needs no such aids.
In the opening of the poem the mind of Paracelsus is at once revealed. He pours out his heart to his friend Festus and his friend's wife. In a sense we feel that his struggle is our struggle, his story our story. "To know, to become a star to man forever" is his aim. But Festus discovers a plague spot, and implores his friend not to cut himself off from human sympathy. But it is all in vain.
When we see him again he is in Constantinople, whither the real Paracelsus bent his steps in search of the elixir of life. For the first time he faces himself and his attainment. He has sacrificed everything and now
"Slipt in the blank space, 'twixt an idiot's gibber and lovers ditty, lies the whole."
Aprile, who lived for love alone, has failed no less than he. He tells the poet they must not part till he learns to love, and Aprile learns to know. Half a decade later Paracelsus confesses he tried to live for love alone, but failed,
because his nature was too warped and twisted.
Paracelsus accepts a position in Basil University, and seeks to awaken the spirit of advance, hoping to receive some token that God approves his penance. Two years later he is compelled to flee from the displeasure aroused by his teachings. He determines to set off to embrace his earliest ends again, this time, too, without the approval of Festus. He wishes to know and enjoy at once, for he counts every joy a gain.
Fifteen years later he is stricken down by his rivals. Festus, faithful to the last, watches by his bedside. Paracelsus begs to be buried in some obscure nook, for he has learned humility at last. Now is the time for his message to the world. He springs from his couch and bids his cell become a shrine. He defines his early nature and realizes its relation to God's plan. He understands at last the relation of knowledge and love.
In this work the poet would impress the necessity of following a middle course. Knowledge and power are complete only in a perfect balance of character. Aprile was as wrong as Paracelsus.
In spite of his apparent failure Paracelsus feels that he has done something.
"I have done well, though not all well.
As yet men cannot do without contempt—
As yet men cannot do without contempt— 'Tis for their good, and therefore fit awhile
'Tis for their good, and therefore fit awhile
That they reject the weak, and scorn the false.
Rather than praise the strong and true, in me.
But after, they will know me. If I stoop
Into a dark, tremendous sea of cloud.
It is but for a time; I press God's lamp
Close to my breast, its splendour, soon or late.
Close to my breast, its splendid, soon of fame.
Will pierce the gloom; I shall emerge one day;
You understand me? I have said enough?"
Paracelsus has emerged from the historical cloud which enveloped him. The poet has shaped and colored the material as he deemed best. There is no record that the real Paracelsus made a confession of failure, and yet he failed. History does not tell us that he had a devoted friend. And yet who had greater need of one? Browning gives us the perfected idealized Paracelsus, who died hand in hand with his wise friend.
"Festus, let my hand—
This hand, lie in your own—my own true friend.
Aprile! Hand in hand with you, Aprile!
After a song by Mr. Frank House, Prof. Carruth read Mr. Roberts' paper on "Some Aspects of Literary Mysticism."
Modern Psychology proceeds inductively. It is compelled to make use of objective