without geniality, and Sludge is the only one of Browning's "casuists"
whom he treats with open scorn. That some of the effects were palpably
fraudulent, and that, fraud apart, there remained a residuum of
phenomena not easy to explain, were all irritating facts. Yet no one can
mistake _Sludge_ for an outflow of personal irritation, still less for
an act of literary vengeance upon the impostor who had beguiled the
lofty and ardent intelligence of his wife. The resentful husband is
possibly there, but so elementary an emotion could not possibly have
taken exclusive possession of Browning's complex literary faculty, or
baulked the eager speculative curiosity which he brought to all new and
problematic modes of mind. His attitude towards spiritualism was in fact
the product of strangely mingled conditions. Himself the most convinced
believer in spirit among the poets of his time, he regarded the bogus
demonstrations of the "spiritualist" somewhat as the intellectual
sceptic regards the shoddy logic by which the vulgar unbeliever proves
there is no God. But even this anger had no secure tenure in a nature so
rich in solvents for disdain. It is hard to say where scorn ends and
sympathy begins, or where the indignation of the believer who sees his
religion travestied passes over into the curious interest of the
believer who recognises its dim distorted reflection in the unlikeliest
quarters. But Sludge is clearly permitted, like Blougram before and
Juan and Hohenstiel-Schwangau after him, to assume in good faith
positions, or at least to use, with perfect sincerity, language, which
had points of contact with Browning's own. He has an eye for "spiritual
facts" none the less genuine in its gross way that it has been acquired
in the course of professional training, and is valued as a professional
asset. But his supernaturalism at its best is devoid of spiritual
quality. His "spiritual facts" are collections of miraculous
coincidences raked together by the anteater's tongue of a cool egoist,
who waits for them