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Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right ^jnd top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbols — ► signifie "A SUIVRE ", le symbols V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre filmis 6 des taux de reduction diff^rents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul clich6, il est film6 6 partir de Tangle supdrieur gauche, de gauci.e 6 droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images nicessair^. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthoue. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 BROWNING'S VERSE-FORM: ITS ORGANIC CHARACTER (/ BY ARTHUR BEATTY, A. B. SIBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY. IN THE FACULTY OF PHILOS 1PHY. COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY NEW YORK 1897 A i ^^ \\ CONTENTS. Page. Preface j^ Chapter I — Introduction 7 Chapter II — The Verse-Forms gg Chapter III — The Strophe-Forms 33 Chapter IV — The Blank Verse 57 PREFACE. In this Essay only one aspect of Browning's art has been considered Any systematic attempt to study his method of construction has not been attempted, c's lying beyond its limited scope But, as the imagination and harmony of poetry are never separable except by analysis, some con- sideration has been given to the structure, in order to ap- preci:\<^^e the organic nature of the verse. The harmony, the verse, of his jioetry has been considered in its organic nature — as the embodiment of the creations of his imagin- ation, the forms of his "thoughts on life". "We have not cared to ask whether these " thoughts " are " poetical ' or not, believing that such matters can never be settled by any a priori theory of the beautiful. We have undertaken the humbler task of attempting to attain to the poet's standpoint, and then to enquire whether he has embodied his views of life in forms which are their organic, and, therefore, artistic and beautiful expression. The books to which I am indebted are indicated in the foot-notes. But I owe a special debt to the works of my teachers ; to Prof. W. J. Alexander's Introduvtion to Brown- ing, to Prof. Hiram Corson's Introduction to Browning, and more directly to Prof. Thos. R. Price's Construction and Tijpes of Shaksperes Verse, the sympathetic literary in- sight and beautifully accurate method of which I have taken as a model. .. , . A. B. Columbia University, Neio York, February, 1897. Why take the artistic way to prove so much ? Because, it is the glory and good of Art, That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth Art may tell a truth Obliquely, do the thing shall breed the thought. Nor wrong the thought, missing the mediate word. So may you paint your picture, twice show truth, Beyond mere imagery on the wall, — So, note by note, bring music from your mind, Deeper than ever e'en Beethoven dived, — So write a book shall mean beyond the facta, SuflBce the eye and save the soul beside. The liing and the Book, Bk. XII. INTHODUCTION. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION. In the lines which stand at the beginning of the essay, Browning has explicitly stated the motives which have governed him in the writing of his great poem, Tlie Ring and the Book, and, by a natural inference, in the whole of his long life-work. His conception of the end of art is the "speaking of truth; " but always in the way which is de- termined for art by the very nature of art itself. This ex- alted view of art at once lifts it far above the sjjhere of dilettante trilling, and places it on a level with all that has an intimate connection with life, with religion, philosophy and science, by bringing into inseparable connection art and the foundation of all of life.- truth. It is the same view as that which has been expressed by Matthew Arnold from his narrower point of view, that "poetry is at bottom a criticism of life; that the greatness of a poet lies in his powerful and beautiful application of ideas to life,— to the question: How to live. "' Or rather as the P'rench critic, M. Brunetith-e, expresses it, "it seems that literature in the future ought to be not only an imitation or translation of life, but rather a Jortii of activitij. " - A view of literature, such as this, insists, as does Brown- ing in all his work, on the intimate connection between literature and life; and, like M. Brunetiere, he holds that the life of literature is doomed when any divorce is made between it and the whole of life from which it draws its sustenance. On this aspect of Browning it is unnecessary to insist, in view of the numerous "interpretations," phil- osophical and religious, which we have with us in such • Preface to his I'liims of WurUnu-orih. ' Ferdinand Hrunetiere, youviUts Questiu)is de Vritujiie, '■S.ijmbolist'-.f tt Decuilcnti." 8 nB»»WNIN0'8 VER8K-PORM: ITS OROANIC CHARACTER. numbers. The only danger is that the synthesis of the poet may be entirely ignored in the industrious inquiries into his doctrines as a philosopher and theologian; and Mr. Edmund Oosse spoke n neoded word when he recently said: " I am bound to tell you that I saw a different Browning from the hero of all the handbooks and ' gospels' which are now in vogue. People are beginning to treat this vehement and honest port as if he were a sort of Marcus Aurelius and John the Baptist rolled into one. I have just seen a book in which it is proposed that Browing should supersede the Bible, in which it is asserted that a set of his volumes will teach religion better than all the theologies of the world. Well, I did not know that holy monster. Perhaps I was not good enough to know him. But what I saw was an unostentatious, keen, active man of the world, one who never failed to give good, practical advice in mat- ters of business and conduct, one who loved his friends, but certainly haled his enemies; a man who loved to dis- cuss people and affairs, and a bit of a gossip, a bit of a partisan, too, and not without his humorous prejudices. He was simple to a high degree, simple in his scrupulous dress, his loud, happy voice, his insatiable curiosity." The highest tribute one can pay to these words is that we can imagine them applying to Shakespeare "m habit as he lived," to whom Browning has so many similarities, in the whole and steady vision of life which is revealed in his "volumes light. ' The testimony of the intimate friend is confirmed by the study of the ])oet's work, which shows us " a m&u of the world," in the noblest sense. To him life was a whole; and he consistently refused to surrender any part of it in order to develop what some might call a higher and more essential part. Ihis uncomprising love of fact is characteristic only of the greatest men; and even Shakespeare did not go through the world with keener and more enquiring eyes than Browning. " He must have a vision of all the facts, " in the words of Hamilton W. Mabie, " and INTRODUCTION. 9 giving each its weigiit and place, he must mako his peace with them, or else chaos and death are the only certainties. " The "certainties " of life were the object of his unceasing search, and his work is but the record of a life spent in earnest " watch o'er man's mortality. " The fame of Browning has never suffered, nor is it likely to suffer, because he has failed to have something to say. He has always been credited with having a message, what- ever have been the doubts as to what tlie message is. It is rather on the other side of the poet's work that he has been attaclrou from the beginning of his career. It has always been acknowledged that he fulfils one side of the poet's vocation, by "speaking truth"; but is has been as stren- uously maintained that he has failed to give his truths concrete, that is, artistic, rorm. In short, he has been charged with a lack of "the sense of form"; and it is with this charge of "lawlessness" that lie goes on to deal in the lines which we have chosen as the text of this essay. The theme of Art is declared to be truth; but the other side of the matter is not neglected. Truth, he says, can be told "in Art's way" only by giving it a concrete /orm — by suf- ficing the eye, for only thus can truth be told with power to "save the soul." By this Browning means that poetry does not present the truth directly, ;is abstract theorems or propositions, but indirectly, or "oMlquely," as individ- ualized and particularized in concrete, sensuous forms. Thus the true poet, to tell the truth "in Art's way," must not only be endowed with the power of seeing the tryth. He must also see beauty, as necessarily connected with the truth ; and he must satisfy our whole nature by showing -us the truth and the beauty not separately, but as fused together into one organic, concrete whole. Thus the uni- versality and abstraction of thought is presented in the liv- ing, sensuous forms of Art. The antithesis between the universal and particular is resolved by representing the I Essays in Lilerari/ JiifrrpriKitimi, p. 114. 10 BROWNING B VER8S-F0KM : IT8 OKQANIC CHARACTER. universal through the particular, by giving a concrete, liv- ing embodiment to a universal truth.' In Browning's own words, Art is the "mediate word" of the truth; the form by which the truth reaches us, and through which the poet speaks to the universal in us — speaks to us not as "men," that is, to us as individuals, but to us as "mankind." "Song's the poet's art," and he must refrain from speak- ing "naked thoughts; " but he must drape his thoughts "in sights and sounds." He must "make thhtf/.s," instead of "writhuj t/ioi((jlitit ab nt t/iem" ; else he foregoes his divine mission "to bury us with glory, pouring heaven into this shut house of life. " - Art repeats the miracle of the incarna- tion. Browning would say; — before the Word dwelt among men and manifested to them his glory, full of grace and truth, he Oeraiw jlesh. We thus see that Browning recognizes, in theory at least, the importance of form in the domain of art; as we have seen, he regards it as the essential thing, without which poetry cannot be. It will be found that there is no contra- diction between the critic and the poet, when both are studied from the correct point of view. And, in the first place, it is necessary to understand that, while Browning fully recognizes the great importance of form, he in no wise regards it as an end in itself; but always as oryavic to the thought and emotion of the poem. His life and work were never at odds; and as he looked upon life as a whole, and not to be broken into parts, so he views art as an organ- ism in which form and content are not brought together in any accidental or arbitrary way, but are inseparable save in abstraction. In his creed of art, smoothness of verse, polished academic diction, or the dogma of any cult which would separate art from life, or form from content, can have no place whatever. With Browning, the form is regarded as the embodiment of the content. No poet has ' HeKL'l, Aeslhetik (Inlroiluction, Bo$anquet's Tranalalion.) * "Tranncenihntalism." INTRODUCTION. 11 had a clearer conception of the organic nature of literature and of poetry. It would be idolatry to say that this ideal is unerringly and unfailingly fulfilled; but considering the vastness of his outlook, the great range of his themes, and the great volume of his work, we have had few poets who have so completely succeeded in clothing their thoughts and emotions in forms which so completely answer to th*- animating life principle within. As he has said of Shelley, " his works show the whole ])oet's function of beholding with an understanding keenness the universe, nature 'ind man, in their actual state of perfection in imperfectioi ; and at the same time the power of delivering his attained results in an embodiment of verse more closely answering to, and indicative of, the process of the informing spirit — with a diction more adequate to the task in its natural and acquired richness, its material colour, and spiritual transparency,— than can be attributed to any other writer whose record is among us." ' Shelley i.s ranked high by drowning because his poetry is "a sublime fragmentary essay towards a pre- sentment of the correspondency of the universe to deity, of the natural to the spiritual, and of the actual to the ideal;" ' and at the same time possesses an embodiment which is expressive of the processes of the informing spi-it. This is the way by which we must apjjroach the work of Browning, if we are to appreciate the artistic powers which are brought by the poet to the utterance of his thoughts on man, on nature, and on human life. The form— the verse, language, and all the elements which enter into exjjression in the broadest sense - must never be looked at as something which can be analyzed, or be Judged as either good or bad. apart from the substance. These two are elements in one organic whole, co-operating to give the poefs interpretation of life; and where they canjje separated without any mutual hurt they have never ' Browning, Extai/ on Nlwlley . 12 imoWNINO 8 VKK8E-K0RM: ITS ORCJANIC CHARACTER. beon fu.-MJti into artistic unity. In a true poem, the mes- sage can never be evaluated apart from the form which embodies it, nor can tlie form be judged as beautiful or ugly ajjarl from tiio message of the poem. This is true of all jjoetry of the iiighest order; and there is no body of poetry to which ii more closely a])plies than to Brewing's work. The artistic quality of the form, or the beauty of the art-product can be judged only wiien the thought is synipathftically und(M-stood; otherwise, the characteristic and organic beauty of the poem will be unperceived. Poetry is the most int aie thrown back' more to the world of inner liiought. .)ohn La Fr.rgc has well stated the iai[)iession made l)y painting. "Who shall fathom the impressions made by art?— impressions which become con- fused, when one tries to declare them and describe them; strong and clear if we feel them again, even by the recall of memory; so that wo realize how much of our.selves con- stituted the feelings which se(>med to come out of the things that struck us. In our art these impressions are tang- ible, if I may say so. We enjoy what we think is the re- presentation of the certain things, at tlie same time that some sense of what they mean for our mind affects and moves us. These figures, these objects, which seem to be the thing itself to a certain ])art of our intelligence, make a sort of bridge over which we pass to reach that myster- ious impression which is represented by form as a sort of hieroglyph; a speaking, living hieroglyph, not such a one as is re])laced by a few characters of writing. . . An art more complicated certainly than literature, but infinitely more expressive, since, independently of the idea, its sign, its living hieroglyph, fills the soul of the painter with the splendour that things give; their beauty, their contrast, INTRODUCTION. 13 their harmony, their colours.— all the undivided order of the external universe."' Since the signs of poetry are, to a large degree, conven- tional, and appeal to our aesthetic sense only to a slight degree directly through presentation, but mainly indirectly, through representation, we are forced to realize the situa- tion in a poem by our imagination. The scene is only hinted at in the signs of poetry, and these signs can, in them- selves and apart from association of idea, only to a slight degree "fill our soul with the splendour that thivgH give." Thus, in poetry wo are more and more forced to make certain whether wo apprehend the truth of a poem, before we can say whether we see its characteristic beauty. Unless we are capable of responding to the truth of a poem, we can never respond to the beauty of the form in which the truth is organically embodied. And on the other hand, as we understand, in the true sense, the meaning of a true poom, our feeling for its beauty grows accordingly. There can be no divorce between the intellect and the feelings in poetry; but they must "rise or sink together, dwarfed or godlike, bond or free." Smoothness or ruggedness in verso can, in them.solves, have no aesthetic significance, apart from the thought, feeling or action of the poem. It is the peculiar glory of the highest poetry that there is no separation between the idea and its sign; that it summons 1 nto activity all our powers in order to realize it as an or- ganic whole; and it is only as wo do respond with our whole nature that we read the message which the highest poetry alone can give us. ' Thus, seeing the characteristic beauty of an organic whole implies seeing as one the form and the content, not as in- dependent parts, but in relation to each other, and as in- separable parts which cooperate to the making of one har^ m onious whole. Thus, too, every poet will have a peculiar ' Connkleralions on I'ainliii;/, pj). U7-11,H. » Compare Barrett Wendell, EnijHsh ('oinimtition, p, "if*, ff. 14 BROWNING 8 VEESE-FORM: ITS ORQANIC CHARACTER. form organic to his every poem; and, moreover, the entire body of his work will bear the marks of his peculiar bur- den. This is true of Browning; and as he has gone far out of the beaten paths of conventional poetry, the forms which were necessary to embody the results of his wide study of life have been equally unconventional. His thought has been so novel, and the wide range of his intellect has made such demands on the understanding of his readers, that the vast majority has been unable to pass from the articu- lating thought to the subtler art which is at the basis. Browning first attracted attention as a sturdy thinker and reasoner in verse; and so the first criticism brought against him was, in general, that of "obscurity." The critics had not as yet penetrated the thought to the form beneath. But, in time, the thought of his poetry became a part of the common stock-in-trade of the times; and it was in consequence found comparatively lucid and simple. Attention was then turned to the form of his poetry, and the usual criticism of it now is that it betrays a great lack of " artistic sense. ' Though these two charges against the poet have never been entirely separated, yet the em- phasis placed upon each in turn marks two important stages in the evolution of Browning criticism. In this Browning is not at all unique, but has shared the fate of all poets who have strayed from the paddock of convention. It has been the fate of all original poets to be judged, or rather misjudged, by rules and standards of criticism which their poetry has rendered entirely obsolete; and when we meet with such an one, it will be well for us to reconsider the grounds on which we found our judgments of poetry and artistic beauty. The history of English poetry has shown that we must be ever on the watch for new types of literature, and that we must beware of condemning works as shapeless and chaotic, in which a later time, with a wider and more sympathetic view, may see everywhere " proofs of design and self-supporting arrangement where ,-p' INTRODUCTION. 15 our careless eye had seen nothing but accident. " Shake- speare, tried by the standards of the " classical " criticism, was nothing more than a "drunken savage;" and Milton was condemned by Dr. Johnson for " grossly violating the laws of metre" in the very verses which we now consider to mark the supreme excellence of blank verse. A due consideration of the man's work as a whole would have made these false criticisms impossible; and, in the same way, Browning's alleged "obscurity" and "neglect of form " may be dispelled by an attempt to attain to the point of view from which he surveys the universe, nature and man. I'he aim of Browning as a poet is summed up in a preg- nant sentence in the preface to Sordello: " My stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul: little else is worth study. ' This shows the interest he had in the phenomena of the mind; but it also shows his equally strong feeling for fact — for the common facts in the life of his fellpw- men. Thus, while he studies the soul as the one thing worthy of his attention, his realistic turn of mind pre- vents him from taking an exclusive interest in the work- ings of his own soul, as the sum and substance of the whole universe. He studies the souls of men as they are revealed by the incidents in their development. But he has not a merely spectacular interest, on the other hand, in these in- cidents. They are interesting to him only as they reveal the individual soul at some particular stage of its develop- ment. The incidents with which he deals are interesting only because they reveal the one thing of supreme worth to him — the human soul, tending " on its lone way " to God, however thwarted and bound by its "baffling and pervert- ing carnal mesh. ' Each soul is a microcosm, and contains within itself the essential elements of the Universe. It carries its life within; and if the potentialities of that soul are realized, it reaches its perfection and its heaven. " Truth is within ourselves," says Paracelsus; and so is all 1 16 BROWNINO S VERSE-FORM: ITS OROANIC CHARACTER. which is really ours. Knowledge, truth, perfection, or anything we may set up as an end to be attained must be made vital and personal if they are to be possessed by the soul. None of these things are to be attained by a con- quest from without, but by growth and development from within. And the end of perfection is placed by Browning far beyond the possibility of attainment in this present life. " Life is probation and the earth no goal, but starting-point of man," says the aged Pope; and yet the identity of the soul's life in every state remains, and this life is an integral part of the self -development which is to be perfected in another and freer sphere. The soul is infinite; but, fixed "mid this dance of plastic circumstance, this Present," it must " tit to the finite its infinity. " Amid the helps and hindrances of the earth-life, " I say that man was made to grow, not stop: That help he needed ont'e, and needs no more. Having <,'ro\vn up but an inch by, is withdrawn: For he hath new needs, and new helps to these "; and thus he must go on until at last he reaches "the ultimate angels' law. Indulging every instinct of the soul There where law, life, joy, impulse are one thing." ' What Tennyson has said of Virtue, Browning would say of each soul: Nay, but she aimed nv)t at glory, no lover of glory she; Give her the glory of {/oiiifj on and still to be. ' Thus Browning lays stress on the process of develop- ment, and is much less interested in the result. Or what would be truer to say, he sees the result in the process and draws no line of separation between them. He sees each incident sub specie aeteryiitatis, and therefore fraught with an infinite significance. He believes as passionately as Dante that the soul can attain to the Truth; but, with him the struggle toward the highest is the attainment of the Truth, because by the struggle are called forth the capabilities • A l.iath in tlir JJai it. 1 IRTKt DUOTION. 17 and potentialities of the soul. The perfection of the seal Dante compares to the calm rest of the beast in its familiar lair;' but Browning never represents the soul as having already attained. "What's come to perfection perishes," is held to be true in life as in art; and the soul is never represented at rest, but as in eternal procesf of develop- ment: "How inexhaustibly the spirit growsl One object, she semned erewhile born to reach With her whole energies and die content, — So like a wall at the world's edge it stood, With naught beyond to live for,— is that reached? — Already are new undreamed energies Outgrowing under, and extending farther To a new object; there's another world." • The dying Paracelsus was at last made wise to see his former error in despising what man had accomplished in the past, vjnce he would have men despise the past, as " only a scene of degradation, ugliness and tears, the rec- ord of disgraces best forgotten, a sullen page in human chronicles fit to erase. " And he now saw how false were his hopes to " change man's condition " in " one day, one moment's space. " He now perceived that " there exists no law of life outside of life," and that perfection is attained " painfully, while hope and fear and love shall keep us man." Now Love taught him '•To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind. To know even hate is but a mask cf love's, To see a good in evil, and a hope In ill-success; to sympathize, be proud Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim Struggles or truth, their poorest fallacies. Their prejudice and fears and cares and doubts; All with a touch of nobleness, despite Their error, upward tending all though weak." * This not only is the final faith of Paracelsus: it is the poet's own essential view of life; and from this we can see > Divina Commedia, Puradiao, IV, 11, I2i-U9. * Lvtria, Act, V . * Paracelsun. V. 2 18 nROWNINO S verse-form: IT8 ORCMNIC CHARACTER. why the incidents in the devolopineiit of souls were of such supreme signiticance to him. Hence we see, too, the dra- matic character of his genius; for it is the essence of the dramatist to be supremely interested in men. But while Browning is dramatic, he is so in a peculiar way. He is interested in the incidents of a soul, primarily, and not with man in action. Thus we can see the truth of the criti- cism that, as a rule, his dramas are deficient in action, and are studies of single characters.' He is interested in the inner history of men. rather than in the outer act, and he could not give the requisite attention to outward accesso- ries necessary to the drama. No one knew Browning's weakness in the drama better than himself. It is not at all a characteristic form of his art; and he was led to it by particular circumstances, not throusrh the spontaneous working of his genius. It could not be otherwise. Brown- ing was never interested in groups of persons, but in indi- vidual souls. He was not interested in the play of men on one another; but in the relations which men's souls hold to the world about them. His chief interest is not in what man does, but in what he /v. If the regular drama was an unsuitable instrument of expression for Browning, his genius ....s taken up and adapted to its own purposes, one peculiarly fitted for its use— the "dramatic monologue." In this form all his most characteristic work is cast. It is described by him- self as "poetry, always dramatic in principle, and so many utterances of so many imaginary persons, not mine." This art-form stands midway between the soliloquy and the drama proper by having on the one hand more than one dramatis persona: and by having on the other only one speaker. The speaker is taken in the moment of some crisis, some great temptation, or other experience which cuts down through all the masks of convention, self-deceit or cunning, and leaves the soul in its essential vileness or ' Wallop, The Greater Victorian Poem. INTRODUCTION. 19 purity clear and manifest to our sight. In tliesp circum- stances the speaker gives his account of the experience to another person who is listening. Of this second person — and by his presence the dramatic element of the poem enters — we know only by means of the words or actions of the speaker. But by repetition of this second person's words, by answering his questions or objections, the char- acter and belief of the silent person aro given as clearly as the speaker's own. This second person is rarely, if ever, a puppet at which the speaker directs his words, and which is only an excuse for the speaker's expressing himself. Though some of the monologues shade down so as to be almost indistinguish- able from the soliloquy, there is, for the most part, in each poem a dramatic situation which could not have come into existence had the persons of the poem been other than they are. A Forgiveness, for instance, reveals at the end a most striking dramatic situation — a husband confessing to the priest who was responsible^ for the murder of the wife. In the love poems, on the other hand, the dramatic element is often weak, and the song becomes a simple soliloquy. Cristina, Evelyn Hope, and Love Among the Jiuins are poems of this class; and it is to be noted that where the dramatic element is weak, the lyric element is correspondingly strong, and the poems are finished with elaboration and polish. Since the whole dramatic situation is left to be gathered as we go along, from the speaker's words alone, this form is a difficult one; though most of the difficulties are re- moved when we understand its principles. But this form of Browning's poetry, more than anything else, has led people to declare it obscure and inartistic. Therefore an appreciation of the method of this form is the one pre- requisite of seeing the organic nature of the whole body of his work. Only by a proper appreciation of the nature of the dramatic monologue can all the elemr 's of expres- 20 BROWNING'B VER8E-F0BU: ITS OROANIC CUABACTEB. sion in his poetry be perceived. The form of the mono- logue demands, as a rule, terseness and closeness of speech ; and its dramatic nature demands abrupt turns of speech, sudden transitions, and even ellipses, to express the changes of mood, and turns of argument, induced by the silent second person. The whole situation must be grasped, and all interpreted in the light of it. We must imagine the exact circumstances; and it will be found that the more perfectly we do so, the more perfectly the whole poem will be found to answer to Aristotle's dictum, and will be found to have " for its subject a single action, whole and com- plete, with a beginning, a middle, and an end, and will tuus resemble a living organism." ' The more we enter into the spirit of the dramatic monologue, the more apparent will become the orderly arrangement of all its parts, — plot, character, language, metre; and the more will the poem as an organic whole commend itself to our sense of harmony and beauty. And that is what is meant by saying that his art is completely organic. Nothing is explained in an ex- ternal manner; but all is embodied. Richard Holt Hutton has said of Browning that he " can- not paint action " ; but that he is " a great master of the in- tellectual approaches to action ". ^ This criticism falls be- side the mark; for it fails to recognize the fact that Brown- ing holds in inseparable unity thought and action, and repre- sents them as one. He represents the character and the action which is the natural outcome of that character. In the words of Mabie, the dramatic monologue has this great advantage over other forma of expression, that it gives us, with the truth, the character which that truth has formed.* It combines in a peculiar manner the lyric, introspective development of poetry, with the objectivity of the ancient draca, without giving undue prominence to either tendency. Wo, lies, XX I II., 1. *Esaay$ Literary and Theological. ' h'isayt in Literary Inter f /relation, p. 134. INTRODUCTION. 21 Those who deny to Browning " the sense of form " may mean that he has never patiently elaborated his poetry after it is once conceived; never recast, revised, or polished, as one would a gem. In this sense. Browing would be the last to claim the " sense of form ". But if by this term is meant the power of conception and execution at a jet, as it were; then this artistic power must be claimed for him. It must even be claimed in a high degree ; for in the work of few poets do we meet with such i. spontaneous blending of sound and sense into one organic whole, as in Browning. Thought and expression are blended so that they are no longer two things, but one. Speech is wedded to thought, and form and conttat are become one flesh in the dramatic rmmologue. In illustration of what has been said, let us now take an example of Browning's work, which has been universally admired, and, by an examination of its merits, let us ar- rive at some of the reasons why we give it our approving admiration. From an analysis of this one slight example, we may be able to discover some of the principles which prevail in the whole body of his poetical work. A poem which almost all critics agree in considering a triumphant example of Browning's method is My Last Duchess. Ferrara, a poem which appeared in 1842, in " Dramatic Lyrics " (Bells and Pomegranates, No. III.) The scene is laid in Ferrara, whose "wide and grass- grown streets " seemed to Childe Ilarold cursed with the "changing mood of petty power" of the house of Este. Here the " miserable despot tried in vain to quell the in- ^sulted mind he could not quench," and even yet the injured shade of Tasso reproached the ungrateful city, in which he was in life and death " the mark where Wrong aim'd with her poisoned arrows — but to miss. " The action of the poem opens at a characteristic moment in the life of the speaker, the Duke of Ferrara. He is on the eve of betrothal to the daughter of the Count; and, in the light of this act, and his heartless tale of his heart-broken "last Duchess," his KROWNINd S VKRSE-KORM; ITS (»tlOANIC CriARACTER. clKU'uctor .stunds forili in tlit^ stronffest possible relief If the plot w(!re cast in the form of njirralion, this point would be the climax. We see that the husband who classes his wife's portrait with the Neptune by Claus of Innsbruck is beyond the hope of redemption. Nought remains but the subsidence of the plot to its tragic close. The situation is this: The Duke has retired from the company, assembled, perhaps, to celebrate his betrothal. He displays the portrait of his dead wife to the agent of the Count, who is a dilettante triller in art, like himself. The envoy has noted the smile on the face of the portrait, and asked how the artist has produced it. In explaining "how such a glance came there," he incidentally, and by the way, mt-roiy. tolls how he at once crushed the smiles and life out of a swoetand lovely woman. It is to be noted that he never thinks of the crime he has committed. He is wholly uncon.scious of that. His mind never for a mo- ment dwells on the loveliness of the dead woman. Her ex- cellences are spoken of only in connection with his ex- planation of the heartless dilettante's question. Yes. the portrait is life-like without a doubt; and, that point settled, they turn from the picture to the "company below." On the way down, the " next Duchess " and the Neptune oc- cupy iheir attention equally! In the versitication of this poem, the most marked feature is tlie great, freedom of How. combined with terseness of expression. It is ia the rhyming couplet, but the rhyme does not obtrude itself, because of the use of enjambement in those lines where the thought demanded an unbroken flow. It reads like blank verse through most of the poem, until within a dozen lines of the end, when the rhyme comes out strongly, completing at once the sense and the effect of regularity and systtm in the structure of the verse : n INTRODUCTION. S3 That's my lust Dii(;hoHfs parntt«nd if she let 40 Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wit to yours, forsoolh, anrl in;ide excuse. — E'en then v.ouid be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir. she smiled, no doubt. Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without 45 Much the same smile ? This grew: I' gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if ^livc. Will 't please you ri.se ? We '11 meet ■1^ 21 HROWSINO 8 VERSE-KORM: ITU ORGANIC CHARACTER. Tho cnnipany below, thf>n. I repotit, Tho Count your master's known inunifirencii JiO Is aniplp warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will he disaliowe'l; Thouuli hi^ fJiir daughter's self, as I avowed At starting;, is my object. Nay, we '11 t^o Together down, sir. Notice Ne[)tune, though. 55 Taminfj a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me I ( Though the even flow of the verse in this poem is very ^noticeable, it will be found on examination to have no , merely mechanical regularity. As a whole, the verse of j the poem is calm and stately, in keeping with the proud, ^exclusive character of the speaker. But, when the thought and feeling demand it, there are departures from the nor- mal iambic flow, which are most expressive. Lines 1 and 2 have the unaccented syllable of the first foot dropped, giving to both a stronijly accented beginning. This must be felt to be organic, as well as the departures in lines 17, (Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist); 2^, (some officious fool Broke in the orchard); and 43, (I choose Never to stoop). The dropping of the unaccented syllable (the anacrusis) gives to these lines a new and most expressive melody. The place of the caesura varies so as to give differences of movement to certain passages. Thus, in 11. 1-13, it comes about the middle, with the exception of 11. 2, 5 and 10. This gives a calm and flowing movement in harmony with the proud speaker. In 11. 43 47 it comes, with one excep- tion (1. 46), after the second accent. This, with tho short sentences, gives an arrested movement and broken flow ex- pressive of the cruel tragedy which crushed that joyous life. The verses are arranged in organic groups, which are, to all intents and purposes, strojphes. Contrast, for instance, the short. abrui)t groups in 11. 42-45; 45-40; 4G-47 and 47-48, •3f INTRODUCTION. 25 with the long group, 48-53, which follows. Note, too, how this is interrupted by the short strophe, Nay, wo '11 go Together down, sir, which is expressive of the action. This is followed by a strophe which carries the poem to its melodious end. Another element which is^ important in Browning's poe- try may be noted — the alliteration. In 1. 2, 'Looking as if she were a/ive. I ca//, ' the alliteration has a fusing effect on the whole line. In II. 18 and 19, 'the /aint Hal//lush,' the two lialf-lines are fused. This form is frequent in Browning. Again, in line 27 there is an example of allit- eration within a phrase i.i the single line. In the analysis of Browning's poetic art. as seen in this example, we have tried to keep to the front the fact that all the elements of poetic expression — foot, line, strophe, metro, or what not, — are not considered as constituting an end In themselves; but are consistently regarded as the incarnation of the thought, emotion and action of the poem. We have seen how the various elements have an artistic significance only through their being the embodiment of the poet's thought; and how the form assumes Protean shapes in resi)0use to the demands of the informing spirit. Moreover, we have seen that this great variety of form has caused the verse to be condemned as shaj)eless, and beyond the reach of a justifying analysis, by those who have not recognized its organic character. It is proposed therefore, to examine the verse-form of Browning as shown in: (1) The Ver.seForms; (2) The Strophe-Forms; (3) The Blank Verse. The attempt will he made to test each form as the organic exf)re.->sion of the poefs mind working through many forms; but chielly through his most characteristic art-form- -the dramatic monologue. 2G ItlloWNINO s VFKHK-KOKM: ITS ORdAMC CHAKArTER. CHAPTER II. THK VKKSH-FOKMS. The analysis of tlio pootn in tho first chai)ter sliows the proat froodoni of rhylhin which is cliaracterisiic of Brown- ing? s most admired work. This freedom has also been explain- ed and justified, on the jjround tliat metre is not re'^ardod by him as an end in itself. Mere smoothness was the last thinp to whii-h lie would have thouf,'ht of striving to attain; for the metre is not considered as anything,' ai)art from the content of the poem, bin ;',s its very form and embodiment. Since the rhythm is obedient to the many moods and emotions of tlie poet, the verse has a freedom of movement which is displeasing to many who have been accustomed to a smoother flow in verse. Tho result of this has been that Browninir has been coniiemned as 'rujrj^ed,' 'harsh.' and 'unmusical.' This charge he has borne in common with those poets who have attempted a rhythm more complex than is usual— with Milton in the choruses of Samson A(/(»iistrs, and with Tennyson in ^f(nltl. People are loth to oondeuiu such acknowledged artists as Milton and Tenny- son, as so much of their work is pronounced by the common voice ti. be artistic, and is amply appreciated. Yet, Tenny- son preferred reading M.nal to any other poem of his, be- cause of the greater complexity of its music. His poetry is taken as ilio extreme length to which musical verse can be carried: and yet he did not regard mere smoothness of verse as an object to be striven for. His own practice shows far otherwise. Thus, in his blank verse, he does not maintain the regular alternation of unaccented and ac- cented syllables: but frequently writes such a line as: THE VERSE-FORMS. or Witli tho air of the trumpet round him, and loaps in; Biit)l)lc(i the nitflitinKiilt* and hoodod not; and lines like those occur in his most carefully-wrought poems. In protest af,'ainst those who demand a mechanical regularity in rhythm, "he declared that his own poetry was easy enouph to read aloud, if people would only read it just as it was written and not try to force the accent."^ By this he means that his verse is accentual verse, pri- marily; th(> accents making the verse, and not the verse the accents; and the accents being those which are natural to the language used to express the particular idea or emo- tion. The same thing is stated by Coleridge in the preface Xo (Jhristdlnl: "The metre of the r//r/.s7a/>f'/ is not, properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its being founded on a new principle: namely, that of counting in each line the accents, not the syllables. Though the latter may vary from seven to twelve, yet in each line the ac- cents will be found to bo only four. Nevertheless this oc- casional variation in number of syllables is not introduced wantonly, or for the mere end of convenience, but in cor- respondence with some transition in the nature of the im- agery or ])assion." Both of these poets were protesting against the judg- ment of their poetry by too narrow canons. Both are in substantial agreement; and though neither attempted to give any scientific account of his own workmanship, their general meaning is perfectly clear. The words of Coler- idge imply that there is a unit of measure in the line — the yoo^ — which is made uj) of two i)'jrts, one accented syl- lable and one or two unaccented syllables. The accented syllable is the primary and most important element of the foot, being the nucleus, as it were, around which •are grouped the unaccented syllables in varying number and o rder. The number of the accented syllables indicates ' J. KnowU'.-i.- .Miirlrrnth Crnhtr;/, .Jan., IWU. 28 imoWNINU B VrilRI'; KOKM IIH «)Hs, Morordin^ to thoi?' nninhor aixl gr(ni|)ii)^ iihout Iho accoiilod sylliil)los. mihI tlio iitiiforiiiity in oc(Mirron<',o of thpso f;ro»i)»s, givo tlio spocial rliytlini to oacli lino and groiips of linos, or stroplios. Tlnis tlio «'Iassos of fool aro: An acoontod syllahlo, followod by ono uiukm ontod Ryllu- l)lo ('rroohoo).' An aooontod syllultlo, jM'Ocodod by ono unar<'ont(;d syllji- blo (lan)b). An :i Mitod syHabl<>, followod by two utuK :'ontod sylla- 1)1 OS (Dactyl I. An a('»'onl«'(i syllablo, proc«;ost ). Linos uiado up of an nninlorrnptod sorios of oa,oli of tho olasscs of foot ati> loiinod M'rocliaif, ianibio, naclylic, and Aiiapa'stif linos. iospooli\ oly. In addition to tlios<^ four oImssos of linos, tboro is anotlior lar^o and important, class, whit'li has arliytliin not oxplicablo in arcoidaiico willi tln^ constitution of oitlior of tlioso class(vs. It is nsiial to roduco il ti> oitlior ono of tlioni by tlioorotically dropping or aildin^ syllables. Ibil lliis class is so iinpin-tant. iti Hrownin^. and has such ii liist met <|uality, that any ado- (piattM'lassitication of his nuMros nnist. ;xivo it, a sopa.rat«5 phuMv An oxatnination of (his class shows that tho vorso is niatlo up in ono of two ways: (1) by tho blondinjj^ of «causo its niovomont rosomblod that of proso (Aiiyos). This name wo shall adopt, as it is doscriptivo of tlio nobU* froodotn of somo of Hrowning's host vorso; combining, as it does, tho unfottorod niovomont of tho noblest proso with tlio true poolic cadiMico, ' Tr,u'>iif. Till' rofiiiiiii rlnssiriil ni>iiit>iur'\\H)t)(U}riil*i in tho lino. (Ill inany lines tlicrn arc intcrch!ir)f<''S of feet wliirli ar« so slif 'I'lie niitriher of feet in the line.* I. TKOCIJAIf' MIOTKrCH. fjines of (»ne foot: Kvor ' Nnvr ( I ,ifi ■ II II liui'i ) l>H,y ,1 ' < /'i/i/iii /'iinniHj l/ine.s of ' wo feel : Ami llic liliio (•><> I >OMr ;inrl 'lowy (.( I'l'il'i Wniiinn) W'lijlc I live ,1 i III A )' III ) Fjines of three f«>el : Moo tln' rrodtiirc Hialkilit,' f,l Whiiiuii'k Ln-.l W'li'l) Was it wroiiK to own ^ '^ I n A Yi ilil>'S (irn iMilic.'itiMJ ju full f.iri'd IcttiT-f. '"I'Ik- C'lirct liiiliciili'K II C'llnl'i-lic lirii\ I, c , ni," in wliirh tln' In-t f* to 111' Mi(t''il fJKit iliffi ri III! H (t( uln HH (in tli'^ H'"/('r;il (if'cnt'fi HyiliihlcH, iiii'l (in tlic nnMiccfiti'd Myll;it)l<-;, arc ridt fii-rc t;il<rii'-i 'if -^tr<■s^ on ttin uiiacrcntcd syllalilcs t,'ivc a fiiiit 'if ^ in'itcail iJ - > (,r - - , Ki^'i'^t,' f^''"- Octir nicasuri'. 'I III' li't I ill. 'II -'Ull''T synrn],;it ,i,ri, vfry nftiTi at tlir' cIihi' i,f troctiair- lin'H. Sync(i[iati'\Shah Ahbas.") III. DACTYLIC METRES. This class of metres is very scarce. Lines of two feet : Digging out deniers. {Pinf/nh Sigfifs II.) IV. ANAPAESTIC METRES. Lines of two feet: Let the corpse do its worst (After) Lines of three feet: Of the million or two, more or less. (Instans Tyrannua) Lines of four feet: As she brushed it, ij the cornice-wreath blossomed anew (Loif In a Life) Not a word to each other; || we kept the great pace {G'hrnt to A Lr) Lines of five feet : On my knees put up both little feet ! || I was sure if I tried (The IJnfjlis/iiii'jn in Italij) Lines of six feet: 'Tis the regular pad of the wolves || in pursuit of the lives in the sledge (fi-i'in [n\novitch\ 32 HROWNINQ 8 VERSE-FORM: ITS ORGANIC CHARACTEB. V. LOGAOEDIC MF.TfiES. This class of metres has two distinct varieties, which may be best designated Trochaiclogaoedic, and Iambic- logaoedic; the former being verses which begin with an accented syllable, and the latter those which begin with an unaccented syllable. Lines of two feet: ( Trnch-log.) So the year's done with. Love me forever (Earfh'a Immortalities) (Iamb-li>(f.) Ami the world has changed {.Iftmea Lee's Wife i) Lines of three feet: ( Trnch-loij.) Cruniblintr your hounds their messes (So)i(f in 'Pippa') {fninh-loy.) I know there shall dawn a day {Reverie) Lines of four feet: {Trocfi-loij.) Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! Sit and watch by her side an hour. {Evelyn Hope.) {Iamb-log.) And quench its speed in the slushy sand {Meetinff at Night) Lines of five feet: {Troch-log.) Quenched lay their caldron, || cowered i' the dust the crew ( The Iting and the Book, I., 584) {Iamb-log.) The curd o" the cream, i| flower o' the wheat as it were. {The liing and the Book, I., 918) Lines of six feet: {T/'o<'h-log.) Would that the structure brave, || the manifold music I rear. {Abt Vogler) First I salute this soil of the biassed, || river and rock ! {Pheidippitles) (lamti-log.) In the deep of our land, 'tis said, || a village from out the woods. (Ivan Ivanovitch) Lines of seven feel: (Troch-log.) Hated or feared the more,— who knows? || —the gen- uine wild beast breed iJIalbert and Hob) {Iamb-log.) My grandfather says he remembers he saw, !| when a youngster long ago, On a bright May day, a strange old man, || with a beard as white as snow. {Martin Relph) THE STROPOE-FOBMS. 33 CHAPTER III. THE STROPHE- FORMS. In the preceding chapter we have examined the individ- ual lines of Browning's poetry, and have seen how the greatest variety possible in their complex structure may be reduced to a system, by considering their elemental struc- ture. It is proposed to do the same for the strophes, of which there is also a very great variety. The strophe is a more complex unity than the line; and, with Browning, it may be said to be the primary unit; for the habitual use of enjambement, even in his longer lines, seems to make it apparent that he did not treat the line as a unit to be considered independently of th« strophe. The most important elements of the strophe are the line (or verse) and rhyme. By the structure of the strophe, whether corresponding in internal structure, or length ; or differing in both or either, a special rhythm is imparted to the strophe-form, which marks it out as individual and dis- tinct in kind. The rhymes, by their arrangement, bind the strophe together mo- e or less closely, according as they are made more or less prominent. Besides these two combin- ing and fusing agencies there is another, which gives to th» strophe its toning — alliteration. It is frequently very im- portant in Browning's poetry, and its elusive effects are scarcely ever absent. Thus the structure of the strophe is very complex ; and the success to which any poet attains in its use is one of the highest tests of his power. The real strophe must be a structural unit, and not a merely mechanical group of verses. The poet must have breathed into it the breath of life, and the whole must be an organism, in which every 34 urownino's verse-fobm: its oroanic charactks. member lias its special function and which is quick with "the mystery of vital movement." This test as a poet Browning stands most admirably. Few English poets show a greater variety of strophe forms; and among all his stro- phes there is scarcely one which is merely a succession of verses. In almost every instance the sympathetic reader must be aware of the presence of an informing life, out of which the form has inevitably grown. There are three classes of strophe-form in Browning: I. Regular Forms. Those which are members of a series of uniform groups of lines. II. Irregular Forms. Those which perform all the func- tions of a strophe, but which are individual in their struc- ture. III. Those which are in themselves complete poems. Under each of these three divisions the strophes will be classified according to the number of lines of (a) equal, (b) of unequal length. I. REGULAR FORMS. Strophes of two lines, (a) Lines of equal length. (1) Four feet: The Boy and the Angel. The short and fitful strophes are most appropriate to the story of the humble worshipper of God. MorniDg, evening, noon and night, " Praise (3od !" sang Theocrite. Then to his poor trade he turned. Whereby the daily meal was earned. Hard he laboured, long and well; O'er his work the boy's curl fell. But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, " Praise Grod." THE STROPHE-FORMS. 35 (2) Five feet: The iambic pentapody in rhyming couplets is the form of Sordello. It is handled with the same freedom as is seen in the work of Marlowe; and, later, in Shelley and Keats. As contrasted with the manner of Pope, enjambement is very frequent, which gives to the verse a more flowing, and less epigrammatic, effect. The place of the caesura varies within wide limits in Browning's heroic couplets, which imparts to the verse a freedom of movement similar to that of blank verse. His darling stoops With no quenched lights, desponds with no blank troops Of disenfranchised brilliances, for, blent Utterly with thee, its shy element Like thine upburneth prf)8perous and clear. Still, what if I approach the august sphere Named now with only one name, disentwine That under-current soft and argentine From its fierce mate in the majestic mass Leavened as the sea whose fire was mixed with glass In John's transcendent vision, — launch once more That lustre? Dante, pacer of the shore Where glutted hell disgorgeth filthiest gloom, Unbitten by its whirring sulphur-spume — Or whence the grieved and obscure waters slope Into a darkness quieted by hope ; Plucker of amaranths grown beneath Grod'a eye In gracious twilight where his chosen lie. {Book I.) In this extract the rhyme does not interfere with the on- ward movement of the verse; the couplet- structure being weakened by the enjambement in the first part. But the function of the couplet is emphasized in the last six lines. The pauses are not in the interior of the line, but at the end; and each couplet is as isolated and distinct as the Hell, Purgatory and Heaven, which they describe. Saul is a splendid example of a five-foot anapaestic rhythm, where the young enthusiasm of the prophet is heard in the impetuous sweep of the verse: 36 BROWNINO's VERSE-KORM: ITS ORGANIC CUARACTEB. Ab I Hnntr, — " Oh, our manhfKKl's prime vipor ! No spirit feels waste, Not a inusclf is stopped in its piaj inj; nor sinew unbraced. Oh, the wild joys of living ! The leaping from rock up to rock, The stronK rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock Of the plunge in a po Html Lori.ioii .>,lilion (,f tli,. c..ll,.ct.- iiTul fivo f<'et. a a !i J) I) ,,,,.,,, ,„ 'dhn-fK'H.' Tlio \inoxpnctod short r. T) f) T) ;{ ''•" lin(> friv.'s a sudd.'ii and jocose ending, suitable to the de- termination to "make verse. ' STFIOPHES OK SIX T<"r wondor of white mviHt u^Hwan, undo! Note the animating touch of tlie internal rhyme in the fourth line; and note also the perfection of tho periodic structure in the beautiful repetition of the first rhyme in the final line. a b c c b a Meeting ut Niohf, and In a Oondola, (She sjmiks, 2). The arrangement of the rhymes gives greater intensity to the middle of the strophe, with a more flowing close. (2) Five feet. a b b a a b (Viihie Ihland to the Dark Tower Came. The rhymeempha.sis is distributed pretty evenly through the strophe, with a lightening at tho end. The repetition of the two rhymes unites the strophes closely, and at tho same time gives the reader a haunting sense of the dread mys- teries which tho Childe saw on his wonderful journey. THE HTROI'UE-rORUS. 45 BrttfT thiH iirnHcnt than fi pant liko that; Uack thorcforo to my darkoninK path againl No Hoiirul, no HJKht an far an pye coiiid Htrain. Will thn ni^ht Hond a howlnt or a hat? I askf'd: whon somethinj^ (jn thodiHrnal flat ("arne to armst my thcju^^htH and change their train. a b c a b c JameH Lee's Wife, vii. This strophe is the concluding part of the Italian sonnet-form. a a b c c b Any Wife to Any lIuHband. The b-rhyme fuses the group into one. (3) Six feet. a b c a b c MiMyknh, Two strophes of three lines, united in a more complex unity. (4) Eight feet. a a b b c c Mertonn's Song in 'A Blot in the 'Scutcheon.' The combination of three long, flowing couplets makes a fine strophe. (6) Lines of uner/ual length. (1) Two, hree and four feet. b a 2 2 James Lee's Wife, v. 3 c i 3 I leaned on the turf, I looked at a rock Left dry hy the surf; For the turf, to call it gnwH were to meek: Dead to the nxjts, ho deep wa.H done The work of the Hummer sun. The abrupt and jagged movement of this strophe is due to the fact that the Hues corresponding in rhyme do not correspond in length. Thus, line 4 is double the length of line 2, and line 5 has one foot more than line 6. The char- acter of many strophe-forms arises out of departures from the rule that only similar lines should rhyme. It is seldom, however, that two so striking departures are made in one of six short verses. Here they are justified, as an expression of the despair of the woman from whose life the glory of love has fiown. ^^Mr -^M^fffT'*-"^^*^^^" 4U HROWNINOS verse-form: ITS ORGANIC CHARACTEB. (•2) Three and four feet: a a b b c c ^,iam, LUith and Eve. 3 3 4 4 4 3 a b a b c c jjv,/,./,? 3 3 3 4 4 4 aaaabb ^^^ Gondola {Stilf He Muses). 4 4 4 4 4 3 a b c a b c p^^^f^ ^^n^ Angela, Venice. 4 4 4 4 4 3 a b a b c c Epilogue to ' Tfie Two Poets of Croisic' The\orlgoing examples represent almost all combina- Uons of the three and four foot lines. (3) Three, five and six feet: a a b c c b ^^j^j,^ ^^ Ezra. A peculiarly fit strophe to en'shrileMe musings of the aged Teacher. The body of the strophe contains the arguments of the Rabbi, and the long Alexandrine gives the conclusions, with a fine effect. (4) Six and seven feet: a b c a b c Tyric to ' Two Camels.' Two six-foot trip- A A A A (\ 7 -*-'«/' lets with a seven-foot line substituted in the last. This calls the attention to the unity of the strophe. STROPHES OF SEVEN LINES. (a) Lines of equal length. (1) Two feet: • • „j a b a b c b c James Lees Wife, i. Three couplets joined by the fifth line, which introduces the third rhyme The fitness of these short spasmodic lines, with the dead stop at the close, to express the woman's rumb despair, must be felt by all who have any feeling for poetic form. THE 8TROPHK-KORM8. 47 abina- phe to ody of ad the effect. at trip- . This )S joined le. The jad stop ii, must Ah, Love, hut a day And the world hoH changed! The Hun's away. And the bird estranged; The wind has dropp<>d, And the sky's deranged; Summer has stopped. (2) Three feet: aabbaaa A Lover's Quarrel. (3) Four feet: a b a b c c c Arcades Ambo. abccddd In Three Days. (4) Five feet: a b a b a b b Poem at the end of 'Daniel BartolV a o a b c c a The duan/ian Angel. This, as do the foregoing six and seven-line strophes, shows with what skill the combinations of couplets, triplets, quatrains, and such lesser units, are fused into the larger organism. This strophe, made up of a quatrain, a couplet, and a line re- peating the rhyme of the first is a triumphant example of a complex stanza having a true poetic unity. How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! I think how I should view the earth and skies And sea, when onco again my brow was bared After thy healing, with such different eyes. O woild. as God has made it ! All is beauty: And knowing this is love, and love is duty. Wha'. further may be sought for or declared? (b) Lines of unequal length. (1) Two and four feet : a b a b c a , 4 2 4 2 4 4 4 ^ames Lee's Wife, iii. The long lines are anapaestic, and the short lines trochaic; which gives the strophe a peculiar rhythm. The swallow has set her six young on the rail, And looks seaward: The water's in stripes like a snake, olive-pale 4H IIROWNINMH VKRHE-FORM : ITS OROANM" CHARACTER. To fh(> li'fwanl. - On thr wfiithcr Hi«lo, liluck, Hixtttt'd whito with tho wind. " (JochI fnrtiin<^ (l<>|)iirlH, and diHa.nter'H Ix-hind," — Hark, tlio wind with itH wants and itH infinite wail ! ababccd . ,, , ^ ^; „; (2) Two. three and four feet: o V o ^J "; ^ ^ /'' « (^^>ndohi. 2 4 3 4 4 4 4 (3) Three and four feet: Q Q a u a ? d Mixi'imvvptions. The nature of this strophe will be seen from the rhyme- scheme. (4) Four and live feet: ^ ? ^ r r ^ ^ /^i/''«' <<^ ' ^1 Bean-Stripe ' 5555554 STROPHES OP EIGHT LINES. (a) Lines of equal length. (1) Two feet : ababcdcd Pisgah- Sights. (2) Four feet: ababcdcd Many poems have this form : Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister (Troch.), Evelyn Hope (Trochlog), Old Pictures in Florence (Iamb-log), Filippo Baldinucci (Iamb) are examples. abbbaecc Gristina and Mondaleschi. ababbccc Song in ' Paracelsus, ' ( " Beap cassia, etc. ") (3) Five feet: abababcc The l\vo Poets of Croisic. TIIK STROPHI-FORMB. 49 (4) Six feet: ababcdcd Abt Vogler. The union of the two four- line strophes is so complete as to produce the perfect and majestic organ-tones of this poem. The Epilogue to • fyine* is of the same form, but is entirely different in rhythm. abcddcab Pfieklippides. (b) /Anes of nneqnal length (1) Two and four feet: abcddabc 22244 444 abaccddb 4L422442 Love in A Life. James Lee's Wife, ii. (2) Two, three and four feet: aaabbbcc, ,„ 2 2 4 2 2 4 4 3^^*^* (Gondola {He Sings, S) Two triplets and one couplet. abca dbcd 3242 3242 b- rhyme. In A Year. Two groups, united by the (3) Three and four feet: ababcdcd , ., 434 3 4343 ^'^^'"^^^ of tJie French Camp. ftb ccc b Ra* 344444 43 ^P^^^gue to ' Pacchiarotto ' abbacddc„ , ^.,. 44444443 ^'^^P^(^^<^bility. (4) Six, seven and eight feet: abacdbdcn,. ^ .. 6867G867 ^^^^^^ ^^ Abano. 50 BBOWN.NO 8 VER8E-F0RM: IT^ ORUAN.C CUARArTER. STROPHES OF NINE LINES. (a) Lines of ((inal Wno^f^- (1) Four feet: abab cdcd d Apvarent Failure. {b) Lines of iineip(a. length. (1) Two, three, four, five and six feet: ababacdcd . f>„„„ - coive her but the least ex- 525563443 ' ^^ ^ cuse ') (2) Three and four feet: abccbadda j^^f^ral Magic. 33444 4443 STROPHES OF TEN LINES. Only one poem, Mary Wollstonecraft and Fuseli, is written . ababccddee in this strophe. The scheme is 3444 44 4443' STROPHES OF ELEVEN LINL..... (a) Lines of equal length. Four feet: a a b b c d d e e e c The Last Bide Together. (b) Lines of unequal length. abcddabc Two and four feet: Another Way of Love 2222 2222 e e e 4 4 4' STROPHES OF TWELVE LINES. (o) Lines of equal length. Four feet: abab ccdd efef Bad Dreams IIL a b a b c d e f e f c d Too Late. (b) Lines of unequal length. , . , ^ aabbccddeeff t ..^ Amona (1) Two and six feet : 62626262626 2 ^^^^ ^^^^^ THE 8TBOPHE-FOBM8. ftl the Ruina. This poem has been noticed in the two-linr strophes, as these large groups are logical, rather than constructive. ,2, Three and four feet: l\\\ltllli\i "'-^ Music. Made up of three four-line strophes, the third line of which is longer than the others by one foot. It has a veiy beautiful cadence. STROPHES OF FOURTEEN LINES. Five feet: abba abba cd cd cd " Moses the Meek." is a sonnet-form of an approved Italian type. This STROPHES OF SIXTEEN LINES. One example only, with lines of four feet. ababcdedfghgklml The Lost Leader. Despite its length, the strophe is an organic unity. The trochaic- logaoedic movement is very fine. STROPES OF TWENTY LINES. ababcdcdefefghghklkl. This form occurs in Bifurcation. The concluding couplet of the poem has no connection with the strophes. STROPHES OF TWENTY-TWO LINES. (1) One and four feet: a b c d e e d f g g f h k h k 1 m 1 m a b c. Life in a Love. 1114444444444444444111. (2) Two, three and four feet: ababacdcddccef fegghhhh 33333 4444444422444444 2 Never the Time and the Place. A few of Brownings strophes, which come under this firs*, head of Regular Strophes, have a place by themselves. They are those having a chorus, or refrain. 52 imoWNIN.. S verse-form: its organic n.ARACTER. 1 Bout mul Saddh. Three four-foot anapaestic lines, rhyming a a a. with a refrain of the same length and rhyme. 2 Morrhimf Alom,. Four trochaic-logaoedic lines of four feet, rhyming a a b b, with refrain of two lines similar to those of the strophe, and rhyming c c. 3 OiveARous,. Four four-foot iamb-log. lines, rhyming a b a b The refrain is three similar lines, rhyming c c c, and a fourth line of one foot, introducing the new rhyme d. The poem opens with the refrain. 4 Rosn>i. Five four foot lines, rhyming a a b a b, with one refrain (• Clara. Clara !' > after the first line, and a second { " Rosny, Rosny ! ' ) after the tifth. (5) In a Oondola, (He Sinr/s, :?.) Five four-foot lines, rhyming a b a b c, to which the refrain of two feet is added, carrying on the rhyme c. II. IRREGULAR FORMS. Thus far only those strophes have been dealt with which are members of a uniform series. The second class of strophes is made up of those forms which are individual in their structure, while they perform the functions of strophes. For the most part these are of a complex struc- ture and cannot be described by a simple formula, like the regular strophes. They may be described as " free mus- ical paragraphs. ■ taking on forms in accordance with the dictates of the thought and feeling which dominate them and give them vitality. Browning makes a free use of this principle of strophe formation, and some of his most admired poetry is in this form. Lines of four feet: This is shown well in the Song which Aprile sings in raraielsus: and a triumphant exam- ple is found in the same poeni - Paracelsus' song of the men who proudly clung to their first fault and withered in their pride. ' The opening has a splendid vigor: THE STaOPHE-FORMS. 63 Over the Hecis our galleys went, With cleaving prows in order brave To a speeding wind and a bounding wave. A gallant armament; and the verse arranges itself into all varieties of groups, to express the changing moods of the mistaken sailors. Their despair at the last is mirrored in the monosyllables: Yet we called out — ' Depart! Our yifts once given must here abide. Our work is done; we have no heart To mar our work," — we cried. Christmas Eve and Easter Day are chiefly in couplets; but the verse is ever transforming itself into other forms. The infinite variety which this verse may assume is seen in Waring, James Lee's Wife, viii, A Lik:e7iess, Paccfdarotto, De Gi/stilnis, the last strophe of In Three Days, and The Flight of the Diirhess. Altliough all these are written in four-foot lines, they differ from each other most widely. On the one hand wo have the grotesque verse of Porehiaruftn, and on the other the faultless music of the Gipsy's incantation in The Flight of thv Ihirhess. In the use of this four-foot line alone. Browning shows the greate.st metrical power. Only genius could have produced such varied notes from so simple an instrument. The Prologue to I'ippa Passes is a good example, on a large scale, of the possibilities of the irregular strophe- form. The first twelve lines describe the dawning of day. Be- ginning with a catalectic trochaic line (Day), like the single first ray of the sunrise, the strophe swells into a magnifi- cent music, until, like the sun, it "Flickered in bounds, grew gold, and overflowed the world. The rest of the prologue alternates between a short, tripping measure, and a long, flowing five- foot measure, in correspondence with the wilful fits of gaiety and melancholy of the little, prat- tling silk winding girl. Towards the end, the song, "All service ranks the same with God", comes in with a lieauti- 54 IIROWMNO S VEK8E KOUM: ITS OKUANIC CHARACTER. ful and solerani//mp effect. The Epilogue is the innocent prattle of th«? child who is unconscious of the great human tragedy which has shadowed her one holiday. In A (fovihln is partly made up of regular strophes, which have been noted in the proper place; but the re- mainder of the poem is made up of the free strophe. The opening is pure music: I send my heart up to thpp, all my heart In this my HinRinK- For the Htars h«»lp mo, and tho sea boarH part; The very night is clinKinfj Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space Above me, whence thy faee May liKht my joyous heart to thee its dwellinKplace. The ending of the poem is fine. and. like this strophe, ends with an alexandrine. The Pied Piper of Hamelin and Uerve liiel are chiefly in four- foot lines, but other lines are introduced. Home Tfmvghts from Abroad is in two strophes of individual structure. The first shows the finest poetic sense. It opens with a beauti- ful lyric burst: . . „ , , Oh. to be in LnKliind. The last line of the strophe ("In England - now ! ') is the wish which arises as the poet's mind dwells on the picture of the chaffinch on the swaying orchard bough, and sug- gests the scene in the most subtly artistic manner. Five feet: Parleyings With Certain People is a series of poems written in the five- foot measure; and there is a very great variety in the grouping of the lines. The couplet and the quatrain are the prevailing forms, but these are continually broken in upon by other arrangements. Many of these strophes are very magnificent; and. as examples, sections viii to xii of Gerard de Lairesse may be mentioned. They describe the course of a day, and the character of the verse changes as the day changes -the laugh of morning, the sun-smitten noon, and the stormy darkness. THE STROPHE- FOBMB. 65 liudel to the Lady of Tripoli, and A Face are similar in form. Six feet: Pheidippides {Strophe 8). This is a unique form. J g g q q 7 q- Ixion is in couplets, of which the second line is catalec- tic at the caesura and at the end. As suggested by Mrs. Orr, it imitates the turning of the wheel on which Ixion is bound. It is a reproduction of the classical elegiac couplet. III. POEM STROPHES. STROPHES OF FOUR LINES. (1) Four feet: abba Morning. STROPHES OF SEVEN LINES. Eight feet: a a a a a a a Home Tfumghts from the Sea. STROPHES OF EIGHT LINES. (1) Two feet: abcdabcd Pt/jpa, {"The year's at the Spring. ") (2) Five feet: aaabcccb Deaf and Dumb. aabccbdd Eurydice to Orpheus. STROPHES OF NINE LINES. Two feet: ababcbcbb Earth's Immortalities {Love.). STROPHES OF ELEVEN LINES. Two and three feet: abababcbbbc Prologue to " Dramatic Idyls, " (II.). STROPHES OF THIRTEEN LINES. Two and four feet: ababcdcddefef ,, ^„ 2222222244444 *^^ *^«''- 56 BBOWNiNO'8 VERSE-FORM: ITS ORFANIC CHARACTER. STKOPES OF FOURTEEN LINES. (1) Four feet: abbcac dede fggf Noio. (2) Five feet: No sonnet is included in the London edi- tion. ♦ Helen's Toioer follows the Italian model —abba abba cde *Wh\i I Am a Liberal is abba abba cd cd cd; and * Sfiakes- peare is abba abba cd cd dc. • Not iu tbe collective London edition. STROPHES OF FIFTEEN LINES. (a) Lines of equal length. (1) Five feet: abba abba cdd cdd c The Founder of the Feast. A sonnet-form with an additional line. (b) Lines of unequal length. (1) Two and four feet: abbaccddeefgfgg Wanting is— What? 22224444442222 2 """""^ STROPHES OF SIXTEEN LINES. Three, four and five feet: aabbccbdddeeffgg Pippa Passes. {Song, ^Over- 4444443444344553 head the tree-tops.') THE BLANK VEB3E. 67 CHAPTER IV. THE BLANK VERSE. The evolution of blank verse as a form of expression marks the highest triimph of English poetical genius. The history of the evolution of this complex and varying form is in essence the history of English poetry. This form is seen in germ in the Anglo-Saxon verse; and in Chaucer the pentapody appears in rhyming coup ets, which he used in his stories with marvellous power. But the English Renais- sance as mirrored in the drama, demanded a yet freer and more flexible instrument for the expression of its manifold activities. It required a verse which was suited to the dialogue of real men and women, a verse which would not interrupt the movement of thought from line to line by any recurring rhyme or strophe, but which would give all the freedom of prose. The needed form was evolved in due time, and the result was the blank verse of Marlowe and of Shakespeare. In a later age Milton perceived the great superiority of Shakespeare's blank verse, for his heroic p.jm. over the rhyming couplet. The couplet, he says, has been a hin- drance to the poets of his time, and used by force of cus- tom. " much to their own vexation, hindrance, and con- straint to express many things otherwise, and for the most part worse, than else they would have expressed them." And he openly declared his purpose to recover for heroic poetry its "ancient liberty" by rejecting rhyme and mak- ing use of a verse " which consists only in apt numbers, fit quantity of syllables, and the sense variously drawn out from one ver.se into another." He fulfilled his purpose so nobly that his verse is a new species, distinct from the dramatic blank verse in its studied dignity and stateliness. 58 BRi.WNlN.i 8 VERSE- FORM. ITS OROANIC CHARACTER. In our own t.me blank verse has been used with great power -Tennyson and Arnold continuing the Miltomc tra- dition in their epic poems, and Browning continuing the tradition of the Elizabethan dramatists. In any comparison of Brownings and Tennyson's verse this fact must be kept in mind, and any judgment of the one founded on standards derived from the other must of necessity be false. The blank verses of these poets are distinct in kind, and writ^ ten with a different purpose. Each is admirably adapted to its purpose, and to praise or blame the one by the other is a mistaken method. We cannot wonder that the verse in which tne villain Guido proffers his defense differs so widely from the verse of the ■ Morte d' Arthur. " The same kind of verse could not express the action in the court of jus- tice with all its conflicting passions and lies, and that in the other scene in the chapel nigh the field, wherein the deeply- wounded king lay dying, while "on one side lay the ocean, and on one lay a great water, and the moon was full. The turbulence of the one and the peace of the other demand media of expression entirely different in kind. In all blank verse the aim of the poet is to express, not a purely lyric emotion, but a complete fusion of thought and emotion in such a way as to present both with equal truth. What is needed for this purpose is a verse which will carry on the thought consecutively with all the free- dom of prose, and which, at the same time, will retain the harmony and rhythm necessary to express the feeling and emotion. The structure of blank verse is very free, the only feature which can be called conventional being the pentapody line. There is no set form of strophes, though this form of verse has strophes, as all verse must, in its nature, have. But the supreme excellence of blank verse is that it has freed itself of all conventionality of strophe- ' form its form being determined from moment to moment, according to the nature of the thought and feeling. The strophes are thus wholly organic, and do not approach the THE BLANK VIR8E. 69 danger of becoming merely artificial groups of lines — a danger from which the set strophe is frequently rescued only by supreme metrical genius. Each phase of thought and emotion takes its own form, consisting of few or many lines ascording to the nature of the impelling thought or emotion. In the words of Milton, the "true musical de- light" of poetry is secured by "the sense being variously drawn out from one verse into another." In the third chapter we have said that the strophe is to be regarded as the primary unit in the form of poetry; as the poet does not regard the less complex units ~»s things to be considered apart from the organism of which they are members. In no form of poetry is this more clearly seen than in blank verse; and it will be found that the best blank verse — that is, the blank verse in which are shown pecu- liar excellences as the form for the expression of the fusion of thought and eLootion — is not that in which the separate lines stand out from the body of the poetry; but that in which the beauty and significance of the lesser units are not felt separately and by themselves, but only in relation to the larger wholes, from which they derive their meaning and to which they give their charm. Therefore, it is from the point of view of the strophe that we must approach the blank verse of any poet, if we are to see its characteristic excellences. Some poets have, it is true, a greater facility than others of condensing their thoughts into short forms — of polishing and refining, until, as in Virgil, "all the charm of all thj muses often flowers in a lonely word." Among our English poets there is none who possesses this power in a higher degree than the one who made this crit- icism of Virgil. Tennyson stands supreme in the power of flashing out from many a golden phrase all the chosen coin of fancy. And, in his blank verse, he is contained within the limits of a line more than any other master of this form. The history of Shakespeare's growth is his growing freedom from the single line into the larger space of the 60 BROWNIMO'S VERSE-FORM: ITS OROAMIC CHARACTER. paragraph or strophe, His best later poetry can be justfied and appreciated only by regarding all in relation to the groups of lines in which the single lines occur. In the periodic structure of Milton's verse we must wait until we reach the final strain before the harmonies are resolved, and each member of the whole takes its proper place and function. And, in Browning, the principle of strophe formation must never be lost sight of. In his verse as in Milton's, the sense is "variously drawn out from verse to verse;" and these two poets, as are all poets, are dis- tinguished from each other by the differences in the meth- od by which this is accomplished. The lines in Shakes- peare, Milton, Tennyson and Browning, which have fallen beneath the censure of the critics as 'barbarous' and 'formless' can be appreciated and explained only by being regarded, not in isolation, but as the members of the period or strophe, working together to one common and harmo- nious end. While the excellence of Browning's blank verse has been recognized in some quarters, the dramatic character, which should be the medium of expression for poems " always dramatic in principle, " is denied him. This view of his poetry is maintained with great ability by Prof. Walker. " In a sense, " he says, " it may be said that a dramatist need not have a style of his own at all ; but if he escapes this obligation he incurs a more onerous one, he must have not one style, but twenty. This is wh<3re Browning fails. He has a style of his own, a style for good or evil conspicuous for its strongly marked traits; and this he carries with him through all his dramas and in the delineation of all his characters. " ' What Prof, Walker goes on to say in support of his thesis hardly detracts from the dramatic character of Browning's verse. The mark of Shakespeare is so plainly imprinted upon his verse that its dramatic character — the changes it undergoes to suit itself to the characters — is • The Greater Victorian Poeti, p. 191. THl BLANK VERSE. 61 not taken into the slightest account in determining the chronology of the plays by the ordinary verse tests. Over and above the variations of the verse in its dramatic char- acter, there remains intact the permanent character aris- ing out of the personality of the artist.. Every author, even the most dramatic, has his style, his " singing clothes," "fashioning his phrases upon his own individual- ity, and speaking as if he were making a language thus, for the first time, under those * purple eyes ' of the muse, which tinted every syllable as it was uttered, with a sep- arate benediction. ' ' Prof. Walker is right in so far as it is true thai the individual style is more persistently pres- ent with some poets than with others. It certainly is with Browning more than with Shakespeare. But this fact does not by any means render invalid the contention that Browning's verse is the most dramatic blank verse of the century, and that it ranks high among the best dramatic verse in the language. Take, for example, aeon, the utter- ance of a learned and highly cultured Greek, and Caliban, in which the half beast gives his ideas of God. On the one hand we have the smoothly flowing verse, with its beau- ties everywhere like the isles of Greece, "sprinkled HI , on lily • ; and on the other we have the verse which can- not flow. Caliban's speech is too primitive for that, and he must speak in monosyllabic verse. From both of these the verse of A Death in the Desert differs in its meditative ness and repose. But, to take our examples from The Ring and the Book, which is Browning's supreme effort, a great and organic difference is to be seen in the general charac- ter and atmosphere of the several books; and to this the verse, by its dramatic character, is in no slight degree a contributor. Take, for example, Half Rome and The Other Half iZor/K,_ books which might seem to call for little dis tinct characterization because of the unimportance of the ^. Mr«. Brownin.. quoted in NicoU's Literary Anecdotes of i,e yineUenlK Century. 02 BROWMNU'S VER8K-KOB.M: ITS OKGANIC CHARACTER. speakers. The speaker in Half Rome is a married man who is jealous of his wife, and so naturally takes sides with Guido, the husband and murderer. He knows women, he says, facts are facts, the wife misbehaved, and Guido did right to kill such a one, and to " revenge his own wrong like a gentleman." In the verse there is no ornament which is incompatible with a poetic interpretation of the low views of life represented by him. The verse of The Other Half Eome,. in which a chivalrous bachelor speaks, is far difler- ant. His mind does not dwell on the so-called "facts of the case. He has had a vision of something higher; and his eyes are raised to Little Pompilia, with the patient brow And lamentable smile on those poor lips, And, under the white hospital array, A fiower-like body, and he sees all in relation to her. These, the opening lines of the book, give its whole atmosphere; and it is dis- tinguished by its frequent beautiful imagery, especially of the flowers. The verse is singularly sweet. We have taken these two books as examples of what might be done in differentiating the verse of the several books. Thus, the differences between the verse of the four chief characters — Guido, Pompilia, Caponsacchi and the Pope — are easily seen at least in their most general char- acteristics. Nearly every one would also see differences be- tween the verses of the Pope and of the Lawyers, even if no distinction were discoverable between those of the Lawyers themselves; but a study would certainly reveal differences. It is not proposed, however, to go over the whole ground in this essay. Though these differences, which are felt as impressions, must be the guide when any attempt is made to formulate them, we shall attempt to study the verse in a more intensive manner. We shall select the books of the most important characters, and in which characterization is more clearly called for: Guido's THE B'.ANK VCBHI. 68 first and second monologues (Books V. and XL). Pompifia, Capormurhi, and Tfic Pope. By this method of study it will be ix)ssible to attain greater exactness of results than by one requiring a more general examination. On the other hand it may be said that the characteristics of the blank verse, which are noted in this chapter, were derived from a careful study, not only of The lUng and the Book, but of the whole body of the poet's blank verse. The passages particularly examined in this chapter simply i)resent in definite shape the general character of the verse in its manifold forms. So far as the results go. they have in every case confirmed opinions formed from the more gen- eral, and what some would perhaps call the more ajsthetic, method of criticism.' I. Among the diverse judgments passed on Browning's blank verse, one of the most common is that of vi(/or: and, indeed, this quality of vigorous flow is the most striking of all the characteristics which mark it as peculiar and in- dividual. This quality is to be traced to the fact that Browning has cons'ructed his verse consistently in periods, or strophes. These strophes are, as a rule, well defined and closely fused together into compact wholes; although they may vary in length from one or two lines to over twenty. As in all careful art. these differences are not due to any caprice; but are wholly organic, and are the out- ward expression of the conti'ivin;^^ spirit within. An ex- amination shows that the differences in length of these strophes are very dramatic, suiting themselves most admir- ably to the nature of the thought and emotion of the character in whose mouth the verse is placed. Thus the nature of the strophe which prevails in the several books differs as widely as the characters. Those in the first monologue of Guido average seventeen lines, and in the last, ten lines. * ' The passaKfs sflloctcil for more particular BZamiDatiuu urp: Hook V, Count (iuido Franrpsrhxni.Mne^lSri-iVl. Hook VI, (hiiteppr Cniionsacchi, lians 9:n-U9«; Book VII, Pomi>iliii, lines l;«M,i2- ; »(M)k X, The I'o/te, linos lOOS-liSfij; Book XI. Guido, liaes til IlRi'WMN*; H VKR8K-F()RM: ITS ORGANIC CHARACTER. Caponsacchis average niueand-ahalf lines, Pompilia's, nine lines, and the Pope's fifteen-and-a-half lines. These figures show that the Pope, in keeping with his character, employs strophes which are longer than the average length of any oAier character. He is 'the great guardian of the fold,' ' simple, sagacious, mild yet resolute.' He goes over the whole ';ase, weighs and ponders, and iets flow his own thoughts forth' before delivering the final judgment. The substratum of Pompilia's and Caponsacchi's words, on the other band is 'not thought,' but a sublime emotion. Their verse is therefore more intense, with its shorter and burning periods. Though Pompilia's strophes average almost as long as Caponsacchi's, his often run to a greater length than any of hers. 'He speaks, rapidly, angrily, speech that smites ' his judges, who must bear in silence the * blow after blow ' which he strikes in his short and angry sentences. Pompilia's speech is the 'low sigh- ing of a soul after the loud ones; ' and in beautifully equ- able verse she 'endeavours to explain her life.' The change in form of the strophes of the first and last speeches of Guido is very significant. In the first he speaks as "Count Guido, ' to his social equals, before the governor and his judges, and surrounded with all the con- ventionalities which a proud and exclusive society could give. We can scarcely ever see through the veneer down into the real man He speaks, 'now with mock-mildness,' now with passion, but always with the most crafty argu- ment and wonderfully skilful dialectic. But in the second speech he speaks a condemned man. His appeal to the Pope has been vain, and there is no more hope. He is in ' a fetid cell lit by a sole lamp, ' and here the Cardinal and Abate listen as they 'crouch well nigh to the knees in dun- geon straw. ' There is no need now of crafty words and fine- spun argument. It is his last night, and those men are not present as his judges, but as his confessors waiting THE TiLANK VERSE. 65 to absolve him. All the shar.i drops away; the man in his real self stands forth, and the true words shine at last. II. In an examination of blank verse, the unity which ranks in importance next to the larger unity of the strophe, if it has not even a greater influence on its character, is the verse, or line. In the matter of the construction of the line, as well as in almost every other part of versification. Browning has been most severely criticised. It has been said that his verses will not scan, and that they are there- fore lawless and chaotic. There is no uniformity in his lines, it is said, and, moreover, they are in many cases in" harmonious. Now, it cannot be for a moment maintained that Browning preserves a uniform construction in his lines. No poet other than a merely mechanical one, does. Not that any poet would introduce variety into his verse for mere variety's sake, or even to avoid monotony; but the great i)oet, who embodies his thought in the true sense, must perforce depart from the regular rhythm of the line to give expression to the diversity of his thought and emotion. And thus, in the work of the great poets these departures are not lawless, but are made in accordance with artistic reasons. So long as we look at the verso of the great poets from the outside, as it were, and demand a merely mechanical rhythm, we can never understand their finest harmonies. There is no doubt that one of the chief reasons why the yreat masters of harmony have been condemned for law. lessness in their verse is that those who presumed to judge looked for nothing but this mechanical construction. They were incapable of appreciating any more complex harmony. The other great reason for the condemnation of the poets is an inadequate system of prosody. If the preface to Christabel did not lay down any new principles of versi- fication, it at least contained a hint to which the prosodists would have done well to give heed. Had they not con- sistently ignored the i)rinciple " of counting the accents, not the syllables", the science of prosody would not have (16 HROWMNO S VERSE-KORM: ITS ORQANIC CHARACTER. been placed in the ridiculous position of having condemned in turn all the great masters of English verse. But, being founded on the principle of counting the syllables only, this was inevitable; and the same is true to this day. The pre.sent system of English prosody finds itself utterly inad- equate to account for the facts with which it has to deal. Only the most monotonously mechanical verse conforms to the laws which it lays down. As was said in the second chapter, accent dominates the verse of English poetry, and therefore it follows that the accented syllables in the verse are the most important of its elements. They are the nuclei, the centres, around which the unaccented sy'lables arrange themselves. As was stated in chapter two. the number of the unaccented syllables, their number and order, give to the metres their characteristics. Of the classes of metres mentioned in chapter two, the Trochaic is mentioned first, as being made up of trochees Since English verse is accentual, ihe characteristic foot is that which begira with an accented syllable and closes with one, or two, unaccented ones — that is, a Trochee, or Dactyl. That the trochee, and not the iamb, is the primary foot in English verse is shown by the freedom with which the un- accented syllable is used or dropped even in verse of iambic movement, as a thing rhich is not necessary to tne verse. Thus Keats, Tiilcs and goUlon historieH Of heaven and its luysterit's. Of these lines, corresiwnding in rhyme and length, the first begins with an accented syllable, while the other takes the anacrusis, giving to il an unaccented beginning and an iambic movement. So Browning, in his blank verse, .\t least one bUxssom inaken tue proud at ove Born 'mid the briars of my enclosure. THE BLANK VERSE. 67 The unaccented syllable Is present or absent at the end of lines also. Thus Browning in Pauline, One pond of water gleams; far oflF the river Sweeps like the sea, barred out from land but one It may also be placed before or after the caesura. Browning, In a lone garden quarter: || it was eve. The second of the year, || anil oh so cold! Whilo this free retention or rejection at pleasure of the unaccented syllables shows its subordinate character, it does net by any means detract from its importance in the line. Even the mere dropping of it at the end of the line has its effect, while the dropping of it at the beginning has the marked effect of giving a new character to the rhythm; and if the regular siK-cession of unaccented and accented syllables is maintained, there results the Iambic rhythm. The trochaic metres (and the allied dactylic and trochaic- logaoedic metie.s) are the most lyrical of all the metres, as an examination of any collection of lyrics will show. In Browning's lyric poems there is a greater variety of trochaic metres than of any other class. Since blank verse is the farthest possible from lyric poetry, having as its substance the fusion of thought and emotion; the trochaic metres, that is, verses made up entirely of trochees, would be unsuitable media of expression. Thus, such a line as Hated wickedness that hinderetl loving is very rare in blank verse. This form Joes occur in Shakespeare, Tear for tear, and loving ki.ss for kiss. {Tit. Auflrnn, I'., .3,1.V5.) But it is very exceptional, and I have observed no case of it in Browning. (I) The prcnailing metre of blank verse is, then, the verse which has the anacrusis — that is, which begins with an unaccented syllable, thus forming the Iambic metre. (iU liK«>\VMN(J B VKRSE-FdRM : ITS OKOANIC CIIARACTKR. (2| A second class is the Trochaic-lofjaoedic metres. (3) A third class is the lainbic-lofjaoedic metres. The expressive ciiaracterof the different classes of verse differs very widely. The iambic is the most smooth and consecutive, and is the suitable expression of calm and de- liberate thought, or of thought deepened but not disturbed by emotion The second class, opening with a trochee, has an intensifying effect on the rhythm. It has a swift and straightforward movement which is very effect- ive in groups large enough to allow the effect of the rhythm to be felt. Such groups are not uncommon, and are finely expressive of animated thought. E. g. "Uh to have CapoiiHacchi for my fjiiidc!" Ever th«' fare ui)turnt'(i to mine, the hand Holding my hand across tho world. {/'onipiHa, II. 1496-98.) The third flass of metres, by their swifter and more agitated movement, are the natural expression of agitated emotion. Where the logaoedic rythm is strongly marked, the great number of unaccented syllables give an air of recklessness and of mockery, such as is given by Byron and Browning by their double and triple rhymes. The use which is made of these several moires in the different books of the poem shows a fine sense of charac terization. Pompilia and the Pope use the largest percent- age of the iambic line — 70 and 03 per c(!nt. resjiectively, In their calm, and, in a sense. disj)assionate, view of the case, they are calm and measured in their verse. Their use of the Trochaic-logaoedic verse is about the same — 27 per cent. Of the agitated iambi, silent, sinister, ' when, ha! (iliniinerins^ly i' did a pack of werewolves fiad The snow, those flames were (iuido's eyes in front, .\nd ai. five found and footed it. |] the trak\ I, i'm-CiV).) In ttu'so thirteen linos there are e.xamplos of the feminine caesura after the first, second and third feet, and of the masculine caesura after the first, second and fourth ac- cents. Fiesides, there is an example of what is a somewhat frequent occurrence in Browninj? - a lin<' without a caesura. In this way the variety of cadences is carried to the widest possible limits. His poetry, on the whol'', shows a preference for the feminine caesura after the sccoud foot, and for the mas- culine caesura after the second accent. This gives the mn-m of his verse, z:yl makes all departures from it sifrnificant of artistic desi«rn on the part of the poet. Indications of this artistic design are not wanting in the jjoera, the .several speakers showing a preference for the caesura which seems to be most appropriate to them. This is true of both the untitle and /»/f«r of tho caesura. (1) The masculine caesura, coming after an accented .syl- lable, does not disturb the flow of the verse, as the pause naturally follows an accent. This arrangement of the cae- sura gives to the verse a smooth and e<]uable movement. The feminine caesura, on the other hand, coming after an unaccented syllable, gives to the verse a more agitated and 1 THI BLANK VERSE. 71 broken flow. The feminine is thus the natural expression of emotion or mental disturbance, and the masculine of calm reason and equanimity. This is seen in the most perfect way in the verse of Shakespeare; and it is seen in a less degree in Browning, because his dramatic genius is so much less. Even in Shakespeare the variation is not very large, and yet it mirrors the characteristics of the speak- ers with groat distinctness.' So in Browning, the actual figures do not show a wide variation; but the nature of the verse is changed greatly, because each variation is governed by an artistic motive. Pompilia shows a preference for the masculine caesura, using 63 per cent., to 47 per cent, of feminine. On the other hand, the Pope preserves a balance, using 50 per cent, of each. Guido in his first spt-ech, uses 60 per cent of feminine, and in the last speech 52 per cent. This change is very si^'nificant of the changed mood of the speaker. In the last speech, earnest reason takes the place of mocking frivolity. Caponsacchi, in his smooth verse, uses 45 percent, of fem- inine, to 55 per cent, of masculine caesuras. (2) The j)l(ur of the caesura ha.s a greater effect on the verse than the nu/utrof the caesura. When it is placed near the middle of the line it gives to the verse an even flow; placed near the beginning or end, it gives a bolder and less equable rhythm. Thus Pompilia shows a decided prefer- ence for the masculine caesura after the second accent — 30 percent. This makes the most equable rhythm possible in English verse. It preponderates in Browning's poetry, and is a favorite with Shakespeare. The pause next used most frequently by Pompilia is the masculine after the third accent — 16 per cent., and then the feminine after the second and third feet — each 14 per cent. The positions at the end are hardly made use of at all — only from 4 to 7 per cent. • Pricp, ronstruptionnnd Types of ShuKiperrn Vene, p. 39, 4;<-44. HROWMNU S VERSE-KORM: ITS OR«!A.Nir CHARACTER. Caponsacchi prefers the masculine caesura after the sec- ond accent — 20 per cent.; then the feminine after the sec- ond foot — 18 per cent. ; then the feminine after the first and third feet — each 14 percent.; then the masculine after the third accent — 13 percent.; then the masculine after the fourth accent — 5 i)er cent. This shows a wide variety of rhythms. The Pope has a greater variety than any of the others, in that he shows a much less decided preference for any one place. As a result, the whole movement of his verse is freer and bolder than that of any of the others. The caesura most frequently used is the masculine after the second accent — 20 per cent. Next come the feminine caesuras after the second and third feet — 17 and 16 per cent., respectively. Then come the masculine caesuras after the third and first accents — 12 and 9 per cent., re- spectively. Least often used are. the feminine after the first foot — 8 per cent., the masculine after the fourth ac- cent — 6 jjer cent., and the feminine after the fourth foot — 4 per cent. In Guide's first speech Ihe feminine caesura after the second foot makes up 23 per cent, of the total. Next in frequency come the masculine after the second accent and the feminine afier the third foot— each 20 per cent. The other places are represented by from 10 to 3 per cent. In his second si)eech the preference shifts from the feminine after the second foot to its corresponding masculine — that after the second accent, which makes up 20 per cent. Then follow the feminine after the second foot and the first foot — V.) and 17 per cent, respectively. These differences, taken together with the change in the nature of the caesura, gi\o an eniirely different atmosphere to the two speeches; and admirably reflect the change in the character of the speaker, before pointed out. IV. The enitixr/ of the verse has a great influence in the movement, especially when it is considered in passages. I THE BLANK VER8K. 73 By a full ending, that is. a weak ending, a falling cadence is given to the verse; and by a catalectic, or strong end- ing, a rising cadence is given. The two effects are entirely different, as may be seen from the following examples: the roughest swell Of wind in the tree tops hides not the panting Of thy soft breasts. No, wv will jjass to aiorn//i«7 (J'auline) The movement is very different from that of such lines as the following. These short examples will show how the differences between these two endings are intensified in sustained passages: But through the blackncsH I saw Konio again, And where a solitary villa stootl. (T/ir Pinif (iu(/ (fir /{,,(, k, Hk. I.) To any one at all acquainted with Browning's verse it will be plain that the second example is the most charac- teristic. In fact it may be said that Browning makes no use of the full ending. It is interesting to note that he shows a development in this respect entirely opposite to Shakespeare. The i)resence of full lines in a play of Shakespeare indicates that it is one of his middle or later period. In Browning, however, the case is different. In Pivilhw, his earliest poem, and written under the intluence of Shelley's AUistor, there are forty cases of the full end- ing, or 4 per cent. In Parmi'lms, his first acknowledged work, the percentage decreases to 3', and in the later Strafford, to 2, per cent. After that play they disappear, and occur in Thv niur, l':),;ilh ItRnWMNii S VERSE FORM : ITS OHOAN'lr rn.ARACTER. second last lin.\ This intortwininj,' of alliterating letters is often vory coniplox, and is very beautiful. /I'ainhowod aliout with ?-icht'H. /oyalty /I'iiiiiiiin,',' liiT /(hiikI, ,1-, /•((iitnl tlic tintlcss /awn ^.'ti.inlinu'ly iuu< flii'si'/vM^'c <•/. .th nf //mAI. (Hk. XI,2r2t; ft., Notice tlial tl.t> lino-alliteration f/— r/ is also in the last line. It is intorestii J? to observe the use of those several forms of alliteration in the several books of the jjoem: 1. This class is used as follows: Guido. 25 per cent, of the lines; Caponsacchi. 30 per cent. ; I'ompilia, 21 percent., and the Pope. o2 pt>r cent. 2. Thiscla.ss is u.^<>d: Guido. 27 por cent.; Claponsacchi, 40 per cent.; Poiiipiiia, 43 per cent., and the Pope, iio per cent. 3. Guido. 12 p(>r cent, in the tirst speech and 20 per cent, in the second; Caponsacchi. .'. per cent.; Ponipilia, 9 per cent., and the Pope 26 por cent. 4. It is difficult to present th' distinct uses of this form o' alliteration in figures which ran make much claim to ac- curacy or significance, although these difrorences are very vital and real. The phenomena is similar to that of the stropeformation, and it will i^e instructive to observe it witli reference to the number of lines in the groujjs yoked together by it. Thus, the Pope has alliterating groups of from 5 to 7 lines. (Juido's first monologue contains groups of 7 to 13 lines; but the alliterating groups of his second monologue are smaller. Pomi)ilia's groups hardly ever exceed 4 lines, and Caponsacchi's rarely run beyond 6 lines. A careful examination of these figures will show that the nature of the thought and emotion of the several speakers is indicated with sufficient clearness by the use which they make of alliteration. The 'low sighing' of Pompilias soul is mirrored in her preference for small groups of alliteration. Her alliteration rarely goes beyond TUE BLANK VERSB. 77 the limits of the line; and of the third class, which binds the lines in a continuous series, she makes scarcely any use. The Pope's lines form a reasoned series; and so he uses the third form of alliteration to a very great extent, (iuido does the same to a less detjree in his second speech, show- ing a signiticant difference between it and his first mono- logue. The last speech is much more reasoned. Capon- sacchi speaks 'burning words," and he accordingly makes a large use of the first and second classes of alliteration. Emotion, not thought, is the basis of his monologue, and he has no need for the sequacious third form of allitera- tion. The preference which certain of the speakers show for certain letters in their alK eration is interesting. In the passages specially examined, it has been noted that Guido makes a very free use of the harsh h- and g- alliteration, and also, less often, r/. ^ and />. The sibilant s is also fre- quent. Caponsacchi shows a preference for /, /, m: and Pompilia for /, m, n, and r. The Pope's verse i.s strongly marked by the explosive and vigorous p- and b allitera- tions. There may be other important characteristics of Brown- ings blank verse other than those noted in this analysis; but these have seemed the most obvious and important. Whether the essential character!.- tics of his blank verse have been analyzed in this chapter, will be shown by the completeness with which it may aid the reader to pass from the analysis to the living unity of the poem, and to see the organic loveliness of the thing itself, of which the analysis is but the dry bone.s. /^ BIBLIOTHECA favieii3i9 mm^ mmmm •''. VITA. t.l'^'^'""' °!""*'' "*" '""•" '" '^'^S' »' Kirkton, On. ar a Prom .he public school I went to the Collegiate Inst, tute at St. Marys, whence I matriculated at the UnT- vers,.y of Toronto, in June, 18S9, and was graduated B A m June, W.m. In my undergraduate work I atldedthe lectures of the late Sir Daniel Wilson and of p"ofess^rs Alexander, Keys, Baldwin. Ashley and Hume. fT2 Toronto I went to Cornell University, taking courses wUh Proessor Corson, and with President Schurman and CoTumbrTT ■■ '^"'"''" "■"' ''"'''•'"■ '" '-y '-"" «n« , ^rT''"' " ""'""^ity Pe'low in English. 1895-96, I attendca the lectures of Professor Thos R Pnce, and of Professors O. E. Woodberry and W. H. Car^ p©Dt©r. To each of my teachers in English I feel great obliga K,n and especially to Professor Price, whose personaMn- teiest and patient sympathy have been freely given me in the preparation of this dissertation.