_Ulysses_, a Yankee farmer in America made in one sentence three
remarks about it: a statement and two prophecies. He said that
_Ulysses_ belonged to a high class of poetry, destined to be the
highest, and to be more cultivated in the next generation. Now
_Ulysses_ is both a dramatic lyric and a dramatic monologue, and
Tennyson never wrote anything better than this poem. As it became
increasingly evident that the nineteenth century was not going to
have a great literary dramatic movement on the stage, while at the
same time the interest in human nature had never been keener, the
poets began to turn their attention to the interpretation of
humanity by the representation of historical or imaginary
individuals speaking: and their speech was to reveal the secrets of
the human soul, in its tragedy and comedy, in its sublimity and
baseness, in its nobility and folly. Later in life Tennyson
cultivated sedulously the dramatic monologue; and Browning, the most
original force in literature that the century produced, after
abandoning his early attempts at success on the stage, devoted
practically the entire strength of his genius to this form of poetry.
Emerson was a wise man.
In reshuffling the short poems in the three works mentioned above,
it is not always easy to see the logic of the distribution and it
would be interesting if we could know the reasons that guided the
poet in the classification of particular poems. Thus it is perfectly
clear why _Incident of the French Camp_, _Count Gismond_, and
_In a Gondola_ were taken from the _Dramatic Lyrics_ and placed
among the _Dramatic Romances_; it is easy to see why _The Lost Leader_
and _Home-Thoughts, from Abroad_ were taken from the _Romances_ and
placed among the _Lyrics_; it is not quite so clear why _Rudel_ and
_Artemis Prologizes_ were taken from the _Lyrics_ and classed
among _Men and Women_, when nearly all the poems originally
published under the latter head were changed to _Lyrics_ and _
Romances_. In changing _How They Brought the Good News_ from the
_Dramatic Romances_, where it was originally published, to _
Dramatic Lyrics_, Browning probably felt that the lyrical sound of
the piece was more important than the story: but it really is a
dramatic romance. Furthermore, _My Last Duchess_ would seem to fall
more properly under the heading _Men and Women_; Browning, however,
took it from the _Dramatic Lyrics_ and placed it among the _Dramatic
Romances_. In most cases, however, the reason for the transfer of
individual poems is clear; and a study of the classification is of
positive assistance toward the understanding of the piece.
In the eight volumes published from 1841 to 1846, which Browning
called _Bells and Pomegranates_, meaning simply Sound and Sense,
Meat and Music, only two are collections of short poems and the
other six contain exclusively plays--seven in all, two being printed
together in the last volume. Browning intended the whole _Bells and
Pomegranates_ series to be devoted to the drama, as one may see by
the original preface to _Pippa Passes_: but that drama and the next
did not sell, and the publisher suggested that he include some short
poems. This explains why the third volume is filled with lyrics; and
in a note published with it, Browning half apologised for what might
seem a departure from his original plan, saying these two might
properly fall under the head of dramatic pieces; being, although
lyrical in expression, "always dramatic in principle, and so many
utterances of so many imaginary persons, not mine."
He means then by a dramatic lyric a poem that is short, that is
musical, but that is absolutely not subjective--does not express or
betray the writer's own ideas nor even his mood, as is done in
Tennyson's ideal lyric, _Crossing the Bar_. A dramatic lyric is a
composition lyrical in form, and dramatic in subject-matter;
remembering all the time that by dramatic we do not necessarily mean
anything exciting but simply something objective, something entirely
apart from the poet's own feelings. On the stage this is
accomplished by the creation of separate characters who _in propria
persona_ express views that may or may not be in harmony with the
poet's own. Thus, Macbeth's speech, beginning
Out, out, brief candle!
is really a dramatic lyric; because it is lyrical in form, and it
expresses views on the value of life which could hardly have been
held by Shakespeare, though they seem eminently fitting from the
lips of a man who had tried to gain the whole world by losing his
soul, and had succeeded in losing both.
In view of Browning's love for this form of verse, it is interesting
to remember that the first two independent short poems that he ever
wrote and retained in his works are both genuine dramatic lyrics.
These are _Porphyria's Lover_ and _Johannes Agricola_, printed in
the _Monthly Repository_ in 1836, when Browning was twenty-four
years old. Thus early did he show both aptitude for this form and
excellence in it, for each of these pieces is a work of genius. They
were meant to be studies in abnormal psychology, for they were
printed together in the _Dramatic Lyrics_ under the caption _
Madhouse Cells_. Browning was very young then, and naturally thought
a man who believed in predestination and a man who killed the woman
he loved were both insane; but after a longer experience of life,
and seeing how many strange creatures walk the streets, he ceased to
call these two men, obsessed by religion and obsessed by love, mad.
If Porphyria's lover is mad, there is method in his madness. Her
superior social rank has stifled hitherto the instincts of the heart;
she has never given her lover any favors; but to-night, at the
dinner-dance, by one of those strange and inexplicable caprices that
make Woman the very Genius of the Unexpected, she has a vision. In
the midst of the lights and the laughter, she sees her lonely lover
sitting dejectedly in his cold and cheerless cottage, thinking of her.
She slips away from the gay company, trips through the pouring rain,
and enters the dark room like an angel of light. After kindling a
blazing fire in the grate, she kindles her lover's hope-dead heart;
she draws him to her and places his head on her naked shoulder.
Suddenly a thought comes to him; one can see the light of murder in
his eyes. At this moment she is sublime, fit for Heaven: for the
first time in her life, a noble impulse has triumphed over the
debasing conventions of society; if he lets her go, she will surely
fall from grace, and become a lost soul. He strangles her with her
yellow hair, risking damnation for her salvation. So the quick and
the dead sit together through the long night.
PORPHYRIA'S LOVER
1836
The rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me--she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still;
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!
What is the meaning of that last enigmatical line? Does it mean that
the expected bolt from the sky has not fallen, that God approves of
the murder? Or does it mean that the man is vaguely disappointed,
that he had hoped to hear a voice from Heaven, saying, "This is my
beloved son, in whom I am well pleased"? Or does it mean that the
Power above is wholly indifferent, "when the sky, which noticed all,
makes no disclosure"?
In _Johannes Agricola_, Browning wrote a lyric setting forth the
strange and yet largely accepted doctrine that Almighty God before
the foundations of the earth were laid, predestined a few of the
coming population to everlasting bliss and the vast majority to
eternal torture. This is by no means a meditation in a madhouse cell,
as Browning first believed; but might logically be the reflections
of a nineteenth century Presbyterian clergyman, seated in his
comfortable library. It is the ecstatic mystical joy of one who
realises, that through no merit of his own, he is numbered among the
elect. Sir Thomas Browne quaintly pictured to himself the surprise
of the noble, upright men of antiquity, when they wake up in hell
simply because they did not believe on One of whom they had never
heard; so Johannes speculates on the ironical fate of monks, ascetics,
women and children, whose lives were full of innocence and purity,
who nevertheless reach ultimately the lake of fire. Praise God for it!
for if I could understand Him, I could not praise Him. How much more
noble this predestinating God is than one who should reward virtue,
and thus make eternal bliss a matter of calculation and bargain!
JOHANNES AGRICOLA IN MEDITATION
1836
There's heaven above, and night by night
I look right through its gorgeous roof;
No suns and moons though e'er so bright
Avail to stop me; splendour-proof
I keep the broods of stars aloof:
For I intend to get to God,
For 'tis to God I speed so fast,
For in God's breast, my own abode,
Those shoals of dazzling glory passed,
I lay my spirit down at last.
I lie where I have always lain,
God smiles as he has always smiled;
Ere suns and moons could wax and wane,
Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled
The heavens, God thought on me his child;
Ordained a life for me, arrayed
Its circumstances every one
To the minutest; ay, God said
This head this hand should rest upon
Thus, ere he fashioned star or sun.
And having thus created me,
Thus rooted me, he bade me grow,
Guiltless for ever, like a tree
That buds and blooms, nor seeks to know
The law by which it prospers so:
But sure that thought and word and deed
All go to swell his love for me,
Me, made because that love had need
Of something irreversibly
Pledged solely its content to be.
Yes, yes, a tree which must ascend,
No poison-gourd foredoomed to stoop!
I have God's warrant, could I blend
All hideous sins, as in a cup,
To drink the mingled venoms up;
Secure my nature will convert
The draught to blossoming gladness fast:
While sweet dews turn to the gourd's hurt,
And bloat, and while they bloat it, blast,
As from the first its lot was cast.
For as I lie, smiled on, full-fed
By unexhausted power to bless,
I gaze below on hell's fierce bed,
And those its waves of flame oppress,
Swarming in ghastly wretchedness;
Whose life on earth aspired to be
One altar-smoke, so pure!--to win
If not love like God's love for me,
At least to keep his anger in;
And all their striving turned to sin.
Priest, doctor, hermit, monk grown white
With prayer, the broken-hearted nun,
The martyr, the wan acolyte,
The incense-swinging child,--undone
Before God fashioned star or sun!
God, whom I praise; how could I praise,
If such as I might understand,
Make out and reckon on his ways,
And bargain for his love, and stand,
Paying a price, at his right hand?
The religious exaltation of the opening lines
There's heaven above, and night by night
I look right through its gorgeous roof; ...
For I intend to get to God,
For 'tis to God I speed so fast,
For in God's breast, my own abode,
Those shoals of dazzling glory, passed,
I lay my spirit down at last
reminds one infallibly of Tennyson's beautiful dramatic lyric,
_St. Agnes' Eve_:
Deep on the convent roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon:
My breath to heaven like vapour goes,
May my soul follow soon!
It is interesting to remember that the former was published in 1836,
the latter in 1837, and each in a periodical.
Perhaps Browning attempted to show the dramatic quality of his
lyrics by finally placing at the very beginning the _Cavalier Tunes_
and _The Lost Leader_; for the former voice in eloquent language the
hatred of democratic ideas, and the latter, in language equally
strenuous, is a glorification of democracy. Imagine Browning himself
saying what he places in the mouth of his gallant cavaliers--
"Hampden to hell!" In the second, _The Lost Leader_, nothing was
farther from Browning's own feelings than a personal attack on
Wordsworth, whom he regarded with reverence; in searching for an
example of a really great character who had turned from the popular
to the aristocratic party, he happened to think of the change from
radicalism to conservatism exhibited by Wordsworth. Love for the
lost leader is still strong in the breasts of his quondam followers
who now must fight him; in Heaven he will not only be pardoned, he
will be first there as he was always first here. In the following
lines, the prepositions are interesting:
Shakespeare was _of_ us, Milton was _for_ us,
Burns, Shelley, were _with_ us.
Shakespeare was indeed of the common people, but so far as we can
conjecture, certainly not for them; Milton was not of them, but was
wholly for them, being indeed regarded as an anarchist; Burns was a
peasant, and Shelley a blue-blood, but both were with the popular
cause. Browning himself, as we happen to know from one of his
personal sonnets, was an intense Liberal in feeling.
CAVALIER TUNES
1842
I. MARCHING ALONG
I
Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King,
Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing:
And, pressing a troop unable to stoop
And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,
Marched them along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.
II
God for King Charles! Pym and such carles
To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!
Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,
Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup
Till you're--
CHORUS.--_Marching along, fifty-score strong_,
_Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song_.
III
Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell
Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!
England, good cheer! Rupert is near!
Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here
CHORUS.--_Marching along, fifty-score strong_,
_Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song_?
IV
Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!
Hold by the right, you double your might;
So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight,
CHORUS.--_March we along, fifty-score strong_,
_Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song_!
II. GIVE A ROUSE
I
King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles!
II
Who gave me the goods that went since?
Who raised me the house that sank once?
Who helped me to gold I spent since?
Who found me in wine you drank once?
CHORUS.--_King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles_!
III
To whom used my boy George quaff else,
By the old fool's side that begot him?
For whom did he cheer and laugh else,
While Noll's damned troopers shot him?
CHORUS.--_King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles_!
III. BOOT AND SADDLE
I
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery grey,
CHORUS.--_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away_!
II
Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;
Many's the friend there, will listen and pray
"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay--"
CHORUS.--"_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away_!"
III
Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array:
Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,"
CHORUS.--"_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away_!"
IV
Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!
I've better counsellors; what counsel they?"
CHORUS.--"_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away_!"
THE LOST LEADER
1845
I
Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat--
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed:
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
Burns, Shelley, were with us,--they watch from their graves!
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
--He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
II
We shall march prospering,--not thro' his presence;
Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre;
Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we master his own;
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
The poem _Cristina_ (1842), while not very remarkable as poetry, is
notable because it contains thus early in Browning's career, four of
his most important doctrines. The more one studies Browning, the
more one is convinced that the poet's astonishing mental vigor is
shown not in the number and variety of his ideas, but rather in the
number and variety of illustrations of them. I can not at this
moment think of any poet, dramatist or novelist who has invented so
many plots as Browning. He seems to present to us a few leading
ideas in a vast series of incarnations. Over and over again the same
thoughts, the same doctrines are repeated; but the scenery, the
situations, and the characters are never alike. Here is where he
remains true to the theory set forth in _Transcendentalism_; the poet
should not produce thoughts but rather concrete images of them; or,
as he says in the closing lines of _The Ring and the Book_, Art must
do the thing that breeds the thought.
In _Cristina_, four of Browning's fundamental articles of faith are
expressed: the doctrine of the elective affinities; the doctrine of
success through failure; the doctrine that time is measured not by
the clock and the calendar, but by the intensity of spiritual
experiences; the doctrine that life on earth is a trial and a test,
the result of which will be seen in the higher and happier
development when the soul is freed from the limitations of time and
space.
The expression "elective affinities" as applied to human beings was
first brought into literature, I believe, by no less a person than
Goethe, who in his novel, published in 1809, which he called _
Elective Affinities (Wahlverwandschaften_), showed the tremendous
force which tends to draw together certain persons of opposite sexes.
The term was taken from chemistry, where an elective affinity means
the "force by which the atoms of bodies of dissimilar nature unite";
elective affinity is then simply a chemical force.
In Goethe's novel, Charlotte thus addresses the Captain: "Would you
tell me briefly what is meant here by Affinities?" The Captain
replied, "In all natural objects with which we are acquainted, we
observe immediately that they have a certain relation." Charlotte:
"Let me try and see whether I can understand where you are bringing
me. As everything has a reference to itself, so it must have some
relation to others." Edward interrupts: "And that will be different
according to the natural differences of the things themselves.
Sometimes they will meet like friends and old acquaintances; they
will come rapidly together, and unite without either having to alter
itself at all--as wine mixes with water." Charlotte: "One can almost
fancy that in these simple forms one sees people that one is
acquainted with." The Captain: "As soon as our chemical chest arrives,
we can show you a number of entertaining experiments, which will
give you a clearer idea than words, and names, and technical
expressions." Charlotte: "It appears to me that if you choose to
call these strange creatures of yours related, the relationship is
not so much a relationship of blood as of soul or of spirit." The
Captain: "We had better keep to the same instances of which we have
already been speaking. Thus, what we call limestone is a more or
less pure calcareous earth in combination with a delicate acid,
which is familiar to us in the form of a gas. Now, if we place a
piece of this stone in diluted sulphuric acid, this will take
possession of the lime, and appear with it in the form of gypsum,
the gaseous acid at the same time going off in vapour. Here is a
case of separation: a combination arises, and we believe ourselves
now justified in applying to it the words 'Elective Affinity;' it
really looks as if one relation had been deliberately chosen in
preference to another." Charlotte: "Forgive me, as I forgive the
natural philosopher. I can not see any choice in this; I see a
natural necessity rather, and scarcely that. Opportunity makes
relations as it makes thieves: and as long as the talk is only of
natural substances, the choice appears to be altogether in the hands
of the chemist who brings the creatures together. Once, however, let
them be brought together, and then God have mercy on them." The
scientific conversation is summed up by their all agreeing that the
chemical term "elective affinities" can properly be applied in
analogy to human beings.
An elective affinity as applied to men and women may result in
happiness or misery; or may be frustrated by a still superior
prudential or moral force. The law of elective affinity being a force,
it is naturally unaware of any human artificial obstacles, such as a
total difference in social rank, or the previous marriage of one or
both of the parties. If two independent individuals meet and are
drawn together by the law of elective affinities, they may marry and
live happily forever after; if another marriage has already taken
place, as in Goethe's story, the result may be tragedy. In _Cristina_,
the elective affinities assert their force between a queen and a
private individual; the result is, at least temporarily, unfortunate
for the simple reason that the lady, although drawn toward the man
by the workings of this mysterious force, is controlled even more
firmly by the bondage of social convention; she behaves in a
contrary manner to that shown by the stooping lady in Maurice
Hewlett's story. This force needs only one moment, one glance, to
assert its power:
She should never have looked at me
If she meant I should not love her!
Love in Browning is often love at first sight; no prolonged
acquaintance is necessary; not even a spoken word, or any physical
contact.
Doubt you whether
This she felt as, _looking at me_,
Mine and her souls rushed together?
In Tennyson's _Locksley Hall_ (published the same year), contact was
important:
And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.