LITERATURE AND ITS FORMS
It is not everyone who can tell readily what is meant by literature, nor
can anyone in a few words define it. What the study of "literature"
(only the adult's manner of saying "reading") is expected to accomplish
was aptly described by Cardinal Newman when he wrote: "The object of
literature in education is to open the mind, to correct it, to refine
it, to enable it to comprehend and adjust its knowledge, to give it
power over its faculties--application, flexibility, method, critical
exactness, sagacity, address and expression." Reading at home and in the
public schools as well as in the high school and colleges helps to
accomplish these ends to a great extent.
Many persons fail to understand what literature is, and if they do
realize its importance they do not comprehend the great variety of its
forms nor the significance of each. To help such persons to a more
comprehensive knowledge and a deeper insight into the functions of
literature this chapter is written.
In its widest sense the word literature covers nearly every kind of
printed matter, but it is in its more restricted meaning that the term
is used here. Only that which is beautiful in form and expression,
inspiring and helpful in spirit, noble and righteous in sentiment can
be called literature as we are considering it. There may be weak and
frivolous books, well-meaning but inept books, and really bad books, but
none of them can be classed as literature.
Literary masterpieces are either prose or poetry, and in print the two
are easily recognizable by their difference in form. Coleridge once said
that prose consisted of words in their best order, while poetry was the
best words in their best order, a poetic definition that does not convey
a very accurate knowledge of the distinction. Poetry differs from prose
not only in the choice and arrangement of words, but also to a lesser
degree in sentiment and feeling. However, much verse, though faultless
in form, can never be considered real poetry, while much prose has real
poetic beauty.
_Prose_
The great bulk of the writings of the world is in prose. It is the
medium of hard sense, of practical knowledge, of argument and of
dialogue. Yet often it appeals to the imagination, charms with its
beauty and inspires to heroic deeds.
It seems to be generally accepted that four methods of expression are to
be found in prose: _narration_, _description_, _exposition_ and
_argumentation_. Narration deals with things in action, description with
the appearance of things, exposition explains the relations ideas bear
to one another, and argumentation not only does this, but tries at the
same time to convince. Theoretically, this distinction is very easy to
make, for action is the life of narration, appearance the theme of
description, explanation and exposition are synonymous, and no one
argues but with the hope of convincing. What can man do more than to
tell what has been done, tell how a thing looks, show how one thing
follows from another or is related to it, and endeavor to bring another
person to the same state of mind?
The accuracy and completeness of the classification is most evident
until one attempts to apply it practically to existing literature, and
then he finds that no literary masterpiece belongs entirely to any one
of the classes, but that these mingle and unite, one or the other
usually predominating. This ruling element, the one which is
proportionately greater, will govern the classification of a selection.
In any story, narration and description meet at every turn, and not
infrequently exposition is found freely intermingled; while novels have
been written with the avowed sole purpose of changing the beliefs of a
people. _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ is a story of intense dramatic activity, and
abounds in vivid descriptions of places and persons. It is generally
dealing with incidents relating to the characters of the story, yet it
really makes an exposition of the evils of slavery, and certainly was no
small factor in stirring the American people into vigorous action
against the slave dealers. Yet no one would classify the book otherwise
than among the narratives. Although into Burke's _Conciliation_ other
elements enter, yet everyone will admit it to be argumentative in the
highest degree. So while it is well to classify the selections read, yet
fine theoretical distinctions should be abandoned. It is not so
necessary to classify and name as it is to compare and distinguish.
Narratives have been classified variously, but not more satisfactorily
than have other forms of literature. A narrative is true or fictitious,
and there appears the first principle of classification. Truthful
narratives are personal when they are the simple account of the deeds of
some person or thing, biographical when they show a clear and evident
purpose to detail the events in the life of the person, historical when
they deal with larger and more complicated questions and when the actors
are as numerous as the actions are various. Fictitious narratives
comprise short stories and novels. One prominent writer notes the
following types: (1) The realistic novel that is true to actual life and
often enters into the discussion of important questions of record. (2)
The novel of life and manners which is largely descriptive and in which
the exigencies of the plot give way to the study of customs. (3) The
novel of incident in which the plot is everything and description and
character study are avoided or subordinated to action. (4) The romance
which usually deals with things as they were in days long past and with
actions that little concern the present. Marvelous and even supernatural
incidents crowd its pages. (5) The idealistic novel which paints the
world as it should be and makes its actors more nearly perfect than the
world accepts as typical. (6) The novel with a purpose which seeks to
convert its readers by the vividness of its portraits rather than by
argument, though by means of many detailed conversations its theories
are often freely discussed and fully substantiated. Many great reforms
have been brought about by novels of this character.
Description deals with the individual and not with the class. A fine
description is a work of art in its highest sense and is closely allied
to painting, than which it is even more delicate and refined; for while
the painter lays his color on the canvas and our eyes see the entire
picture in all its minutest detail, the writer can only suggest the idea
and stimulate the imagination to create for itself the picture in the
mind of the artist. Yet such is the marvelous power of words when
handled by a master that one can see by them almost as vividly as by the
sense of sight. The reader is transported to far-away lands, strange men
and animals surround him, the skies glare above him, silver lakes
sparkle in the sun, brooks murmur against their fern-covered sides, and
birds move the soul with their sweet music. Evening draws on, and the
landscape glimmering fades away; the stars come out one by one and by
and by the moon steals slowly up the sky. Peace and quiet reign over the
darkened world. Neither sculpture nor painting can depict these changes;
it rests with the magic of words. But the reader must do his share. He
must give time to his reading, must yield himself gently to its
influence, must not force himself into the writer's mood but must
receive and accept. Then descriptive literature will yield its keenest
pleasures.
Exposition deals with the class, and is abstract. So the demands made
upon the reader are infinitely greater. It assumes that the concrete
examples and specific instances necessary to interpret the abstract are
already in mind and that the barest allusion to them will be sufficient.
So exposition naturally follows narrative and description.
Successful argumentation depends upon proof and persuasion. It is
addressed to the reason or to the emotions. Burke and Webster endeavor
to establish their respective positions by irrefutable arguments. When
Beecher addressed the people on the slavery question he appealed
strongly to their emotions and sought to make them act because of their
intense feeling. One characteristic of all literary masterpieces is
unity, but in none is this of more importance than in the expository and
argumentative types.
As we study it, literary material may be grouped as fiction, essays,
speeches (orations), and dialogue (drama). No classification can be
rigid or exact, for one may blend into the other. At the same time in
any one may be found the four forms, description, narration, exposition
and argument. For our purposes, however, the following definitions will
answer: _Fiction_ is a term covering those narratives which are either
wholly or in part events that never happened and acts of individuals
that never lived. Fiction is the work of the imagination, based upon the
facts of life and observation. It appears as stories, in narrative poems
or epics, and in novels.
_Essays_ deal with all subjects and in such a variety of ways that any
attempt to classify them meets with difficulty. Originally an essay was
an attempt, a mere outline or plan intended to be filled out at greater
length or to be used in different form. It is in this sense that Bacon
uses the word and his essays are condensed to the highest degree. In
later years essays have come to be of the most highly finished type of
literature and some of the most beautiful passages, the noblest
thoughts, the most inspiring utterances, are to be found in them.
Almost every conceivable topic is treated: there are biographical essays
which do little more than narrate the facts of a man's life; there are
descriptive essays whose only function is to make their readers see
something as the author saw it; there are argumentative and didactic
essays and essays on science, art, religion, and literary criticism.
Some writers have given their whole time and attention to this form of
composition, and the modern magazine has become their distributing
agency. Much of the deepest, of the brightest, of the best of recent
work has come to its readers through this medium.
The essay shows more of the author's self than any other form of
literature. It is apt to be sincere, to be the deliberate expression of
the writer's own views formulated with the desire to convince another.
In the purely literary type this last characteristic is not so
strikingly prominent, though it appears rather under the surface. In no
form of literature is the artistic element more manifest. The prose
writer makes of his essay what the poet does of his lyric--the most
finished and beautiful expression of his thought. The thought is the
writer's chief concern, but upon his manner of expressing it depend the
force and value of his work. Accordingly he gives to his style his most
careful attention and fits and polishes it with all his skill. The
result is that in the essay are to be found the best examples of prose
style. While the essay frequently appeals to our humorous sense and
sometimes arouses our sympathy by its pathetic touches, yet no such
opportunity is offered for emotional effect as that given by the novel
or the drama.
The essay is written to be read, the _oration_ to be heard; the essay is
to please, to entertain, perhaps to instruct, sometimes to convince; the
oration is to arouse the feelings, to carry conviction, to stir the
public to action. It is a formal production, addressed directly to its
hearers; it is in form or meaning in the second person. Even when
descriptive or eulogistic, it is a direct address. The orator says,
"These are my opinions and my reasons for so thinking. Will you not
accept my view and act accordingly?"
The oration naturally divides itself into three sections. There is an
_introduction_, in which the speaker clears the way, opens the question
and lays down the principles he proposes to advocate, or indicates the
course of his argument. The _body_ follows. Here the principles are
elucidated, the arguments advanced and properly established or the
descriptions elaborated and finished. The last section is the
_conclusion_, which may consist of a brief review or summary of the
inferences drawn, or of a plea for belief and for action in accordance
with the principles of the speaker.
Before the art of printing was invented, public opinion was molded
almost entirely by public speaking, and for a great many years afterward
the orator was the greatest of leaders. By the magic of his eloquence he
changed the views of men and inspired them to deeds of valor. The fiery
orations of a Demosthenes, of a Cicero; the thrilling words of a Peter
the Hermit or a Savonarola; the unanswerable arguments of a Burke or a
Webster, have more than once turned the course of history.
But when the newspaper first found its way into the hands of thinking
men the power of the orator felt the influence of its silent opponent
and began to wane. Today, it is not often that multitudes are swayed by
a single voice. The debates and stump-speeches of a political campaign
change but few votes. The preacher no longer depends wholly upon the
convincing power of his rhetoric to make his converts. The
representatives of a people in a parliament or a congress speak that
their words may be heard through the newspapers by their constituents
more than with the expectation that their speech will carry a measure
through the House they are addressing.
Yet we will listen with pleasure to a fervid speaker whose earnestness
of manner carries the conviction of his sincerity, and even against our
will we are moved by elegant sentences and pleasing tones. The orator
will continue to be a power, though in a different way. Conditions have
changed, and the ponderous periods and elaborate figures that
characterized the orators of classic epochs are giving place to the
plain, lucid diction and the simple, true-hearted tones of the modern
speaker.
The drama is objective, the author keeping himself out of sight as much
as possible. His characters appear, speak their parts and vanish with no
explanatory words from him except the occasional stage direction limited
to the fewest possible words. There is no description, except when the
actors give an account of something that does not occur upon the stage.
There is little of narration, except to explain what does not appear
upon the scene or to give clearness to the action. Argument is not
infrequent, though it is usually in the form of a moving appeal to the
emotions rather than to the reason. The play often leads to exposition,
and many dramas are written with the evident intent of teaching a deep
and forceful lesson.
The drama shows man in action and develops his character before the
reader, but it is by acts and speech and not by direct description from
the author. It deals with all human interests and frequently
supernatural manifestations are introduced and become important factors
in the plot, particularly when they are believed in by the people who
appear in the drama. But in general it is a study of life and character.
Primarily the drama is to be heard, not read, and consequently its style
is usually clear and its meaning easily apprehended, but the complexity
of its incidents and the intricacies of its plot make it difficult to
follow. The rapidity of its action, the necessity of gathering the
meaning from a single hearing, and the intensity of feeling aroused
would all unite to confuse the hearer were it not for the skill of the
actor and the appropriateness of the stage settings. By the aid of
these, understanding is in most cases not difficult. The changing
scenery, the dress of the actors, their movements, the tones of their
voices, and the expression of their faces all aid the hearer. But the
interpretation then becomes that of the actor, so that the listener is
once removed from the author. Moreover, to the actor everything is
subservient to dramatic effect, and the study of an Othello descends
into an effort to excite an audience rather than to portray correctly
the shifting passions of the jealous Moor. The poet's creation is
adapted to the actor's use by the omission of scenes, changes of scenes,
and additions of scenes, by such verbal alterations and phrasal
transpositions that one does not see Shakespeare's Shylock demanding his
pound of flesh but watches Irving's Shylock whetting his savage knife;
Hamlet is lost in Booth, and Juliet weeps in the tears of Mary Anderson.
But the pleasure a person derives from listening to their thrilling
utterances is as distinct from that which comes to the appreciative
reader as the pleasures of the palate differ from those of the eye. To
the reader everything is his own. He carries his own theater with him.
The scenery he must himself construct and he may alter it at will; the
costumes and personal appearance of the characters are the creations of
his own mind; his thunder has no metallic sound and his lightning always
flashes. He may bring his favorites back with many an encore and may
show his disapproval with hisses that would drown the gallery. He may
linger over the passages he loves and find new encouragement in his
defeats and ever fresh joys for his hours of gloom. He is never hurried:
the lights never go out, the curtain is never rung down.
_Poetry_
The reality of poetry is its beauty, its power of inspiration, its
truth. Its beauty lies in its choice of words, in its figures of speech,
in its music and in its sentiment. Any definition that is not purely
formal is hard to give. Professor Shairp defined the soul of poetry when
he wrote: "Whenever the soul comes vividly in contact with any fact,
truth, or existence, which it realizes and takes home to itself with
more than common intensity, out of that meeting of the soul and its
object there arises a thrill of joy, a glow of emotion; and the
expression of that _glow_, that _thrill_, is poetry."
_The Structure of Poetry_
The form and structure of poetry should be studied, but not to so great
an extent as to blind the eye or deaden the appreciation of its beauty
and sentiment. Brown, who wrote the beautiful story _Rab and His
Friends_, has said, "It is with poetry as with flowers and fruits. We
would all rather have them and taste them than talk about them. It is a
good thing to know about a lily, its scientific ins and outs, its
botany, its archæology, even its anatomy and organic radicals; but it is
a better thing to look at the flowers themselves and to consider how
they grow."
If one reads poetry aloud he soon becomes sensible of a certain rhythm
or regular recurrence of accented syllables that gives a measured
movement to the lines. It is a recognition of this rhythm that makes a
child read in a "sing-song" tone, as natural a thing as it is to sing.
If we hear constantly repeated at frequent and regular intervals any
noise, there is a tendency to group these separate sounds and measure
them off regularly. The clock ticks with always the same force and with
the same space of time between the ticks, yet we hear _tick_-tack,
_tick_-tack; we can prove the difference to be in our ear, for it
requires but little effort to hear tick-_tack_ or _tack_-tick,
_tack_-tick. The ticking has not varied in the least.
The poet takes advantage of this rhythmical tendency of nature and by
using accented syllables at regular intervals compels us to recognize
the swing of his lines. When he reduces this to a system he has
established the _meter_ of his production. The poetical accents
sometimes fall on unaccented syllables and sometimes on monosyllabic
words that are not emphatic, but usually the metrical accent of any
given word corresponds to its logical accent. The accentuation of a
syllable tends to lengthen the time used in the pronunciation of that
syllable, and so we call it long, although the sound of its vowel may be
short. Short syllables are those which are unaccented, even though the
vowel has the long sound.
Verse appeals to the ear by its melodious combinations of sounds and
also by the regular recurrence of similar sounds in _rhymes_. These
usually occur at the ends of verses. In order that a rhyme may be
perfect the two rhyming syllables must both be accented, the vowel sound
and the consonants following must be identical, and the sounds preceding
the vowel must be different. For example, _fate_ and _late_ rhyme; _fat_
and _late_ do not; _fate_ and _lame_ do not; _debate_ rhymes with
_relate_, but not with _prelate_. Double rhymes occur frequently, as in
the words _bowlders, shoulders_.
Take this stanza from Hood's _Song of the Shirt_:
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags
Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!
In poverty, hunger and dirt;
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "song of the shirt."
Here the first and third lines are unrhymed, the second and fourth, the
fifth and seventh, and the sixth and eighth lines rhyme alternately in
couplets. If the beginnings of the verses are noticed it will be seen
that the indentations of the lines correspond with the rhymes.
Rhymes are not always used in poetry. Most of Shakespeare's plays are
written in _blank verse_, which is unrhymed iambic pentameter, called
_heroic verse_. _Hiawatha_ and _Evangeline_ are not rhymed, the former
being trochaic tetrameter and the latter largely dactylic hexameter.
Frequently appeal is made to the ear by a similarity of sound at the
beginning of words. This is known as _alliteration_. In early English
poems this was of prime importance and subject to rigid rules, but more
recently it has been used without rule, subject merely to the author's
will. This is seen to a marked degree in many writers. Here are several
lines taken from Poe's _The Bells_:
What a world of _m_erriment their _m_elody foretells,
What a _t_ale of _t_error now their _t_urbulency _t_ells.
In a mad expostulation with the dea_f_ and _f_rantic _f_ire.
In many cases alliteration is very skilfully handled, as where Whittier
uses the liquid consonants to make more smooth and harmonious to the ear
the line that tells the friendliness of the brooklet whose murmurings
could not be heard in winter, but--
"The music of whose _li_quid _li_p
Had been to us companionship"
during the long summer days.
The number of verses in a stanza varies from two to an indefinite
number. When there are two verses the stanza is called a couplet; a
three line stanza is called a tercet; a four line stanza, a quatrain.
The five line stanza is not common, but six is a frequent number.
_Kinds of Poetry_
Poems may be classified as epic, lyric and dramatic.
The word _epic_ is by some writers restricted in its application, but it
is preferred here to use it in a broad sense to include various forms of
narrative poetry, and to use the term greater, or heroic, epic to
designate the smaller class of narratives which the older writers knew
as epics. Thomas Arnold's definition of the greater epic is: "The
subject of the Epic Poem must be some one, great, complex action. The
principal personages must belong to the high places of the world, and
must be grand and elevated in their ideas and in their bearing. The
measure must be of sonorous dignity, befitting the subject. The action
is carried on by a mixture of narrative, dialogue, and soliloquy.
Briefly to express its main characteristics, the epic treats of one
great complex action, in grand style, and with fullness of detail."
Under such a definition there can be but few really great epics in any
language. Comparatively few poets have cared to undertake so great a
task and many of those who have been willing to make the attempt have
failed conspicuously in the execution. But most of the great languages
of the world have each one surpassing epic which has held the interest
of its readers and established an immortality for itself. Homer gave the
Greeks the grandeur of his _Iliad_; Virgil charms the Latin race and
every cultivated people since with the elegance of his _Aeneid_; Dante
with Virgil for his model and Beatrice as an inspiration wrote in
Italian the _Divina Commedia_, in which he described with all-powerful
pen the condition of the dead in the Inferno, Purgatory, and Paradise;
and our Milton after years of preparation, from the dark realm of his
own blindness, produced the sublime measures of _Paradise Lost_. These
are the Greater Epics, greater by far than anything else written by man.
With them this course does not concern itself to any great extent.
The term lesser epic includes the numerous forms of narrative poems from
the old-time ballad to the modern story-telling poem. The epic is
essentially different from the lyric. While in the latter the
personality of the author is always apparent, and properly so, in the
epic the intrusion of the poet's self is usually a defect. The lyric is
subjective, the epic objective. To tell a story effectively and well is
the prime motive, to tell it beautifully and in a way to excite the
imagination and move the feelings of the reader is the contributory
poetic impulse. Of the lesser epics groups might be set apart. The
ballad is the oldest form. It was originally the production of wandering
minstrels or glee-men and was not reduced to writing and kept in
permanent form. Being passed from mouth to mouth there naturally came
to be great variations in its form, and even the incidents were modified
to suit the taste of the singer. After poetry came to be a study of the
cultured and refined, the minstrel's power declined, though he was a
welcome guest at the feasts of the wealthy, where his song added to the
gayety of the occasion or gave dignity to the host as his deeds were
sung by the hireling bard. In the sixteenth century these singers
disappeared from view in the blaze of the Elizabethan Age.
The highest type of literary expression is poetry, and the most perfect
creation of poetic imagination is the lyric. Technically a lyric is a
song, a short poem that can be set to music. But this must be
interpreted in a wide sense, for though all the songs that are sung are
lyrics, the greater number of lyrics were never intended to be fitted to
the closer requirements of vocal harmony. They deal with all subjects
and have few requirements of form, though form is an essential element
and a matter of great importance, for to the perfection of form much of
the intense effect of the lyric is due. Like the essay the lyric is a
subjective composition; it is confessedly the expression of the poet's
personal emotion and his own experiences. His mind, his soul, speak to
us; he does not interpret the thoughts and feelings of another. The
lyric is usually contemplative and full of the choicest results of the
poet's meditations. It influences action indirectly through direct
appeals to the emotions.
Songs form a class of lyrics as varied in content as the possible
subjects in life. One might consider them as sacred and secular and
under the former recognize the psalms, which our poets have many times
rendered into metrical form, not infrequently detracting from the
sublimity of the originals. "The Lord is my Shepherd" needs no change,
no remodeling from the biblical version to make it a true lyric, but
that it may be sung to the tunes of our churches it has more than once
been paraphrased.
Hymns are religious songs expressing devout reverence for the deity,
displaying confidence and faith in the goodness of God, breathing a
prayer for help in hours of difficulty and distress, or for consolation
in the hour of affliction. Our literature is full of these noble poems,
and their lofty sentiments, clothed in beautiful words sung to the
thrilling music of other inspired composers, have been potent factors in
culture and refinement.
Secular songs are written upon nearly every conceivable topic of human
interest and are more numerous than any other form of literature, but so
many of them are inferior in composition and so dependent upon the
jingle of the tunes to which they are sung that their life is little
longer than the time consumed in their production. But a large number
are conceived in the true spirit of art and are as worthy of immortality
as anything we read.
There are comic songs that sparkle with wit and whose music laughs with
the hearer; sentimental and love songs whose sensuous cadences intensify
the passion of their words; convivial songs where toasts are drunk to
the accompaniment of the clinking glasses; and patriotic songs that roll
with the ringing cheers of thousands and the tramp of armed men.
There are still three large classes of lyrics each distinct in itself,
though, as we see if we try to draw the lines closely, shading off into
one another. Usually these are in the nature of a direct address to some
person, place, or thing, and are distinguished one from another by the
nature of the subject or the rules of form. All are in a greater or less
degree complimentary to the thing addressed and show interest, respect,
admiration or love. The ode and elegy have most in common, although the
latter is a tribute to the dead. The sonnet partakes deeply of the
nature of the others, but is set off by very arbitrary limitations of
form.
There are no rules governing the form of the ode; the poet is at liberty
to select whatever form seems best adapted to his purpose. The length of
the stanza, the meter, the rhyme, may be as varied as his fancy
dictates, but the ode is an address direct and personal, an address with
praise for its object. The subject may be a flower, a piece of pottery,
a person, a bird or a nation, but some definite inciting object is
necessary. The ode is subjective in that the poet expresses his own
feeling of admiration or reverence. Often there is an acknowledgment of
a benefit conferred, a lesson learned, or affection returned. From these
conditions, namely, the liberty of form, the direct and powerful
inspiration, the sincere desire to return a favor, a poet might
naturally be expected to produce his choicest work, and so he has done.
A mournful song, in stately measure, praising the dead for his virtues,
full of the grief that remains with the living, believing in the
happiness of the departed and hoping for a blessed reunion in the
hereafter: this is the typical _elegy_. On the one side it shades off
into the ode, some poems being susceptible of classification in both
groups; on the other it may take the form of sonnets, many of which
answer every requirement of the dirge. Many poems are therefore
elegiacal that are not strictly elegies. A rigid classification is never
necessary, but an association of these beautiful pieces, all thoroughly
impregnated with the personal grief of the author, gives to each a
greater power, a more thrilling significance. They arise from the
deepest emotion and so are the offspring of divinest inspiration; love
is in the heart of the writer and so the flight of song is best
sustained; they are intended to show to the world respect and admiration
for the one whose virtues they celebrate and so they are refined and
polished to the last degree. Where grief, love and a hope to give
earthly immortality to the object of his affection move the poet, we
expect the finest efforts of his genius. These elegies include some of
the grandest, the most perfect productions of poetic skill.
When man sees his loved one laid away forever, he naturally longs to
preserve the memory of the departed to succeeding generations, to erect
some permanent memorial. Funereal monuments are characteristic of every
race and have proved the most enduring records of the past. The
inscriptions upon these tombs are early records of the elegiac spirit.
The epitaph is elegy in miniature. "To define an epitaph is useless;
everyone knows it is an inscription on a tomb. An _epitaph_ is indeed
commonly panegyrical, because we are seldom distinguished by a stone but
by our friends," says Dr. Johnson.
This epitaph was written by Robert Wilde in the seventeenth century:
Here lies a piece of Christ; a star in dust;
A vein of gold; a china dish that must
Be used in heaven, when God shall feast the just.
The _sonnet_ may be addressed to any person or thing and is the direct
personal expression of the author's feeling. It is like the ode, and
also partakes of the general nature of the elegy, but it differs from
both in the rigidity of the rules of form that govern it. Sonnets
originated in Italy, and the genuine Italian sonnet is very exacting in
form. It must consist of exactly fourteen lines of iambic pentameter.
These lines are divided into two groups, one of which consists of eight
lines or two _quatrains_, the whole known as the _octave_. The remaining
six lines constitute the _sestet_. The first and last line of each
quatrain rhyme together, while the middle lines of each form the second
rhyme. In the sestet usually the first line rhymes with the fourth, the
second with the fifth and the third with the sixth. As a whole the
sonnet contains one idea, which in the octave is general, in the sestet
specific, for the sestet expresses the conclusion of the octave.
The difficulties of composition under such arbitrary limitations are
evident, and it is not to be wondered at that even famous poets have
utterly failed when they have essayed to write in this form. The sonnet
has met with severest criticism, some writers failing to see any beauty
in it. Coleridge says: "And when at last the poor thing is toiled and
hammered into fit shape, it is in general racked and tortured prose
rather than anything resembling poetry." Though Lord Byron wrote a few
himself he defined the sonnet as "The most puling, petrifying, stupidly
Platonic composition."
But this is hardly fair to the many exquisitely beautiful lyrics that in
this form grace the English language. Those "little pictures painted
well," those "monuments of a moment" are among our most graceful poems,
and the reader who has not learned to delight in a beautiful sonnet has
missed the most refined pleasure English literature has to give.
The following exquisite sonnet, _Victor and Vanquished_, by Longfellow,
is formed on the Italian model:
As one who long hath fled with panting breath
Before his foe, bleeding and near to fall,
I turn and set my back against the wall,
And look thee in the face, triumphant Death.
I call for aid, and no one answereth;
I am alone with thee, who conquerest all;
Yet me thy threatening form doth not appall,
For thou art but a phantom and a wraith;
Wounded and weak, sword broken at the hilt,
With armor shattered, and without a shield,
I stand unmoved; do with me what thou wilt;
I can resist no more, but will not yield.
This is no tournament where cowards tilt;
The vanquished here is victor of the field.
How many verses in this sonnet? What is the meter? What is the rhyme
scheme? Through how many lines is the rhyme scheme the same as that
followed in the Italian sonnet?
Is there a unity of thought in this sonnet? Does the poet consistently
allude to some one thing? Was Longfellow old or young when he wrote
this? What does Longfellow represent himself to be? Why does he "set his
back against the wall"? In these days of Mauser rifles would it do any
good to set one's back against the wall for protection against an
approaching enemy? Was it ever an advantage? Who is the foe that follows
him? How can Death be "but a phantom and a wraith" and at the same time
follow the poet triumphantly? What do his weapons and his armor indicate
as to what he represents himself? What is the "broken sword"? Who fight
in tournaments? What is there appropriate in the word "tilt"? How can
the one who is vanquished be victor still? Is the figure of medieval
knighthood well sustained?
The earliest European _dramas_ of which we have any record were the
plays performed in ancient Greece five hundred years before Christ.
There were very few characters introduced, sometimes only one or two,
and a chorus was the most important part of the representation. This
chorus served to fill the gaps in the action, to state what had preceded
and at times even to comment upon the actors, to exhort or to praise or
condemn their behavior. The Greek dramatists carefully followed the
so-called rule of _three unities_: unity of time, whereby the action
must be compressed into one day; unity of place, by which only one place
must be represented; and unity of action, whereby the movement of the
piece must be continuous, all the incidents be connected so as to form
one main line of thought. The rule of three unities was followed very
closely by the French dramatists up to comparatively recent times; but
in England, beginning with the Elizabethan era, no restraint was placed
upon dramatic technique except unity of action, which still remains
essential.
During the Middle Ages the drama was represented by _miracle_ and
_mystery plays_ dealing with sacred history. They differed in subject
only. The miracle plays represented the lives of saints and their
miraculous deeds; the mysteries, the mysterious doctrines of
Christianity and various biblical events. During an age when preaching
was unusual, the clergy reached the souls of their people by means of
these rude plays which were at first given in churches; but later, when
the town guilds and trade organizations began to present them, the stage
was a traveling cart, roughly fitted up with rude scenery. Still later,
before theaters were built, the wandering players acted in inn yards or
courtyards. Female parts were always taken by boys, and it was not until
after Shakespeare's time that women appeared on the stage.
In the reign of Henry VI the mysteries were in part superseded by the
_morality plays_, although the former did not wholly go out of style
until the time of Elizabeth. The passion play given every ten years at
Oberammergau, Bavaria, is a survival of the old mystery play. The
moralities personified the virtues and vices common to man, and
attempted to teach moral lessons by allegorical representations. When
popular interest in these dramas began to lag, current topics were
introduced into the dialogue, and characters from real life appeared on
the stage for the first time. Early in the sixteenth century John
Heywood invented a farcical composition called _The Interlude_ to
relieve the tiresome monotony of existing plays. But it was in 1540 that
the first comedy appeared, and it is not too much to say that this play
marks the beginning of modern English drama. Nicholas Udall, head master
of Eton College, being accustomed to write Latin plays for his boys,
concluded to try his hand at an English drama. The result was _Ralph
Royster Doyster_, the first comedy. In 1562 Queen Elizabeth was
entertained by the presentation of the first English tragedy, a play
entitled _Gorboduc_, by Thomas Sackville.
During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries amateur dramatic
productions called _masques_ were presented. Sometimes even nobles and
members of the royal family took part. These plays were accompanied by
music, dancing, and spectacular effects. The literary character of the
masque developed into the compositions of Ben Jonson, and culminated in
Milton's _Comus_. During the reign of Elizabeth the productions of Kyd,
Peele, Greene, Marlowe, and Beaumont and Fletcher raised the drama to
such a lofty plane that only the genius of a Shakespeare could surmount
it.
There are two distinct classes of modern dramas--tragedies and comedies.
In the former, events crowd irresistibly on to some terrible conclusion,
usually resulting in the death of the principal characters. An
atmosphere of gloom surrounds it, and the flashes of light serve but to
intensify the general darkness. Even when the soul of the reader
recognizes the justice of the end it rebels against the horrors of the
situation. The deeper and darker passions predominate; love is swallowed
up in hate and happiness drowned in grief. The comedy is in a lighter
and happier vein; its situations may be trying but they end happily; the
sun shines and the air is clear; if storms appear they are the showers
of a summer day, not awful tempests. The comedy descends through various
forms to the travesty and farce whose purpose is solely to excite
laughter by ludicrous scenes and absurd incidents. The melodrama abounds
in thrilling situations and extravagant efforts to excite emotions, but
its final outcome is a happy one, and the villain is punished and virtue
is comfortably rewarded.
Dramas may be written in prose or in poetic form. The tendency is toward
prose in comedy and poetry in tragedy, though in the same play both
prose and poetry are sometimes used. The most common form for the poetic
composition is the unrhymed iambic pentameter or blank verse (heroic
measure). Rhymes are in use but usually their purpose is definite and
specific and they may occur occasionally in plays which are otherwise in
blank verse. Lyrics are often introduced, and in them both rhyme and
meter are varied at the pleasure of the author.
_Journeys Through Bookland_ contains numerous illustrations of the facts
of this chapter and plentiful examples of every form of literature
except the sonnet, of which a type has just been given. The outline
which follows will summarize this chapter and show a few of the examples
that may be formed.
[Illustration: ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
PAUL DU CHAILLU
RUDYARD KIPLING
THOMAS HUGHES
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
JAKOB GRIMM
WILHELM GRIMM]
LITERATURE
I. PROSE.
1. Forms of Prose Composition.
A. Narration.
_The Pine Tree Shillings_: IV, 192.
_A Christmas Carol_: VI, 244.
B. Description.
_Brute Neighbors_: VII, 260.
_The Alhambra_: VIII, 153.
_Children's Books of the Past_: V, 101.
C. Exposition.
_Imitation of Christ_: VI, 134.
_The Cubes of Truth_: VII, 406.
_Reading History_: V, 394.
D. Argument.
_Poor Richard's Almanac_: VI, 407.
2. Kinds of Prose.
A. Fiction.
_Aladdin_: III, 288.
_Tom Brown at Rugby_: V, 469.
_The Adventure of the Windmills_: VII, 438.
B. Essays.
_Childhood_: VI, 124.
_Dream Children_: VIII, 335.
_The Vision of Mirza_: IX, 285.
C. Orations.
_The Gettysburg Address_: IX, 321.
_Abraham Lincoln_: IX, 324.
II. POETRY.
1. Structure of Poetry.
A. Rhyme.
_The Country Squire_: VI, 474.
_To My Infant Son_: VI, 478.
B. Meter.
_The Daffodils_: VII, 1.
_The Old Oaken Bucket_: VII, 11.
_Bannockburn_: VII, 15.
_Boat Song_: VII, 17.
2. Kinds of Poetry.
A. Epics.
a. Heroic Epics.
_Death of Hector_: IV, 364.
_Wooden Horse_: IV, 383.
b. Lesser Epics.
_Saint Nicholas_: II, 202.
_Pied Piper of Hamelin_: III, 384.
_Incident of the French Camp_: IV, 174.
_Sohrab and Rustum_: VI, 173.
B. Lyrics.
a. Songs.
(1) Sacred.
_Nearer Home_: IV, 126.
_Lead, Kindly Light_: V, 110.
(2) Secular.
_Annie Laurie_: VI, 119.
_Auld Lang Syne_: VI, 228.
_Those Evening Bells_: VII, 340.
(3) Patriotic.
_Battle Hymn of the Republic_: V, 399.
_America_: VIII, 60.
b. Odes.
_To the Fringed Gentian_: VII, 4.
_Ode to a Skylark_: VII, 275.
_To H. W. L._: IV, 84.
c. Elegies.
_Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard_: VI, 360.
d. Sonnet.
e. Drama.
_The Tempest_: VIII, 364.