Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least!

There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast;

While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull

Just on a mountain's edge as bare as the creature's skull,

Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull!

--I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool.

But the city, oh the city--the square with the houses! Why?

They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye!

Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry!

You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by:

Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high;

And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.

What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights,

'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights.

You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze,

And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees.

Is it better in May, I ask you? you've summer all at once;

In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns!

'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well,

The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell

Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.

Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash!

In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flash

On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash

Round the lady atop in the conch--fifty gazers do not abash,

Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of

sash!

All the year long at the villa, nothing's to see though you linger,

Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean lifted forefinger.

Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle

Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle.

Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill,

And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the

hill.

Enough of the seasons,--I spare you the months of the fever and chill.

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin:

No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence rattles in:

You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin.

By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws

teeth;

Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath.

At the post-office such a scene-picture--the new play, piping hot!

And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot.

Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes,

And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the

Duke's!

Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so

Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome, and Cicero,

"And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of Saint Paul has

reached,

Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he

preached."

Noon strikes,--here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and

smart

With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart!

_Bang, whang, whang_, goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife;

No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life.

But bless you, it's dear--it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate.

They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate

It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city!

Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity!

Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals,

And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles.

One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles,

And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of

scandals.

_Bang, whang, whang_, goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife.

Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

Of course, there are arguments in favor of placing the "person of quality"

in the city near his beloved objects. One of the last lines, beginning

"Look, two and two go the priests," seems to imply the discovery and

actual presence of the procession. But if Browning had located the speaker

in the city, would he not say "here" and not "there," as he does at the

end of the third line?

If at the villa, why does he say to his listener, "Well, now, look at our

villa!" The fact that he points to it and says,

"stuck like the horn of a bull

Just on a mountain's edge,"

seems to imply, though in plain sight of it, that he is some distance

away. Again, if at the villa, how can he discover the procession?

Was the monologue spoken during a walk? We can easily imagine the "person

of quality" and his companion starting from the villa and talking while

coming down into the city. But this is hardly possible, because when

Browning changes his situation in this way, he always suggests definitely

the stages of the journey. He never makes a mistake regarding the location

or situation of his characters. His conceptions are so dramatic that he is

always consistent regarding his characters and the situations or points of

view they occupy. However obscure he may be in other points, he never

confuses time and place or dramatic situation.

Is it not best to imagine him as having walked out with a friend to some

point where the villa above and the city below are both clearly visible?

And as the humor of the monologue consists in the impressions which the

two places make upon the speaker, the contrasts are sharp and sudden. In

such a position we can distinctly realize him now looking with longing

towards the city that he loves and then turning with disgust and contempt

towards the villa he despises.

Possibly his listener is located on the side towards the villa, as that

unknown and almost unnoticed personage seems once or twice, at least, to

make a mild defence. That his listener does not wholly agree with him, is

indicated by "Why?" at the end of the eleventh line, to which he replies,

heaping encomiums upon the city, careless of the fact that his arguments

would make any lover of beauty smile: "Houses in four straight lines."

"And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly."

"What of a villa?" may also be an echo of the listener's question or

remark, or apply to a look expressive of his attitude of mind. "Is it ever

hot in the square?" suggests some satire on his part. The listener,

however, is barely noticed, as the speaker seems to scorn the slightest

opposition or expression of opinion.

In such a position, we can easily imagine him with the whole city at his

feet in sufficiently plain view to allow him to discover enough of the

procession to waken memory and enthusiasm, and bring all up as a present

reality. The procession can be easily imagined as starting from some

convent outside the walls and appearing below them on its way to town. All

the facts of the procession need not be discovered. It is a scene he has

often observed and delighted in, and distance would lend enchantment to

the speaker and serve as the climax of his enthusiasm, as he portrayed to

his less responsive friend the details of the procession.

Some of his references to both villa and city are certainly from memory.

For example, the different sights and sounds that he has seen and heard

from time to time in the city, such as the "diligence," the "scene-picture

at the post-office."

The spirit of the monologue, the enthusiasm and exultation over what

gives anything but pleasure to others, requires such a character as will

enjoy "the travelling doctor" who "gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth."

Notice Browning's touch for the reformers, he makes such a man rejoice at

the news, "only this morning three liberal thieves were shot." The

"liberal thieves" are doubtless three Italian reformers who had been

trying to deliver their country. It is possible to imagine the procession

as wholly from memory, and "noon strikes" to be simply a part of his

imagination and exultation. How gaily he skips as our Lady, the Madonna,

is

"borne smiling and smart,

With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her

heart!"

He has no conception of the symbol of the seven deadly sins, but dances

away at the music, "No keeping one's haunches still." Later, however, when

he exclaims to his listener, "Look," he seems to make an actual discovery.

Does he start as he actually sees a procession in the distance? A real one

coming before him would give life and variety to the monologue. Browning

intentionally leaves the conceptions gradually to dawn in the imagination.

The doubts, and the questions which may be asked, have been dwelt upon in

order to emphasize the point that the speaker must be conceived in a

definite situation. When once a situation is located, this will modify

some of the shades of feeling and expression.

The point, then, is, that a reader or interpreter must conceive the

speaker as occupying a definite place, and when this is done, the position

will determine somewhat the feeling and the expression. Difference in

situation causes many differences in action and in voice modulations.

Whatever location, therefore, the reader decides upon, everything else

must be consistent with it.

One point in this monologue may be especially obscure, where reference is

made to the city being "dear!" "fowls, wine, at double the rate." I was

one of three in a carriage who were once stopped at a gate in Florence and

examined to see whether we carried any "salt," "oil," or anything on which

there was a tax, which, according to the owner of the villa, "is a horror

to think of." Some Italian cities do not have free trade with the

surrounding country; food stuffs are taxed upon "passing the gate," thus

making life in the city more expensive. And here is the reason why this

man sadly mourns:

"And so, the villa for me, not the city!

Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity!"

Whatever may be said regarding Browning's obscurity, however far he may

have gone into the most technical knowledge of science in any department

of life, however remote his allusions to events or objects or lines of

knowledge which are unfamiliar to the world, there is one thing about

which he is always definite, possibly more definite than any other writer.

In every monologue we can find an indication of the place or situation in

which the monologue is located.

Browning has given us one monologue which takes place during a walk, "A

Grammarian's Funeral." The speaker is one of the band carrying the body of

his master from the "common crofts," and so he is represented as looking

up to the top of the hill and talking about the appropriateness of

burying the master on the hilltop. Browning's intimate knowledge of Greek

was shown by the phrase "gave us the doctrine of the enclitic _De_." The

London "Times" criticized this severely when the poem was published,

saying that with all respect to Mr. Browning, there was no such enclitic.

Browning answered in a note that proved his fine scholarship, and called

attention to the fact that this was the point in dispute which the

grammarian had tried to settle.

Even the stages of the journey are shown,

"Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place

Gaping before us."

In another place he says,

"Caution redoubled,

Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!"

while all the time he pours out his tribute to his master:

"Oh, if we draw a circle premature

Heedless of far gain,

Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure

Bad is our bargain!...

That low man seeks a little thing to do,

Sees it and does it:

This high man, with a great thing to pursue,

Dies ere he knows it.

That low man goes on adding one to one,

His hundred's soon hit:

This high man, aiming at a million,

Misses an unit.

That, has the world here--should he need the next,

Let the world mind him!

This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed

Seeking, shall find him."

Then, when they arrive at the top, he says,

"Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place,"

and addressing the birds,

"All ye highfliers of the feathered race,"

he continues, giving his thoughts, as suggested by the very situation:

"This man decided not to Live but Know--

Bury this man there?

Here, here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,

Lightnings are loosened,

Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,

Peace let the dew send!

Lofty designs must close in like effects:

Loftily lying,

Leave him, still loftier than the world suspects,

Living and dying."

Browning's "At the 'Mermaid'" reproduces a scene of historic interest. The

inn where Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and other sympathetic friends used to

meet, is presented to the imagination, and Shakespeare is the speaker.

Some one has proposed a toast to him as the next poet. Shakespeare

protests, and the poem is his answer. Here are shown his modesty, his

optimism, his reverence, and his noble views of life. He smilingly points

to his works and talks about them to these his friends in a simple, frank

way.

"Look and tell me! Written, spoken,

Here's my lifelong work: and where--

Where's your warrant or my token

I'm the dead king's son and heir?

"Here's my work: does work discover--

What was rest from work--my life?

Did I live man's hater, lover?

Leave the world at peace, at strife?...

"Blank of such a record, truly,

Here's the work I hand, this scroll,

Yours to take or leave; as duly,

Mine remains the unproffered soul.

So much, no whit more, my debtors--

How should one like me lay claim

To that largest elders, betters

Sell you cheap their souls for--fame?...

"Have you found your life distasteful?

My life did, and does, smack sweet.

Was your youth of pleasure wasteful?

Mine I saved and hold complete.

Do your joys with age diminish?

When mine fail me, I'll complain.

Must in death your daylight finish?

My sun sets to rise again....

"My experience being other,

How should I contribute verse

Worthy of your king and brother?

Balaam-like I bless, not curse.

I find earth not gray, but rosy,

Heaven not grim, but fair of hue.

Do I stoop? I pluck a posy.

Do I stand and stare? All's blue....

"Meanwhile greet me--'friend, good fellow,

Gentle Will,' my merry men!

As for making Envy yellow

With 'Next Poet'--(Manners, Ben!)"

It is difficult to imagine any other situation, any other place, any other

group of friends, chosen by Browning, that would have been more favorable

to the frank unfolding by Shakespeare of the motives which underlie his

work and his character. This any one may recognize, whatever his opinions

may be regarding the success of this monologue.

The poem is meaningless without a grasp of the situation. "Manners, Ben!"

at the close is a protest against Ben's drinking too soon. Is this a

delicate hint at Ben's habits? Or was his beginning to drink a method by

which Browning suggests a comment of Ben's to the effect that Shakespeare

talked too much?

Browning here brings out the true Shakespeare spirit, not, of course, to

the satisfaction of those who have their hobbies and systems and consider

Shakespeare the only poet, but to others who wish to comprehend the real

man.

Douglas Jerrold has indicated the situation of his series of monologues in

the title, "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures." The mind easily pictures an

old-fashioned bed, the draperies drawn around it, with Mr. and Mrs. Caudle

retired to rest. Mrs. Caudle seizes this moment when she has her busy

spouse at her mercy. Before she falls asleep, she refers to his various

shortcomings and fully discusses future contingencies or consequences of

his evil deeds as a kind of slumber song for poor Caudle. The imagination

distinctly sees Caudle holding himself still, trying to go to sleep. No

word can relieve the tension of his mind, and Mrs. Caudle monopolizes all

the conversation. Caudle is exercising those powers which Epictetus says

that "God has given us by which we can keep ourselves calm and reposeful,

as Socrates did, without change of face under the most trying

circumstances."

A study of any monologue will furnish an illustration of situation, but we

are naturally, in the study of the subject, led back again to Browning.

In his "Andrea del Sarto," we are introduced to a scene common in the

lives of artists. It has grown too dark to paint, and, dropping his brush,

the painter sits in the gray twilight and talks with his wife, who serves

him as a model, and muses over his work and his life. No one can fully

appreciate the poem who has not been in a studio at some such moment when

the artist stopped work and came out of his absorption to talk to those

dear to him. At such a time the artist will be personal, will criticize

himself severely, and throw out hints of what he has tried to do, of his

higher aims, visions, and possibilities, and, while showing appreciation

of what other artists have said of him, will recognize, also, the mistakes

and failures of his art or life. It is the unfolding of a sensitive soul,

a transition from a world of ideals, imaginations, and visions, to one of

reality.

Nowhere else in poetry has any author so fully caught the essence of such

an hour. Nowhere else can there be found art criticism equal to this

self-revelation of the artist who is called "the faultless painter." What

a revelation! What might he have done! What has he been! What a woman is

beside him, his greatest curse, but one whose willing slave he recognizes

himself to be! What a weak acquiescence, and what a fall!

Notice also the abrupt beginning: "But do not let us quarrel any more."

She is asking ostensibly for money for her "cousin," but really, to pay

the gambling debts of one of her lovers. He grants her request, but pleads

that she stay with him in his loneliness and promises to work harder, and

again and again in his criticism of himself, of his very perfection, even

while he shows Raphael's weakness in drawing, he hints that there is

something in the others not in him. In fact, he recognizes one of the

deepest principles of life, as well as art, and exclaims,

"Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,

Or what's heaven for? All is silver-gray,

Placid and perfect with my art: the worse!"

He reveals his deep grief, how he dare not venture abroad all day lest the

French nobles in the city should recognize him and deal with him for

having used for himself--or rather for his wife, to build her a house, at

her entreaty--the money which had been given by Francis for the purchase

of pictures and for his return to Paris. And yet we find a weak soul's

acquiescence in fate--

"All is as God o'errules."

How sympathetically does Browning reproduce the painter's point of view

in--

"... why, there's my picture ready made,

There's what we painters call our harmony!

A common grayness silvers everything,--

All in a twilight."

Or again:

"... let me sit

The gray remainder of the evening out."

While this poem is recognized as a great art criticism, its spirit can be

realized only by one recognizing the dramatic situation and appreciating

the delicate suggestions of the atmosphere of a studio and of time and

place in relation to an artist's life.

One of the finest situations in Browning's verse is that in "La Saisiaz."

The poet has an appointment to climb a mountain with one of his friends, a

Miss Smith, daughter of one of the firm of Smith, Elder & Co., but when

the time comes, she is dead. The other, himself, keeps the appointment,

walks up alone, and pausing on the height, utters aloud his reflections

upon the immortality of the soul.

The poem is none the less a monologue because it is Browning himself that

speaks, and because the friend of whom and to whom he speaks has just

passed to the unseen world. She whom he had expected as his companion in

this climb is so near to him as to be almost literally realized as a

listener. The poem fulfils the conditions of a monologue: a living soul

intensely realizing a thought and situation with relation to another soul.

It is hardly possible to exaggerate the importance of situation in art. It

is the situation that gives us the background. An isolated object can

hardly be made the subject of a work of art. Art is relation, and shows

the kinship of things. "It is where the bird is," said Hunt, "that makes

the bird."

V. TIME AND CONNECTION

The monologue touches only indirectly the progressive development of

character as regards time. It deals with only one instant, the present,

which reflects the past and the future. But for this very reason its

aspect differs from that of the drama, since it focuses attention upon the

instant and reveals motives, possibilities, and even results. The

monologue is not "still-life" in any sense of the word. In an instant's

flash it may show the turning point of a life.

The most important words in the study of a monologue are usually the

first. As a monologue is a sudden vision of a life, it of course breaks

into the continuity of thought or discussion. The first words are nearly

always spoken in answer to something previously said or in reference to

some event or circumstance which is only suggested, yet which must be

definitely imagined. One of the most important questions for the student

to settle is the connection of what is printed with what is not printed.

When does a character begin to speak, that is, in answer to what,--as a

result of what event, act, or word?

For this reason the first words of a monologue must usually be delivered

slowly and emphatically, if auditors are to be given a clue to the

processes of the thought. The inflections and other modulations of the

voice in uttering the first words must always directly suggest the

connection with what precedes.

"Rabbi Ben Ezra" begins abruptly: "Grow old along with me!" This poem has

already been discussed with reference to the necessity of conceiving the

listener, but we must also apprehend the thought which the listener has

uttered before we can get the speaker's point of view. The young man has,

no doubt, expressed pity or regret for the old man's isolation, for the

loss of all his friends, and must have remarked something about how gloomy

a thing it is to grow old. This is the cause of the older man's outburst

of joyous expostulation amounting almost to a rebuke. Now the reader must

realize this, must make it appear in the emphasis which he gives to the

first words of the Rabbi: that is, he must so render these words as to

bring the ideas of the Rabbi in opposition to those of the young man. The

antithesis to what has been said or implied gives the keynote of the poem,

whether we are interpreting it to another or endeavoring to understand it

for ourselves.

We perceive here a striking contrast between the dramatic monologue and

the story. The story may begin, "Once upon a time," but the monologue as a

part of real life must suggest a direct continuity of thought and also of

contact with human beings. Even a play may introduce characters, gradually

lead up to a collision, and make emphatic an outbreak of passion, but the

monologue must, as a rule, break in at once with the specific answer of a

definite character in a living situation to a definite thought which has

been uttered by another. The reader must receive an impression of the

character at the moment, but in relation to a continuous succession of

ideas.

Accordingly, the right starting of the monologue is of vital importance.

In a story we often wait a long while for it to unfold. But except in the

first preliminary reading, one cannot read on in the monologue, hoping

that the meaning will gradually become clear. When a reader fully

understands the meaning, he must turn and express this at the very

beginning. The very first phrase must be colored by the whole.

Frequently the settling of the connection of the thought is the most

difficult part in the study of a monologue, yet, on account of the unique

difference of this type of literature from a story and other literary

forms, the study of the beginning is apt to be overlooked. The reader must

first find out where he is. I was once in search of Bishopsgate Street in

London, and meeting, in a very narrow part of a narrow street a unique old

man, who reminded me of Ralph Nickleby, I asked him to tell me the way.

He looked me straight in the eye and said, "Where are you now?" I told him

I thought I was in Threadneedle Street. "Right," and then he pointed out

the street, which was only a few steps away, but which I had been seeking

for some time in vain. He was wise, for unless I knew where I was, he

could not direct me.

In the study of a monologue, if we will find exactly where we are, many

difficult questions will be settled at once; and the interpreter by

pausing and using care can make clear, through the emphatic interpretation

of the first sentences, a vast number of points which would otherwise be

of great difficulty.

Mr. Macfadyen has well said, "Much of the apparent obscurity of Browning

is due to his habit of climbing up a precipice of thought, and then

kicking away the ladder by which he climbed."

The opening of Browning's "Fra Lippo Lippi" requires a conception of night

and a sudden surprise--

"I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave!

You need not clap your torches to my face.

Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk!"

These words cannot be given excitedly or dramatically without realizing

the role the police are playing, their rough handling of Lippo, and their

discovery that they have seized a monk at an unseemly hour of the night

and not in a respectable part of the city. We must identify ourselves with

Lippo and feel the torches of the police in the face, and the hand

"fiddling" on his throat. This whole situation must be as definitely

conceived as if a part of a play. The reference to "Cosimo of the Medici"

should be spoken very suggestively, and we should feel with Lippo the

consequent relief that resulted, and the dismay also of the police on

finding they have in hand an artist friend of the greatest man in

Florence. "Boh! you were best!" means that the hands of the policeman have

been released from his throat.

All this dramatic action, however, must be secondary to the conception of

the character of the monk-painter. Almost immediately, in the very midst

of the excitement, possibly with reference to the very fellow who had

grasped his throat, the artist, with the true spirit of a painter,

exclaims,

"He's Judas to a tittle, that man is!

Just such a face!"

and as the chief of the squad of police sends his watchmen away, the

painter's heart once more awakes and discovers a picture, and he says,

almost to himself:

"I'd like his face--

His, elbowing on his comrade in the door

With the pike and lantern,--for the slave that holds

John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair

With one hand ('Look you, now,' as who should say)

And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped!

It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk,

A wood-coal or the like? or you should see!

Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so.

What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down,

You know them, and they take you? like enough!

I saw the proper twinkle in your eye--

'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first.

Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch."

Thus the monologue is introduced, and with a captain of a night-watch in

Florence as listener, this great painter, who tried to paint things

truly, pours out his critical reflections,--

"A fine way to paint soul, by painting body

So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further

And can't fare worse!"

This great reformer in art is made by Browning to declare why men should

paint

"God's works--paint anyone, and count it crime

To let a truth slip by,"

for according to this man, who initiated a new movement in art,

"Art was given for that;

God uses us to help each other so,

Lending our minds out....

This world's no blot for us

Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good:

To find its meaning is my meat and drink."

This monologue, while only a fragment of simple conversation, touches

those profound moments which only an artist can realize, and unfolds the

real essence of a character.

Abrupt beginnings are very common in monologues, but the student will find

that these are often the easiest to master. They can be easily interpreted

by dramatic instinct. There is always a situation, dramatic in proportion

to the abruptness of the beginning, and a few glances will fasten

attention upon the real theme. The monologue will never stir one who

desires long preliminary chapters of descriptions before the real story is

opened, but one with true dramatic imagination can easily make a sudden

plunge into the very midst of life and action.

The unity of time on account of the momentary character of a monologue

needs no discussion. And yet we find in one otherwise strong monologue,

"Before Sedan," by Austin Dobson, a strange violation of the principle of

time.

BEFORE SEDAN

"THE DEAD HAND CLASPED A LETTER."

Here, in this leafy place,

Quiet he lies,

Cold, with his sightless face

Turned to the skies;

'Tis but another dead;

All you can say is said.

Carry his body hence,--

Kings must have slaves;

Kings climb to eminence

Over men's graves:

So this man's eye is dim;--

Throw the earth over him.

What was the white you touched,

There, at his side?

Paper his hand had clutched

Tight ere he died;--

Message or wish, maybe;--

Smooth the folds out and see.

Hardly the worst of us

Here could have smiled:--

Only the tremulous

Words of a child;--

Prattle, that has for stops

Just a few ruddy drops.

Look. She is sad to miss,

Morning and night,

His--her dead father's--kiss;

Tries to be bright,

Good to mamma, and sweet,

That is all. "Marguerite."

Ah, if beside the dead

Slumbered the pain!

Ah, if the hearts that bled

Slept with the slain!

If the grief died;--but no;--

Death will not have it so.

The title of this monologue suggests something of the situation, and from

the first sentence we gather that it is spoken by one searching for the

dead in remote nooks of the battle-field. From the remarks against war,

the speaker seems to be one of the citizens searching their farms for any

who, wounded, have crawled away for water, or have died in an obscure

corner.

A body is found, and something white, a paper, in the soldier's hand, is

discovered; the leader, who is the speaker, asks another to smooth out the

folds, as it may express some dying wish. It is found to be a letter from

his child, which the dying man has taken out and kissed. All this is in

the true spirit of the monologue. But now we come to a blemish,--"could

have smiled." So far, all has been in the present tense, dramatically

discovered and represented as a living, passing scene; but here there is a

relapse into mere narration, and the speaker appears to be telling the

story long afterwards.

We never have such a blemish in a production of Browning's. In his hands

the monologue is always a present, living, moving thing. It is not a

narrative of some past action.

All dramatic art is related to time, but the only time in which we can act

is the present. This fact is a help to the understanding of the

monologue, for we must bring a living character into immediate action and

contact with some other, or with many other, human beings.

VI. ARGUMENT

To comprehend the meaning of a monologue, it is necessary to grasp, fully

and clearly, the relation of the ideas, or the continuity of thought.

In an essay or speech, the argument is everything, and even a story

depends upon a sequence of events. Many persons object to the monologue

because the full comprehension of the meaning can only come last, and seem

to think that the characters and situations should be mere accidents. Mr.

Chesterton has well said: "If a man comes to tell us that he has

discovered perpetual motion, or been swallowed by the sea-serpent, there

will yet be some point in the story where he will tell us about himself

almost all that we require to know."

Not only is this true, but the impression of every event or truth, which

is all any man can tell, is dependent upon the character of the man, and

while the monologue seems to reverse the natural method in requiring us to

conceive of character and situation before the thought, it thus presents a

deeper truth and causes a more adequate impression.

Both the person talking and the scene must be apprehended by the

imagination; then the meaning is no longer abstract; it is presented with

the living witnesses. Persons who want only the meaning usually ignore all

situation or environment. The co-ordination of many elements is the secret

of the peculiar power and force of the monologue.

The monologue is not unnatural. Life is complex, and elements in nature

are not found in isolation. The colors of nature are always found in

combination, and primary colors are rare. Art is composed of a very few

elements, but how rarely do we find one of these separated from the

others. So an emphatically demonstrated abstract truth is rarely found.

Truth gives reality to truth. Thought implies a thinking soul. No thought

is completed until expressed; art is ever necessary to show relations. In

every age the parable, or some other indirect method, has been employed

for the simplest lessons. Words can only hint at truth. An abstraction

verges toward an untruth. A mere rule, even an abstract statement of law,

is worth little except as obeyed or its working seen among men.

Men or women of the finest type rarely discuss their fellow-beings, for

the smallest remark quoted from another may produce a false impression.

What was the occasion? What was the spirit with which it was spoken? What

was the smile upon the face? What was the tenderness in the voice? The

exact words may be quoted, yet without the tone and action these may be

falsified. Even facts may convey an utterly false impression.

Everything in nature is related. An interpretation of truth, accordingly,

demands the presentation of right relations. The flower that is cut and

placed in a vase has lost the bower of green leaves, the glimmer of the

sunlight, the sparkle of the dew, and the blue sky "full of light and

deity."

In the monologue we must pass from "the letter that killeth" to "the

spirit that giveth life." The primary meaning hides itself, that we may

take account of the witnesses first, for in the mouth of "two or three

witnesses every word may be established."

"The word that he speaks is the man himself." But how rarely do we realize

this. It is impossible to do so without a conception of the voice. The

smile and the actions of the body and natural modulations of the voice

reveal the fulness of the impression and the life that is merely suggested

by a word. The monologue, implying all these, makes men realize a truth

more vividly by showing the feeling and attitude toward truth of a living,

thinking man.

It is not to superficialize the truth that the monologue adopts an

indirect method. It does not concern itself with situations and characters

for mere amusement or adornment. It does not introduce scenery to atone

for lack of thought, but seeks to awaken the right powers to realize it.

A profound theme may be discussed dramatically as well, and at times much

better than in an essay or a speech. To receive a right impression from

"Abt Vogler," for example, the reader must consciously or unconsciously

realize the point of view, and also the philosophic arguments for the

highest idealism of the age. We must know the depth of meaning in the

line:

"On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round."

We must perceive, too, the philosophy beneath such words as these:

"All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist,"

and even the argument that makes "Our failure here but a triumph's

evidence."

"Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear,

Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe:

But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear;

The rest may reason and welcome; 'tis we musicians know."

"Musicians" is used in a suggestive sense to indicate mystics and

idealists.

The argument of the monologue, accordingly, is found in dramatic sequence

of natural thinking. It is not a logical or systematic arrangement of

points, but the association of ideas as they spring up in the mind.

As has been shown, the start is everything, since it indicates the

connection of the speaker with the unwritten situation or preceding

thought of his listener. The argument then follows naturally.

The argument of "A Death in the Desert" is one of the most complex and

difficult to follow. Browning opens and closes the poem with a bracketed

passage, and inserts one also in another place. These bracketed lines are

written or said by another than Pamphylax, the speaker in the main part of

the monologue. They refer to the old fragments and parchments with their

methods of enumeration by Greek letters. This gives the impression and

feeling of the ancient documents and the peculiar difficulties in the

criticism of the texts of the New Testament, upon which so much of the

evidence of Christianity depends. Pamphylax gives in the monologue an

account of the death of John, the beloved disciple, who was supposed to

have been the last man who had actually seen the Christ with his own eyes.

It occurs in the midst of the persecution which came about this time. The

dying John is in the cave, near Ephesus, with a boy outside pretending to

care for the sheep, but ready to give warning of the approach of Roman

soldiers. The speaker, who was present, describes all that happened, and

repeats the words of the dying apostle. Browning makes John foresee that

the evidences of Christianity would no longer depend upon simply "I saw,"

as there would be no one left when John was dead who could say it. He thus

makes him foresee all the critical difficulties of modern times in

relation to the evidences of Christianity, and, in the spirit of John's

gospel and of the whole philosophy of that time, as well as with a

profound understanding of the needs of the nineteenth century, he makes

John unfold a solution of the difficulties.

This profoundly significant poem will tax to the very utmost any method of

explaining the monologue. But Browning anticipates this difficulty in

part, and gives the atmosphere of the ancient manuscripts, introducing to

us details about the rolls, the situation, the spectators, and the

appearance of John. In fact, a monologue is found within a monologue, the

words of John himself constituting the essence or spirit of the passage;

and thus Browning is enabled to present the deepest thought through the

words of the beloved disciple. The difficulties are thus brought into

relation with the philosophy of that age, and at the same time the

strongest critical and philosophical thought of the poet's time is

expounded.

One special difficulty in tracing the argument of a monologue will be

found in the sudden and abrupt transitions. These, however, are perfectly

natural; in fact, they are the peculiar characteristics of all good

monologues, and express the dramatic spirit. Since the monologue is the

direct revelation of this spirit in human thinking rather than in human

acting, which is shown by the play, these sudden changes of mood or

feeling are necessary to the monologue as the drama of the thinking mind.

The person who reads a monologue aloud will find that its abrupt

transitions are a great help, and not a hindrance. When properly

emphasized and accentuated by voice and action, they become the chief

means of making the thought luminous and forcible.

One of the best examples of what we may call the dramatic argument of a

monologue is found in Browning's "The Bishop orders his Tomb at Saint

Praxed's Church," one of the ablest criticisms ever offered upon both the

moral and the artistic spirit of the Renaissance. Notice that "Rome, 15--"

is a subtitle. The Bishop begins with the conventional lament, "Vanity,

saith the preacher, vanity!" He is dying, and has called his nephews,--now

owned as sons, for he has been unfaithful to his priestly vow of

chastity,--about his bed for his farewell instructions. His greatest

anxiety is regarding his monument, and as he thinks of this purpose of his

life, his whole character reveals itself. We perceive his old jealousy and

envy of a former bishop, and the very thought of this predecessor causes

sudden transitions and agitations in the dying man's mind. We discover

that his seeming love of the beautiful is only a sensuous admiration

entirely different from that true love of art which Browning endeavored to

interpret. To his sons he speaks frankly of his sins. His pompous and

egotistical likings are shown in his causing his sons to march in and out

in a stately ceremonial. This adds color to the poem and helps to

concentrate attention upon the character of the speaker.

Ruskin has some important words in his "Modern Painters" upon this poem:

"I know no other piece of modern English, prose or poetry, in which there

is so much told as in these lines, of the Renaissance spirit,--its

worldliness, inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, ignorance of itself, love of

art, of luxury, and of good Latin. It is nearly all I said of the central

Renaissance in thirty pages in 'The Stones of Venice,' put into as many

lines, Browning's being also the antecedent work. The worst of it is that

this kind of concentrated writing needs so much solution before the reader

can fairly get the good of it, that people's patience fails them, and they

give the thing up as insoluble."

In studying the argument the reader should note the many sudden changes in

almost every phrase, especially at first. For example,

"Nephews--sons mine ... ah God, I know not!"

And so he continues: "She is dead beside," and

"Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace."

Note his break into business:

"And so, about this tomb of mine...."

This must be given with much saliency in order to show that it is the

chief point he has in mind and the purpose of his bringing them together.

Most of the other sayings are only dramatic asides, which, however, must

be strongly emphasized as indicative of his character.

Note the expression of his hate in "Old Gandolf cozened me," though he

fought tooth and nail to save his niche. But still, his enemy had secured

the south corner:

"He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!"

Yet he accepts the result, and feels that his niche is not so bad:

"One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side."

"Onion-stone" and "true peach" are, of course, in direct opposition. Then

he tells the great secret of his life, how he has hidden a great lump of

"... lapis lazuli,

Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,"

and where it can be found to place between his knees on the monument. And

in this he shall have a great triumph over his enemy--

"For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!"

After this outbreak of selfishness and envy he resumes the conventional

whine:

"Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years."

Suddenly, with a totally different inflection, he returns to the thought

of his tomb:

"Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black--

'Twas ever antique-black I meant!"

This is said suddenly, and with the most positive and abrupt inflections.

Notice that amid the gloom he will even laugh over the bad Latin of old

Gandolf the "elucescebat" of his inscription, and abruptly demands of his

sons that his epitaph be

"Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word."

Observe his sudden transition from

"Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then!"

to his appeal to their superstition because he has

"... Saint Praxed's ear to pray

Horses for ye...."

and his sudden threat:

"Else I give the Pope

My villas!"

If we realize his character, this kind of "concentrated writing" will not

need "so much solution" before the reader can "get the good of it."

Certainly people's patience should not fail them, nor should they "give

the thing up as insoluble." On the contrary, one who follows the

suggestions indicated, understands the natural languages, and has any

appreciation of the dramatic spirit, will feel that Browning's form is the

best means of giving with a few strokes a thorough understanding of the

character of a great movement and era in human history.

This is one of Browning's "difficult" poems. Why difficult? Because most

"concentrated"; because it gives the fundamental spirit of a certain era

of the world; because the poet uses in every case the exact word, however

unusual it may be, to express the idea. He should not be blamed if he send

the reader to the dictionary to correct his ignorance. Why should not art

be as accurate as science? Why should it perpetuate ignorance?

* * * * *

To understand a monologue according to these suggestions the student must

first answer such questions as, Who speaks? What kind of a man says this?

To whom does he speak? Of whom is he talking? Where is he? At what point

in the conversation do we break in upon him in the unconscious utterance

of his life and motives? Then, last of all,--What is the argument? The

general subject and thought will gradually become plain from the first

question and the argument may be pretty clear before all the points are

presented.

When the points are taken up in this order, the meaning of a monologue

will unfold as naturally as that of an essay or a simple story, and at the

same time afford greater enjoyment and express deeper truth in fewer

words.

All of these questions are not applicable to every monologue. Sometimes

one has greater force than the others. Some monologues are given without

any necessity of conceiving a distinct place; some require no definite

time in the conversation; in a few the listener may be almost any one; but

in some monologues every one of these questions will have force. The

application of these points, however, is easy, and will be spontaneous to

one with dramatic instinct. Only at first do they demand special attention

and care.

The application of all the points suggested or questions to be answered

will be shown best by an illustration,--a short monologue which

exemplifies them all. Let us choose for this purpose Browning's "My Last

Duchess."

The speaker is the Duke, and the meaning of the whole is dependent upon

the right conception of his character. He stands before us puffed up with

pride, one who chooses "Never to stoop."

The person spoken of, the Duchess, and her character form the real theme

of the poem, and the character of the Duke is made to look blacker by

contrast. How her youth, beauty, and loveliness shine through his sneers!

"She liked whatever she looked on, and her looks went everywhere," and he

was offended that she recognized "anybody's gift" on a plane with his gift

of a "nine-hundred-year-old name." This grew, and he "gave commands, then

all smiles stopped together."

MY LAST DUCHESS

FERRARA

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said

"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not

Her husband's presence only called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps

Over my lady's wrist too much," or, "Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace,--all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked

Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

When'er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master's known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretence

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

To whom is the Duke speaking? From the phrase, "The Count your master,"

and other hints, we infer that the listener is the legal agent of the

Count who is father of the next victim, the new Duchess, and that this

legal agent has stepped aside to talk with the Duke about the "dowry." The

Duke has led the agent upstairs, drawn aside the curtain from the portrait

of his last Duchess, and monopolizes the conversation.

The situation is marvellously suggestive. He draws the curtain which

"none puts by" but himself, and assumes an attitude of a connoisseur of

art, and calls the portrait "a wonder." Does this admiring of art for

art's sake suggest the degeneracy of his soul? He asks the other to "sit

and look at her." The subject in hand is shown by the word "last." How

suggestive is the emphasis upon the word, for they have been talking about

the new Duchess. In a few lines, as dramatically suggestive as any in

literature, his character and motives are all revealed, as he intimates to

his hearer what is expected from him.

Why did he say all this to such a person? To overawe him, to show him what

kind of man he had to deal with, and the necessity of accepting the Duke's

terms lest "commands" might also be given regarding him, and his "smiles"

stop, like those of the lovely Duchess. It is only an insinuation, but in

keeping with the Duke's character. The rising at the end shows that he

takes it for granted that everything is settled as he wished it. Notice

that the agent falls behind, like an obedient lackey, but as this would

not appear well to the "company below," the Duke says:--

"Nay, we'll go

Together down."

By the time the reader has answered these questions the whole argument

becomes luminous. A company has gathered at the Duke's palace to arrange

the final settlement for a marriage between the Duke and the daughter of a

count. The Duke and the steward of the Count, or some person acting as

agent, have stepped aside to consult regarding the dowry. The place is

chosen by the Duke; in drawing the curtain in front of the picture of his

last Duchess, he unfolds his character and also the story, and forcibly

portrays the character of his last victim. She was one who loved everybody

and everything in life with true human sympathy. She "thanked" him for

every gift, but that was not enough. She smiled at others. She was a

flower he had plucked for himself alone, and she must not show love or

tenderness, or blush at

"The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, ..."

It is doubtful whether she died of a broken heart or was deliberately

murdered. His commands, of course, would not be given to her, but to his

lackeys. Many think she was murdered. Browning leaves it artistically

suggestive and uncertain.

These questions, of course, will not be answered in any regular order. One

point will suggest another. The meaning will be partially apparent from

the first; but usually the points will be discovered in this sequence.

When completed, the whole is as simple as a story. The pompous,

contemptuous air of the Duke, the insinuating way in which he speaks, the

hint afforded by his voice that he will have no trifling, that he had made

his demands, and that was the end of it; all these details slowly unfold

until the whole story, nay, even the deepest motives of his life and

character, are clearly perceived.

What a wonderful portrayal in fifty-six lines! Many a long novel does not

say so much, nor give such insight into human beings. Many a play does not

reveal processes so deep, so profound as this.

Browning hints in his subtitle, "Ferrara," the part of the world and the

age in which such a piece of villany would have been possible.

If the reader will examine some of the most difficult monologues of

Browning, or any of the more popular monologues, by the questions given,

he will see at once the peculiar character of the monologue as a form of

dramatic poetry. Such work must be at first conscious, but when it has

been thoroughly done, the rendering or reading of a monologue will be as

easy as that of a play. The enjoyment awakened by a good monologue, and

the insight it gives into human nature, will well repay the study

necessary to realize the artistic peculiarities of this form of poetry.

VII. THE MONOLOGUE AS A FORM OF LITERATURE

The nature of the monologue will be seen more clearly and forcibly if

compared with other forms of literature.

Forms of literature have not been invented or evolved suddenly. They have

been in every case slowly recognized; in fact, one of the last, if not

most difficult phases of literary education and culture is the definite

conception of the difference between the various forms of poetry. To many

persons the word lyric and the word epic are loose terms, the one standing

for a short poem and the other for a long one. The real spirit and

character of the most elemental forms of poetry are often indefinitely and

inadequately realized.

If this is true of the oldest and most fundamental forms of poetry, it is

still more true of the monologue. The word awakens in most minds only the

vaguest conceptions.

If the monologue be discriminated at all from other forms of literature,

it is apt to be regarded as an accidental, if not an unnecessary or

unnatural, phase of literary creation. Even in books on Browning,

nine-tenths of whose work is in this form, the monologue is often spoken

of as if it were a speech. It is sometimes treated as if it were simply a

long monotonous harangue of some talker like Coleridge, the outflow of

whose ideas and words subordinates or puts to silence a whole company. But

unless the peculiar nature of the monologue is understood, much modern

verse will fail to produce an adequate impression.

Like the speech, the monologue implies one speaker. But an oration implies

an audience, a platform, conscious preparation, and a direct and

deliberate purpose. The monologue, on the contrary, implies merely a

conversation on the street, in the shop, or in the home. Usually, only one

listener is found, and rarely is there an assembled audience or the formal

occasion implied by a speech. The occasion is some natural situation in

life capable of causing spontaneous outflow of thought and feeling and an

involuntary revelation of motive.

The monologue is not a poetic interpretation of an oration, though the

latter is frequently found in poetry. Burns's poem on the speech of Bruce

at Bannockburn was called by Carlyle "the finest war-ode in any language,"

and it is none the less noble because it suggests a speaker. It is a

poetic realization of an address to an army. Burns gives the situation and

the chief actor speaking as the artistic means of awakening a realization

of the event. But it is the poetic interpretation of oratory, a lyric, and

not a monologue.

Dr. Holmes's "Our Boys" is an after dinner speech in metric form, full of

good-natured allusions to members of the class who were well-known men,

but even such a definite situation does not make his work a monologue.

"Anything may be poetic by being intensely realized." Poetry may have as

its theme any phase of human life or endeavor, and the spirit of oratory

has often been interpreted by poetry. Oratory has a direct, conscious

purpose. It implies a human being earnestly presenting arguments to move

and persuade men to a course of action.

The monologue reflects the unconscious and spontaneous effect of one human

being upon another, but it does not express the poet's own feelings,

convictions, or motives, except indirectly. We must not take the words of

any one of Browning's characters as an echo of the poet's personal

convictions. The monologue expresses the impressions which a certain

character receives from events or from other people.

Epic poetry, from its application to an individual case or situation, is

made to suggest the ideals, aspirations, or characteristics of the race.

The epic makes events or characters more typical or universal, and hence

more suggestive and expressive. Its personations embody universal ideals.

Odysseus is not simply a man, but the representative of every patient,

long-suffering Hellenic hero, persevering and enduring trials with

fortitude. Achilles is not merely a youth full of anger, but a type of the

passionate, liberty-loving and aspiring Greek. Both Achilles and Odysseus

are not so much individual characters as typical Greeks. They express

noble emotions breathed into the hearts of mortals by Athena. Odysseus

embodies the virtue of temperance and patience symbolized by the cloudless

sky, represented by Athena's robe, and of perseverance shown by her

unstooping helmet. Achilles with his "destructive wrath," embodies the

spirit of youth and eager passion corresponding to the lightning and the

storm which are shown by the serpents on Athena's breast.

We are apt to regard the epic as simply differing in form from the drama;

the drama being adapted to stage representation, while the epic is not.

But there are deeper differences. Though the drama may portray a character

as noble as the suffering Prometheus, a representative of the race, or one

as low as Nick Bottom; and though the epic may portray by the side of the

swift-footed Achilles and the wise Ulysses the physical and rough Ajax,

still at the heart of every form of poetry is found a different spirit.

Even when the same subject is introduced, a different aspect will be

suggested. Every form of human art expresses something which can be

adequately expressed in no other way.

Dramatic art is recognized as being complex. From the following definition

of the term "dramatic" by Freytag in his "Technique of the Drama," many

points may be inferred regarding its unique character:

"The term dramatic is applicable to two classes of emotions: those which

are sufficiently vigorous to crystallize into will and act, and those

which are aroused by an act. It accordingly includes the psychical

processes which go on within the human soul from the initiation of a

feeling up to passionate desire and activity, and also the influences

exerted upon the soul by the acts of oneself or of others. In other words,

it includes the outward movement of the will from the depths of the nature

toward the external world, and the inward movement of impression from the

external world which influence the inner nature: or, in fine, the coming

into existence of an act; and its consequences for the soul. Neither

action in itself nor passionate emotion in itself is dramatic. The

function of dramatic art is not the representation of passion in itself,

but of passion leading to action; it is not the representation of an event

in itself, but of its reflections in the human soul. The representation of

passionate emotion in itself, as such, is the function of the lyric; the

depicting of interesting events, as such, is the business of the epic."[1]

This explanation of dramatic art at first seems very thorough and

complete. It certainly includes more than the play, although worked out

with special reference to the play. But any true study of dramatic art

must recognize the fact that the play, important as it is, is only one of

its aspects.

This definition, fine as it is, needs careful consideration, and possibly

may be found, after all, inadequate. If it refers at all to some of the

most important aspects, the reference is vague. Dramatic art must also

include points of view, insight into motives, the nature and necessity of

situation, and especially the discovery by one man of another's attitude

of mind.

The definition is notable because it does not define dramatic art, as is

so apt to be the case, by limitation. When any form of art is defined by

limitation, the next great artist that arises will break the shackles of

such a rule, and show its utter inadequacy. When Sir Joshua Reynolds said

blue could not be used as the general color scheme of a picture,

Gainsborough responded with the now famous painting, "The Blue Boy."

Dramatic art is especially difficult to define because it is the very

essence of poetry, and deals with that most difficult of all subjects, the

human soul. Accordingly, illustrations of dramatic art are not only safer

than definitions, but more suggestive of its true nature. Definitions are

especially inadequate in our endeavors to perceive the differences between

the dramatic elements of a play and those of a monologue.

To realize more completely the general nature of dramatic art, let us note

how a play differs from a story.

A certain noble and his wife slew their king while he was their guest, and

usurped the crown. In order to conceal their crime and keep themselves on

the throne, the new king slew other persons, and even murdered the wife

and children of a noble who had fled to England and espoused the cause of

the rightful heir to the throne, the son of the murdered king. The usurper

was finally overthrown and killed in battle by the knight whose family he

had slain.

Such are the bare items of the story of "Macbeth." When these facts were

fashioned into a play, the interest was transferred from the events to the

characters of the principal individuals concerned. Their ambitious

motives, their resolution or hesitation to perform the murder, and the

effects of this crime upon them were not only portrayed by Shakespeare,

but to Lady Macbeth is given a different type of conscience from that of

her husband. While at first, or before Macbeth committed his first crime,

he hesitated long, his conscience afterward became "seared as with a hot

iron." Although he hesitated greatly over the murder of Duncan, he later

pursued his purpose without faltering for a moment. The conscience of Lady

Macbeth, on the contrary, is awakened by crime. These two types of

conscience are often found in life, but have never been so truly

represented as in Shakespeare's interpretation of them. Possibly no other

art except dramatic art could have portrayed this experience and

interpreted such deep differences between human beings.

Now note the peculiarities of the monologue.

A man must part from a woman he loves. He has been rejected, or for other

reasons it is necessary for him to speak the parting word; they may meet

as friends, but never again can they meet as lovers.

There are not enough events here to make a story, and the mere statement

of them awakens little interest. But Browning writes a monologue upon this

slender theme which is so short that it can be printed here entire.

THE LOST MISTRESS

All's over, then: does truth sound bitter

As one at first believes?

Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter

About your cottage eaves!

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,

I noticed that, to-day;

One day more bursts them open fully:

You know the red turns gray.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?

May I take your hand in mine?

Mere friends are we,--well, friends the merest

Keep much that I resign:

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,

Tho' I keep with heart's endeavor,--

Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,

Tho' it stay in my soul for ever!--

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,

Or only a thought stronger;

I will hold your hand but as long as all may,

Or so very little longer!

Here we have as speaker a distinct type of man, and the precise moment is

chosen when he is bidding good-bye. Attention is focussed upon him for a

single moment during a single speech. Observe the naturalness of the

reference to insignificant objects in stanzas one and two. In the hour of

bitterest experience, every one remembers some leaf or tree or spot of

sunshine that seems burnt into the mind forever. Note the speaker's

hesitation, and how in the struggle for self-control he makes seemingly

careless remarks. How true to human nature! Here we have presented an

instant in the life of a soul; a trying moment, when, if ever, weakness

will be shown; when refuge is taken in little things to stem the tide of

feeling, as the man gives up the supreme hope of his life. This is

dramatic, and the disclosure of character is unconscious, spontaneous,

involuntary.

Again, take as an illustration a longer monologue.

A certain young duke has been taken away by his mother to foreign parts

and there educated, and has come back proud and conventional. He must

marry; and a beautiful woman, chosen from a convent, is elevated to his

exalted sphere. But, regarded as a mere flower cut from the woods and

brought to adorn his room, she is not allowed to exercise any influence

over her supposed home. Desiring to revive the medieval customs, the Duke

arranges a ceremonious hunt, with costumes of the period, and the Duchess

is given the part of presiding at the killing of the victim. This part she

refuses. As the angry Duke rides away to the hunt, he meets an old gypsy,

and, to punish the Duchess, instructs this old crone to give his wife a

fright, promising her money for the service. When the Duke returns,

Duchess and gypsy have fled.

This is the story of "The Flight of the Duchess." Browning chooses a

family servant who was witness to the whole transaction to tell the story,

when long after the event he comes in contact with a friend, a sympathetic

foreigner, who will not betray him, and to whom he can safely confide the

real facts.

The speaker starts out with a sudden reference to his being beckoned by

the Duke to lead the gypsy back to his mistress. He describes the place,

the character of the Duke,--born on the same day with himself,--

"... the pertest little ape

That ever affronted human shape;"

his education, his return, his marriage with the Duchess, and gives, not a

mere story, but his own point of view, his impressions, while the complex

effect of the actions and character of the Duke, the Duchess, and the rest

upon himself are meanwhile suggested.

Vividly he describes the first entrance of the Duchess into the old castle

and her desire to transfigure it all, as was her right, into the beauty

and loveliness of a home; and how she was shut up, entirely idle.

As a participant in the hunting scene, he describes the bringing out of

ancestral articles of clothing, the tugging on of old jack-boots, and the

putting on of discarded articles of medieval dress. What a touch regarding

the experiences of the Duke's tailor! Then follows the long study as to

the role the Duchess should play,--she, of course, being supposed to sit

idly awaiting it, whatever it might be. When, to the astonishment of the

Duke, she refuses the part, his cruelty and that of his mother is shown in

the fearful description of the latter's tongue. At last they leave the

Duchess alone to become aware of her sins.

What pictures does the servant paint! The old gypsy crone sidles up to the

Duke as he is riding off to the hunt. He gives no response until she says

she has come to pay her respects to the new Duchess. Then his face lights

up, and he whispers in her ear and tells her of the fright she is to give

the Duchess; and beckoning a servant,--the speaker in the monologue, sends

him as her guide.

This man, as he guides the old woman toward the castle, sees her become

transfigured before him. Later he, with Jacinth, his sweetheart, waits

outside on the balcony until, awakened by her crooning song, he becomes

aware that the gypsy is bewitching the Duchess. Yet, when his mistress

issues forth, a changed woman, with transfigured face and a look of

determination, he obeys her least motion, brings her palfrey, and thus

aids in her escape. Browning gives a characteristic final touch, and we

see this man gazing into the distance and expressing his determination

soon to leave all and go forth into the wide world to find the lost

Duchess.

The theme of all art is to interpret impressions or to produce upon the

human heart an adequate impression of events and of truth. Dramatic art

has always led the other arts in its power to present the motives of

different characters, show the various processes of passion passing into

action, the consequences of action, or the working of the complex elements

of a human character.

Professor Dowden in his recent life of Browning, in endeavoring to explain

the peculiarities of Browning's plays, makes an important point, which is

still more applicable to the dramatic form which he calls "the short

monodrama," but which I call the monologue. "Dramatic, in the sense that

he (Browning) created and studied minds and hearts other than his own, he

pre-eminently was; if he desired to set forth or to vindicate his most

intimate ideas or impulses, he effected this indirectly, by detaching them

from his own personality and giving them a brain and a heart other than

his own in which to live and move and have their being. There is a kind of

dramatic art which we may term static, and another kind which we may term

dynamic. The former deals especially with characters in position, the

latter with characters in movement. Passion and thought may be exhibited

and interpreted by dramatic genius of either type; to represent passion

and thought and action--action incarnating and developing thought and

passion--the dynamic power is required. And by action we are to

understand not merely a visible deed, but also a word, a feeling, an idea,

which has in it a direct operative force. The dramatic genius of Browning

was in the main of the static kind; it studies with extraordinary skill

and subtlety character in position; it attains only an imperfect or

labored success with character in movement" ("Browning," by Edward Dowden,

p. 53).

The expression "static dramatic" is more applicable to Browning's plays,

paradoxical as it may seem, than to his monologues. The monologues are

full of dynamic force. Even Dowden himself speaks in another place of

"Muleykeh," and calls it "one of the most delightful of Browning's later

poems, uniting as it does the poetry of swift motion with the poetry of

high-hearted passion." Browning certainly does in many of his monologues

suggest most decided action. The expression "static" must be understood as

referring to the dramatic elements or manifestations of character, which

result from situation and thinking rather than through action and plot.

If the scope of dramatic art be confined to a formal play with its unity

of action among many characters, with its introduction, slow development,

explosion, and catastrophe, then the monologue must have a very

subordinate place. The dramatic element, however, is in reality much

broader than this. It is not a mere invention of a poet, but the

expression of a phase of life. This may be open, the result of a conflict

on the street, or concealed, the result of deep emotions and motives. It

may be the outward and direct effect of one human being upon another, or

the result of unconscious influence.

Nor is it mere external action, mere conflicts of men in opposition to

each other that reveal character. Its fundamental revelations are found in

thinking and feeling. Whatever method or literary form can reveal or

interpret the thought, emotion, motive, or bearing of a soul in a specific

situation, is dramatic. The essence of the dramatic spirit is seen when

Shakespeare presents Macbeth thinking alone, after speaking to a

servant:--

"Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,

She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed."

While waiting for this signal that all is ready, Shakespeare uncovers the

conflicts of a soul about to commit a crime. The inner excitement, the

roused imagination and feeling, the chaotic whirl of thoughts and passions

reveal the nature of the human conscience. What would Macbeth be to us

without the soliloquies? What would the play of "Hamlet" be without the

uncoverings of Hamlet's inmost thought when alone? Nay, what is the

essence of the spirit of Shakespeare, the most dramatic of all poets? Not

the plots, frequently borrowed and always very simple, but the uncovering

of souls. He makes men think and feel before us. The unities of time,

place, and action are all transcended by a higher unity of character. It

is because Shakespeare reveals the thinking and feeling heart that he is

the supreme dramatic poet.

No spectacular show, no mere plot, however involved, no mere record of

events, however thrilling, interprets human character. Nor does dramatic

art centre in any stage or formal play, nor is the play dramatic unless it

centres in thinking and reveals the attitude of the mind. The dramatic

element in art shows the result of soul in conflict with soul; and more

than this, it implies the revelation of a soul only half conscious of its

motives and the meaning of life, revealing indirectly its fiercest

battles, its truest nature.

VIII. HISTORY OF THE MONOLOGUE

A glance over English literature shows us the fact that the monologue was

no sudden invention of Browning's, but that it has been gradually

developed, and is a natural form, as natural as the play. A genuine form

of poetry is never invented. It is a mode of expressing the fundamental

life of man, and while authors may develop it, bring it to perfection, and

make it a means for their "criticism of life," we can always find hints of

the same form in the works of other authors, nations, and ages.

If we examine the monologue carefully, comparing it with various poems,

ancient and modern, we shall find that the form has been long since

anticipated, and was simply carried to perfection by Browning. It is not

artificial nor mechanical, but natural and necessary for the presentation

of certain phases of experience.

The monologue, as has already been shown, is closely akin to the lyric;

hence, among lyric poems we find in all ages some which are monologues in

spirit. If criticism is to appreciate this form and its function in

literary expression, and show that it is the outcome of advancement in

culture and of the necessity for a broader realization of human nature,

some attention should be given to its early examples.

If we go no farther back than English poetry, and in this only to Sir

Thomas Wyatt (b. 1503) we find that "The Lover's Appeal" has some of the

characteristics of a monologue. The words are spoken by a distinct

character directly to a specific hearer.

"And wilt thou leave me thus?

Say nay! say nay! for shame,

To save thee from the blame

Of all my grief and shame.

And wilt thou leave me thus?

Say nay! say nay!"

Marlowe's "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love," beginning--

"Come live with me and be my love,"

also represents a lover talking to his beloved. In reading it we should

picture their relations to each other. The poem may be spoilt by

introducing a transcendence of the dramatic element. It is a simple lyric.

The shepherd is idealized, and expresses the universal love of the human

heart. Still it is not the kind of love that one would directly express to

an audience. The reader will instinctively imagine his character and his

hearer, and, if reading to others, will unconsciously place her a little

to the side. This objective element aids lyric expression. To address it

to an audience, as some public readers do, implies that the loving youth

is a Mormon.

Both these poems imply two characters, one speaking, one listening, and an

adequate interpretation of each poem must suggest a feeling between two

human beings.

In Sir Walter Raleigh's "Reply to Marlowe's Shepherd," the positions of

the listener and the speaker are simply reversed.

These poems are, of course, lyrics. They may be said by any lover. The

emotion is everything. The situation or idea is simple. The expression of

intense personal feeling predominates, and the impetuous, spontaneous

movement of passion subordinates or eliminates all conception of

character. Still, though primarily lyrics, in form these poems are

monologues. In each there is one person directly addressing another. In

the expression of these lyrics, we find the naturalness of the situation

represented by a monologue.

While "The Passionate Shepherd to his Love" is one of the distinctive

lyrics in the language, yet the intense realization of the object loved

will cause the sympathetic interpreter to turn a little away from the

audience. The subjective and personal elements in the poem awaken emotion

so exalted in its nature that the speaker is unconscious of all except his

beloved.

Still there is a slight objective element. The words are spoken by a

shepherd in love and are addressed directly, at least in imagination, to

his beloved. But when not carried too far or made dramatic and other than

lyric, this monologue element may be an aid, not a hindrance; it may

intensify the expression of the lyric feeling.

Such poems, which are very common, may be called monologue lyrics or

lyrical monologues. They show the naturalness of the form of the

monologue, its unconscious use, its gradual recognition, and completion.

Forms of poetry are complemental to each other, and one who tries to be

merely dramatic without appreciating the lyric spirit becomes theatric.

In rendering such lyrics, the turning aside demands greater intensity of

lyric feeling, otherwise it is better that they be given with simple

directness to the audience.

"Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prythee, why so pale?

Will, if looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Prythee, why so pale?

"Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prythee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?

Prythee, why so mute?

"Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:

The D--l take her!"

This poem implies a speaker who is laughing at a lover, and both speaker

and listener remain distinct. Its rendering seems dramatic. Its jollity

and good nature must be strongly emphasized and it must be directly

addressed to the lover. It is still lyric, however, because the ideas and

feelings are more pronounced than any distinct type of character, in

either the speaker or the listener.

The same is true of Michael Drayton's "Come, let us kiss and part." This

implies a situation still more dramatic. The characters of the speaker and

the listener seem to be brought in immediate contact, revealing not only

intense feeling, but something of their peculiarities.

"Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part;

Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;

And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart

That thus so cleanly I myself can free;

Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows;

And when we meet at any time again,

Be it not seen in either of our brows

That we one jot of former love retain.--

Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,

When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,

When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,

And Innocence is closing up his eyes,

Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,

From death to life thou might'st him yet recover."

Burns's "John Anderson, my Jo" has possibly more of the elements of a

monologue. We must conceive the character of an old Scottish wife, enter

into sympathy with her love for her "Jo," and fully express this to him.

Her love is the theme. Yet it is not the feeling of any lover, but

instead, that of an aged wife, a noble, a faithful and loving character of

a specific type.

Still, though the poem can be rendered dramatically, in dialect, and with

the conception of a specific type of woman, the poet realized the emotion

as universal, and the specific picture is furnished only as a kind of

objective means of showing the nobleness of love. Some persons, in

rendering it, make it so subjective that they represent the woman as

talking to a mental picture of her husband, rather than to his actual

presence. But it would seem that some dramatic interpretation is

necessary. We do not identify ourselves completely with the thought and

feeling, but rather with her situation or point of view as the source of

the feeling, and certainly it may be rendered with the interest centred in

her character.

Many other poems of Burns's have a dramatic element. The failure to

recognize some of his poems as monologues has possibly been the cause of

some of the adverse criticism upon him. He was not insincere in "Afton

Water." It is not a personal love poem. In fact, it expresses admiration

for nature more than any other emotion. The Mary in this poem is an

imaginary being. Dr. Currie was no doubt correct when he said the poem was

written in honor of Mrs. Stewart of Stair. It may also be in honor of

Highland Mary, as the poet's brother, Gilbert, thought. The two views will

not seem inconsistent to one who knows Burns's custom in writing his

poems.

Burns frequently used this indirect or dramatic method. In situations

calling only for the expression of simple friendship, he adopted the

manner of a lover pouring out his feelings to his beloved, and many poems

which are nothing more than celebrations of friendly and kindly relations

are yet conceived as uttered by a lover.

One of his last poems, written, in fact, when he was on his death-bed, was

addressed to Jessie Lewars, the sister of a brother exciseman, a young

girl who took care of the poet and of his sick wife and family during his

last illness, and without whose kindness the dying poet would have lacked

many comforts. In writing this poem, however, his manner still clung to

him, and he expresses his gratitude in the tone of a lover.

"Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast

On yonder lea, on yonder lea,

My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:

Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,

Thy bield should be my bosom,

To share it a', to share it a'.

"Or were I in the wildest waste,

Of earth and air, of earth and air,

The desert were a paradise

If thou wert there, if thou wert there.

Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,

The brightest jewel in my crown

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen."

Of course, this is lyric. Though not the lover of Jessie, in imagination

he became such, and hence the lover's feeling, though the result of an

imaginary situation, completely predominates. The point, however, here is

that it has a monologue form, and that we make a mistake in conceiving

that every poem which Burns wrote is purely personal.

The monologue situation was so intensely realized by his imagination that

his poetry, while lyric in form, cannot be adequately understood unless we

perceive the species of dramatic element which a true understanding of the

monologue should enable us to realize.

Burns's poems often contain dramatic elements peculiar to the monologue

and must be rendered with an imaginary speaker and an imaginary listener.

Little conception of character is given, and, of course, the lyric element

greatly predominates over all else. Those poems in which he speaks

directly out of his own heart in a purely lyric spirit, such as "Highland

Mary," are more highly prized. But if we did not constantly overlook the

peculiar dramatic element in some of his other poems we should doubtless

appreciate them more highly. Even "To a Mountain Daisy" and "To a Field

Mouse" are monologues in form.

Coming to the consideration of more recent literature, we find in lyric

poems an increasing prevalence of the objective or dramatic element.

Whitman's "Oh, Captain, my Captain," seems to be the direct unburdening of

the writer's overweighted heart. He does not materially differ in his

feeling for Lincoln from his fellow-citizens, and every one, in reading

the poem aloud, adopts the emotion as his own. There is certainly no

dramatic emotion in the heart of the speaker in the poem. But there is a

definite figurative situation and representation of the Ship of State,

coming in from its long voyage,--that is, the Civil War,--and a picture of

Lincoln, the captain, lying upon the deck. This objective element enables

us to grasp the situation and more delicately suggests Lincoln, whose name

does not occur in the poem.

It is almost impossible to separate the different forms of poetry. We can

discern differences, but they are not "separable entities." The monologue

is possibly as much the outgrowth of the lyric as of the dramatic spirit.

It is, in fact, a union of the two. Notice the title of some of Browning's

books: "Dramatic Idyls," "Dramatic Lyrics," "Dramatic Romances."

Mr. Palgrave calls "Sally in our Alley," by Carey, "a little masterpiece

in a very difficult style; Catullus himself could hardly have bettered it.

In grace, tenderness, simplicity, and humor it is worthy of the ancients,

and even more so from the unity and completeness of the picture

presented." He neglects, however, to add that its "unity and completeness"

are due to the fact that it is in form a monologue. The person addressed

is indefinitely conceived, but we can hardly imagine the poem to be a

speech to a company. It must therefore be imagined as spoken to some

sympathetic friend. The necessity of a right conception of the person

addressed was not definitely included in the monologue until Browning

wrote. The character of the speaker in this poem, however, is most

definitely drawn, and is the centre of interest. We must adequately

conceive this before understanding the spirit of the poem. Then we shall

be able to agree with what Mr. Palgrave says, not only regarding the

picture presented, but the direct relationship of every figure, word, and

turn of phrase as consistent with the character.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY

Of all the girls that are so smart

There's none like pretty Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

There is no lady in the land

Is half so sweet as Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets

And through the streets does cry 'em;

Her mother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy 'em:

But sure such folks could ne'er beget

So sweet a girl as Sally!

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work,

I love her so sincerely;

My master comes like any Turk,

And bangs me most severely--

But let him bang his bellyful,

I'll bear it all for Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week

I dearly love but one day--

And that's the day that comes betwixt

A Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm drest all in my best

To walk abroad with Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,

And often am I blamed

Because I leave him in the lurch

As soon as text is named;

I leave the church in sermon-time

And slink away to Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again

O then I shall have money;

I'll hoard it up, and box it all,

I'll give it to my honey:

I would it were ten thousand pound,

I'd give it all to Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbors all

Make game of me and Sally,

And, but for her, I'd better be

A slave and row a galley;

But when my seven long years are out

O then I'll marry Sally,--

O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed,

But not in our alley!

All these poems show the necessity for classification as lyric monologues;

that is, poems lyric in every sense of the word, which yet have a certain

dramatic or objective form peculiar to the monologue to give definiteness

and point.

The reader, however, must be very careful not to turn lyrics into

monologues. The pure lyric should be rendered subjectively, neither as

dramatic, on the one hand, nor as oratoric on the other. To render a lyric

as a dramatic monologue is as bad as to give it as a speech. The

discussion of the peculiar differences between the lyric and the

monologue, and the discrimination of lyric monologues as a special class,

should suggest the great variety of lyrics and monologues, how nearly they

approach and how widely they differ from each other. Whether a poem is a

lyric or a monologue must be decided without regard to types or

classifications, except in so far as comparison may throw light upon the

general nature and spirit of the poetry. Different forms are often used to

interpret each other, and the spirit of nearly all may be combined in one

poem.

A peculiar type of the monologue, found occasionally in recent literature,

may be called the epic monologue. Tennyson's "Ulysses" seems at first, in

form at least, a monologue. Ulysses speaks throughout in character, and

addresses his companions. But we presently find that Ulysses stands for

the spirit of the race. He is not an individual, but a type, as he was in

Homer, though he is a different type in Tennyson; and the poem typifies

the human spirit advancing from its achievements in the art and philosophy

of Greece into a newer world. Western civilization is prefigured in this

poem, and Ulysses meeting again the great Achilles symbolizes the spirit

of mankind once more entering upon new endeavors, these being represented

by Achilles. "Ulysses" is thus allegoric or epic. The monologue elements

are but a part of the objective form that gives it unity and character.

The same is true of "Sir Galahad." While Sir Galahad is the speaker, and

the poem is in form a monologue, yet to regard him as a mere literal

character would make him appear egotistic and boastful, and this would

totally pervert the poem. The knight stands for an ideal human soul. Every

person identifies himself with Sir Galahad, but not in the dramatic sense.

While in the form of a monologue, it is, nevertheless, allegoric or epic,

and the search for the Holy Grail is given in its most suggestive and

spiritual significance.

If the monologue is a true literary form, it has not been invented. If it

is only a mechanism, such as the rondeau, it is unworthy of prolonged

discussion; but that it is a true literary form is proven by the fact that

it necessarily co-ordinates with the lyric, epic, and dramatic forms of

literature. These show that it is not mechanical or isolated, but as

natural as any poetic or literary form. That the monologue is fundamental,

no one can doubt who has listened to a little child talking to an

imaginary listener, or telephoning in imagination to Santa Claus. That the

monologue can reveal profound depths of human nature, no one familiar with

Browning can deny. That the form and the spirit of the monologue are

almost universal, no one who has looked into English literature can fail

to see. This power of the monologue to unite and enrich other phases or

forms of literature proves that it is an essential dramatic form, and that

its use by recent authors cannot be regarded as a mere desire to be odd.

The fact that a story is told by a single speaker does not necessarily

make a poem a monologue. Longfellow's "Paul Revere's Ride" is told by the

old innkeeper, but the only indication of this is in the opening clause,

"Listen, my children." There is hardly another word in the story that

takes color from his individual character. The poem is simply a narrative,

and the same is true of all "The Tales of a Wayside Inn."

Mr. Chesterton calls "Muleykeh" and "Clive," by Browning, "possibly the

two best stories in poetry told in the best manner of story-telling." Now,

are these poems stories or monologues? They are both of them monologues.

The chief interest is not in the events, but in the characters portrayed.

Every event, every word, and every phrase has the coloring of human

motives and experience.

The events of "Muleykeh" from the narrative point of view are few.

Muleykeh, or Pearl, is the name of a beautiful horse belonging to Hoseyn,

a poor Arab. The rich Duhl offers the price of a thousand camels for

Muleykeh, but his offer is rejected. He steals Pearl by night. Hoseyn is

awakened and pursues on another horse. He sees that "dog, Duhl," does not

know how to ride Muleykeh, and shouts to the fellow what to do to get

better speed. The thief takes the hint, and touching the "right ear" and

pressing with the foot Pearl's "left flank," escapes. His neighbors

"jeered him" for not holding his tongue, when he might easily have had

her.

"'And beaten in speed!' wept Hoseyn:

'You never have loved my Pearl.'"

This poem is in the form of a story, but it is colored not only by the

character of the Arab and his well-known love of a horse, but by a

narrator who can reveal the character and the peculiar love of the weeping

Hoseyn.

Any one reading the poem aloud must feel that though Browning may have

intended it as a story, he was so affected by the dramatic point of view,

that it is in spirit, though not in form, essentially a monologue.

If there is any doubt about "Muleykeh," there can be none that "Clive" is

a monologue.

"Clive" may seem to some to be involved. Why did not Browning make his

hero tell his own story? Because it was better to take another person, one

not so strong, and thus to reveal the impressions which Clive's deed makes

upon the average man. Such a man's quotation of Clive's words can be made

more exciting and dramatic in its expression.

It is difficult at times to decide whether a story is a monologue or a

mere narrative. But, in general, when a story receives a distinct coloring

from a peculiar type of character, even though in the form of a narrative,

it may be given with advantage as a monologue. Its general spirit is best

interpreted by this conception.

"Herve Riel," for example, seems at first a mere story, but it has a

certain spirited and dramatic movement, and though there is no hint of who

the speaker is, it yet possesses the unity of conversation and of the

utterance of some specific admirer of "Herve Riel." This may be Browning

himself. He wrote the poem and gave it to a magazine,--a rare thing with

Browning,--and sent the proceeds to the sufferers in the French Commune;

hence, its French subject and its French spirit. The narrator appears to

be a Frenchman; at least he is permeated with admiration for the noble

qualities in the French character at a time when part of the world was

criticizing France, if not sneering at it on account of the victory of

the Germans and the chaos of the Commune.

One who compares its rendition as an impersonal story with a rendering

when conceived by a definite character, by one who realizes the greatness

of the forgotten hero of France, will perceive at once the spirit and

importance of the monologue.

One must look below mere phrases or verbal forms to understand the nature

or spirit of the monologue. The monologue is primarily dramatic, and the

word "dramatic" need hardly be added to it any more than to a play,

because the idea is implied.

Whatever may be said regarding the monologue, certainly the number has

constantly increased of those who appreciate the importance of this form

in art, which, if Browning did not discover, he extended and elevated.

We can hardly open a book of modern poetry which is not full of

monologues. Kipling's "Barrack-Room Ballads" are all monologues. There is

a rollicking, grotesque humor in "Fuzzy-Wuzzy" that makes it at first

resemble a ballad, as it is called by the author, but it interests because

of its truthful portrayal of the character of a generous soldier. Kipling

is dramatic in every fibre. He even portrays the characters of animals,

and certain of his animal stories are practically monologues. What a

conception of the camel is awakened by "Oonts!" "Rikki-tikki-tavi" awakens

a feeling of sympathy for the little mongoose. In his portrayal of

animals, Kipling even reproduces the rhythm of their movements. The very

words they are supposed to utter are given in the character of the army

mule, the army bullock, and the elephants.

All Kipling's sketches and so-called ditties, or "Barrack-Room Ballads,"

are practically dramatic monologues. To render vocally or even to

understand Kipling requires some appreciation of the peculiarities of the

monologue. The Duke of Connaught asked Kipling what he would like to do.

The author replied, "I should like to live with the army on the frontier

and write up Tommy Atkins." Monologue after monologue has appeared with

Tommy Atkins as a character type. The monologue was almost the only form

of art possible for "ballads" or "ditties" or studies of unique types of

character in such situations.

All poetry, according to Aristotle, expresses the universal element in

human nature. Lyric, epic, and dramatic writing alike must become poetic

by such an intense realization of an idea, situation, or character that

the soul is lifted into a realization of the emotions of the race. Some

forget this in studying the differences between lyric and dramatic poetry.

It is not the lyric alone that idealizes human experience and

universalizes emotion.

The study of Kipling's "Mandalay" especially illustrates the differences

between the lyric and the dramatic spirit, and their necessary union in

the portrayal of human experience. This is both a lyric and a monologue.

It has a dramatic character. A British soldier in a specific place,

London, is talking to some one who can appreciate his feeling, and every

word is true to the character speaking and to the situation. But this

dramatic element does not interfere with, but on the contrary aids, the

realization and expression of a profoundly lyric feeling and spirit. The

soldier reveals his love,--love deeper than racial prejudices,--and

though "there aren't no Ten Commandments" in the land of his beloved, he

feels the universal emotion in the human heart, a profound love that is

superior to any national bound or racial limit. In the poem this love

dominates everything,--the rhythm, the color of the voice. He even turns

from his hearer, and sees far away the vision of the old Moulmein Pagoda,

and the suddenness of the dawn, coming up

"... like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!"

The fact that poetry expresses the "universal element in human nature" is

true not only of lyric poetry, but also of dramatic poetry; and in the

noblest exaltation of emotion, lyric, dramatic, and epic elements

coalesce.

It is the affinity of the monologue with lyric and epic poetry that proves

its own specific character. The fact that there can be a lyric, epic, and

narrative monologue, proves its naturalness.

Many of America's most popular writers have adopted the monologue as their

chief mode of expression. James Whitcomb Riley's sketches in the Hoosier

dialect present the Hoosier point of view with a homely and sympathetic

character as speaker. Even his dialect is but an aspect of the types of

character conceived. The centre of interest is not always in the emotion

or the ideas, but in the type of person that is the subject of a

monologue.

The same is true of the poems by the late Dr. Drummond of Montreal.

The peculiar French-Canadian dialect was never so well portrayed; but this

is only accidental. The chief interest lies in his creation or realization

of types of character. The artistic form is the monologue, however

conscious or unconscious may have been the author's adoption of the form.

A recent popular book, "The Second Mrs. Jim," uses a series of monologues

as the means of interpreting a new kind of heroine, the mother-in-law. The

centre of interest being in this character, the author adopted a series of

eight monologues with the same listener, a friend to whom Mrs. Jim unfolds

her inmost heart. With this person she can "come and talk without its

bein' spread all over the township." She remarks once that she took

something she wanted to be told to a neighbor who was a "good spreader,

just as you're the other kind."

All the conditions of the monologue are complied with; the situation

changes, sometimes being in Mrs. Jim's house, but four or five times in

that of her friend. Speaker and listener are always the same. The author

wishes to centre attention upon the character of the speaker, her

common-sense, her insight into human nature, her skill in managing Jim,

and especially the boys; hence a listener is chosen who will be discreet

and say but little, and who is in full sympathy with the speaker. There is

little if any plot; but while Mrs. Jim narrates what has happened in the

meantime, it is her character, her insight, her humor, her point of view

and mode of expression, in which the chief interest centres. This book

might be called a narrative monologue, but the narrative is of secondary

importance; the centre of interest lies in the portrayal of a character.

The use of the monologue as a literary form has grown every year, and no

reason can be seen why its adoption or application may not go on

increasing until it becomes as truly a recognized literary form as the

play. The varieties that can be found from the epic monologue "Ulysses" of

Tennyson to such a popular poem as "Griggsby's Station" by James Whitcomb

Riley, indicate the uses to which the monologue can be turned and its

importance as a form of poetry.

The fact that we meet a number of monologues before Browning's time shows

the naturalness and the necessity of this dramatic form; yet it is only in

Browning that the monologue becomes profoundly significant. Browning

remains the supreme master of the monologue. Here we find the deepest

interpretation of the problems of existence, and the expression of the

depths of human character. So strongly did this form fit his great

personality and conception of art that his plays cannot compare with his

monologues. It was by means of the monologue that he made his deepest

revelations. It is safe to say that, without his adoption of the

monologue, the best of his poetry would never have been written; and where

else in literature can we find such interpretation of hypocrisy? Where

else can we find a more adequate suggestion of the true nature of human

love, especially the interpretation of the love of a true man, except in

Browning? Who can thoroughly comprehend the spirit of the middle part of

the nineteenth century, and get a key to the later spiritual unfolding,

without studying this great poet's interpretation of the burden of his

time?

Who can contemplate, even for a few moments, some good example of this

dramatic form, especially one of Browning's great monologues, and not

feel that this overlooked form is capable of revealing and interpreting

phases of character which cannot be interpreted even by the play or the

novel?

One form of art should never be compared with another. No form of art can

ever be substituted for the play in revealing human action and motive, or

even for the novel, with its deep and suggestive interpretation of human

life. While the monologue will never displace any other form of art, the

fact that it can interpret phases of human life and character which no

other mode of art can express, proves it to be a distinct form and worthy

of critical investigation. Its recognition constitutes one of the phases

of the development of art in the nineteenth century, and it is safe to say

that it will remain and occupy a permanent place as a literary form. We

must not, however, exaggerate its importance on the one hand, nor on the

other too readily pronounce it to be a mere incident and passing oddity.

Its instinctive employment by leading authors, those with a message and

philosophy of life, proves that its true nature and possibilities deserve

study.