the poet again addresses his "Lyric Love" to express the wish that the Ring, which he has rounded out of the rough ore of the Roman murder case, might but lie "in guardianship"

outside hers,

"Thy rare gold ring of verse (the poet praised) Linking our England to his Italy."

The reference is to the inscription on Casa Guidi, Via Maggiore, 9. Florence:

QUI SCRISSE E MORI ELISABETTA BARRETT BROWNING CHE IN CUORE DI DONNA CONCILIAVA SCIENZA DI DOTTO E SPIRITO DI POETA E FECE DEL SUO VERSO AUREO ANELLO FRA ITALIA E INGHILTERRA PONE QUESTO MEMORIA FIRENZE GRATA 1861.

"his", v. 5, the sun's. "Yet human", v. 6: though 'kindred'

to the sun, yet proved 'human'. . .'when the first summons', etc.

"This is the same voice", v. 11, i.e., a voice of the same import as was "the first summons"--one invoking help. The nouns "interchange", "splendour", "benediction", vv. 17, 18, 19, are appositives of "what", v. 17. "Never conclude", v. 20, to be construed with "commence", v. 13: "Never {may I} conclude".

"Their utmost up and on", v. 23, to be construed with "yearn", v. 21.

"so", v. 23, looks back to "raising hand and head", etc.

"Some whiteness" . . . v. 25, "Some wanness" . . . v. 26, to be construed with "blessing back".

See an elaborate a.n.a.lysis of this Invocation, by Dr. F. J. Furnivall, read at the forty-eighth meeting of the Browning Society, February 25, 1887, being No. 39 of the Society's Papers.

But, after all, the difficulties in Browning which result from the construction of the language, be that what it may, are not the main difficulties, as has been too generally supposed.

THE MAIN DIFFICULTIES ARE QUITE INDEPENDENT OF THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE LANGUAGE.

Many readers, especially those who take an intellectual att.i.tude toward all things, in the heavens above and in the earth beneath, suppose that they are prepared to understand almost anything which is understandable if it is only PUT right. This is a most egregious mistake, especially in respect to the subtle and complex spiritual experiences which the more deeply subjective poetry embodies.

What De Quincey says in his paper on Kant,* of the comprehension of the higher philosophical truths, can, with still better reason, be said of the responsiveness to the higher spiritual truths: "No complex or very important truth was ever yet transferred in full development from one mind to another: truth of that character is not a piece of furniture to be shifted; it is a seed which must be sown, and pa.s.s through the several stages of growth. No doctrine of importance can be transferred in a matured shape into any man's understanding from without: it must arise by an act of genesis within the understanding itself."

-- * 'Letters to a Young Man'. Letter V.

And so it may be said in regard to the responsiveness to the higher spiritual truths--I don't say COMPREHENSION of the higher spiritual truths (that word pertains rather to an intellectual grasp), but RESPONSIVENESS to the higher spiritual truths. Spiritual truths must be spiritually responded to; they are not and cannot be intellectually comprehended. The condition of such responsiveness it may require a long while to fulfil.

New att.i.tudes of the soul, a meta/noia, may be demanded, before such responsiveness is possible. And what some people may regard in the higher poetry as obscure, by reason of the mode of its presentation on the part of the poet, may be only relatively so --that is, the obscurity may be wholly due to the wrong att.i.tudes, or the no att.i.tudes, of their own souls, and to the limitations of their spiritual experiences. In that case "the patient must minister to himself".

While on the subject of "obscurity", I must notice a difficulty which the reader at first experiences in his study of Browning's poetry --a difficulty resulting from the poet's favorite art-form, the dramatic or psychologic monologue.* The largest portion of his voluminous poetry is in this form. Some speaker is made to reveal his character, and, sometimes, by reflection, or directly, the character of some one else--to set forth some subtle and complex soul-mood, some supreme, all-determining movement or experience of a life; or, it may be, to RATIOCINATE subtly on some curious question of theology, morals, philosophy, or art. Now it is in strictly preserving the monologue character that obscurity often results. A monologue often begins with a startling abruptness, and the reader must read along some distance before he gathers what the beginning means.

Take the monologue of Fra Lippo Lippi for example. The situation is necessarily left more or less unexplained. The poet says nothing 'in propria persona', and no reply is made to the speaker by the person or persons addressed. Sometimes a look, a gesture, or a remark, must be supposed on the part of the one addressed, which occasions a responsive remark. Sometimes the speaker IMPUTES a question; and the reader is sometimes obliged to stop and consider whether a question is imputed by the speaker to the one he is addressing, or is a direct question of his own. This is often the case throughout 'The Ring and the Book'. But to the initiated, these features of the monologue present little or no difficulty, and they conduce to great compactness of composition-- a closeness of texture which the reader comes in time to enjoy, and to prefer to a more loosely woven diction.

-- * The dramatic monologue differs from a soliloquy in this: while there is but one speaker, the presence of a silent second person is supposed, to whom the arguments of the speaker are addressed.

Perhaps such a situation may be termed a novelty of invention in our Poet. It is obvious that the dramatic monologue gains over the soliloquy in that it allows the artist greater room in which to work out his conception of character. We cannot gaze long at a solitary figure on a canvas, however powerfully treated, without feeling some need of relief. In the same way a soliloquy (comp. the great soliloquies of Shakespeare) cannot be protracted to any great length without wearying the listener. The thoughts of a man in self-communion are apt to run in a certain circle, and to a.s.sume a monotony. The introduction of a second person acting powerfully upon the speaker throughout, draws the latter forth into a more complete and varied expression of his mind.

The silent person in the background, who may be all the time master of the situation, supplies a powerful stimulus to the imagination of the reader.--Rev. Prof. E. Johnson's "Paper on 'Bishop Blougram's Apology'" ('Browning Soc. Papers', Pt. III., p. 279).

The monologue ent.i.tled 'My Last d.u.c.h.ess. Ferrara' is a good example of the const.i.tution of this art-form. It is one of the most perfect in artistic treatment, and exhibits all the features I have just noticed.

Originally, this monologue and that now ent.i.tled 'Count Gismond.

Aix in Provence', had the common t.i.tle, 'Italy and France', the former being No. I. Italy; the latter, No. II. France. The poet, no doubt, afterward thought that the Duke of the one monologue, and the Count of the other, could not justly be presented as representatives, respectively, of Italy and France.

In giving the monologues new t.i.tles, 'My Last d.u.c.h.ess' and 'Count Gismond', he added to the one, 'Ferrara', and to the other, 'Aix in Provence', thus locally restricting the order of character which they severally represent.

In 'My Last d.u.c.h.ess', the speaker is a soulless VIRTUOSO-- a natural product of a proud, arrogant, and exclusive aristocracy, on the one hand, and on the other, of an old and effete city, like Ferrara, where art, rather than ministering to soul-life and true manliness of character, has become an end to itself-- is valued for its own sake.

The Duke is showing, with the weak pride of the mere virtuoso, a portrait of his last d.u.c.h.ess, to some one who has been sent to negotiate another marriage. We see that he is having an entertainment or reception of some kind in his palace, and that he has withdrawn from the company with the envoy to the picture-gallery on an upper floor. He has pulled aside the curtain from before the portrait, and in remarking on the expression which the artist, Fra Pandolf, has given to the face, he is made to reveal a fiendish jealousy on his part, occasioned by the sweetness and joyousness of his late d.u.c.h.ess, who, he thought, should show interest in nothing but his own fossilized self. "She had," he says, "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."

Her fresh interest in things, and the sweet smile she had for all, due to a generous soul-life, proved fatal to the lovely d.u.c.h.ess: "Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, whene'er I pa.s.sed her; but who pa.s.sed without much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; then all smiles stopped together."

He succeeded, and he seems to be proud of it, in shutting off all her life-currents, pure, and fresh, and sparkling, as they were, and we must suppose that she than sank slowly and uncomplainingly away.

What a deep pathos there is in "then all smiles stopped together"! *

-- * "I gave commands" certainly must not be understood to mean commands for her death, as it is understood by the writer of the articles in 'The Saint Paul's Magazine' for December, 1870, and January, 1871. {See Preface: Note to the Third Edition.} --

The contemptible meanness and selfishness of jealousy were never exhibited with greater power, than they are exhibited in this short monologue--a power largely due to the artistic treatment.

The jealousy of Leontes, in 'The Winter's Tale', of Shakespeare, is n.o.bility itself, in comparison with the Duke's. How distinctly, while indirectly, the sweet d.u.c.h.ess is, with a few masterly touches, placed before us! The poet shows his artistic skill especially in his indirect, reflected portraitures.

This short composition, comprising as it does but fifty-six lines, is, of itself, sufficient to prove the poet a consummate artist.

Tennyson's TECHNIQUE is quite perfect, almost "faultily faultless", indeed; but in no one of his compositions has he shown an equal degree of art-power, in the highest sense of the word.

{'My Last d.u.c.h.ess'}

"That's my last d.u.c.h.ess 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 pa.s.sion 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 d.u.c.h.ess' 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, Whene'er I pa.s.sed her; but who pa.s.sed 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! *

-- * Claus of Innsbruck and also Fra Pandolf (v. 3) are imaginary artists.

The last ten verses ill.u.s.trate well the poet's skilful management of his difficult art-form. After the envoy has had his look at the portrait, the Duke, thinking it time to return to his guests, says "Will't please you rise? We'll meet the company below, then."

His next speech, which indicates what he has been talking about, during the envoy's study of the picture, must be understood as uttered while they are moving toward the stairway. The next, "Nay, we'll go together down, sir", shows that they have reached the head of the stairway, and that the envoy has politely motioned the Duke to lead the way down. This is implied in the "Nay".

The last speech indicates that on the stairway is a window which affords an outlook into the courtyard, where he calls the attention of the envoy to a Neptune, taming a sea-horse, cast in bronze for him by Claus of Innsbruck. The pride of the virtuoso is also implied in the word, "though".

It should be noticed, also, that the Duke values his wife's picture wholly as a picture, not as the "counterfeit presentment" and reminder of a sweet and lovely woman, who might have blessed his life, if he had been capable of being blessed. It is to him a picture by a great artist, and he values it only as such. He says, parenthetically, "since none puts by the curtain I have drawn for you, but I." It's too precious a work of art to be entrusted to anybody else.

IV. Browning's Verse.

It seems to be admitted, even by many of the poet's most devoted students, that his verse is, in its general character, harsh and rugged. To judge it fairly, one must free his mind of many merely conventional canons in regard to verse.

Pure music is absolute. The music of verse moves, or should move, under the conditions of the thought which articulates it. It should serve as a chorus to the thought, expressing a mystic sympathy with it. Verse may be very musical, and yet more or less mechanical; that is, it may CLOTHE thought and sentiment, but not be a part of it, not EMBODY it. Unrippled verse, which many readers demand, MUST be more or less mechanical. Such verse flows according to its own sweet will, independently of the thought-articulation.

But the thought-articulation may be so flimsy that it's well enough for the verse so to flow.

The careful student of Browning's language-shaping must discover-- the requisite susceptibility to vitality of form being supposed-- that his verse is remarkably organic: often, indeed, more organic, even when it appears to be clumsy, than the "faultily faultless" verse of Tennyson. The poet who has written 'In a Gondola', 'By the Fireside', 'Meeting at Night', 'Parting at Morning', 'Gold Hair', 'May and Death', 'Love among the Ruins', 'Home Thoughts from Abroad', 'Home Thoughts from the Sea', the Incantation in 'The Flight of the d.u.c.h.ess' (some of which are both song and picture), and many, many more that might be named, certainly has the very highest faculty of word and verse music, of music, too, that is entirely new in English Poetry; and it can be shown that he always exercises that faculty WHENEVER THERE'S A REAL ARTISTIC OCCASION FOR IT, not otherwise.

Verse-music is never with him a mere literary indulgence.

The grotesquerie of rhythm and rhyme which some of his poems exhibit, is as organic as any other feature of his language-shaping, and shows the rarest command of language. He has been charged with having "failed to reach continuous levels of musical phrasing".

It's a charge which every one who appreciates Browning's verse in its higher forms (and its higher forms are not those which are addressed especially to the physical ear) will be very ready to admit.

In the general tenor of his poetry, he is ABOVE the Singer,-- he is the Seer and Revealer, who sees great truths beyond the bounds of the territory of general knowledge, instead of working over truths within that territory; and no seer of modern times has had his eyes more clearly purged with euphrasy and rue. Poetry is with him, in the language of Mr. E. Paxton Hood ('Eclectic and Congregational Rev.', Dec., 1868), "no jingle of words, or pretty amus.e.m.e.nt for harpsichord or piano, but rather a divine trigonometry, a process of celestial triangulation, a taking observations of celestial places and spheres, an attempt to estimate our world, its place, its life amidst the boundless immeasurable sweeps of s.p.a.ce and time; or if describing, then describing the animating stories of the giants, how they fought and fell, or conquered. . .a great all-inclusive strength of song, which is as a battle march to warriors, or as the refreshment of brooks and dates to the spent and toiling soldiers on their way, is more than the pretty idyll, whose sweet and plaintive story pleases the idle hour or idle ear."

The Rev. Prof. E. Johnson, in the section ent.i.tled 'Poets of the Ear and of the Eye', of his valuable paper on 'Conscience and Art in Browning' ('Browning Soc. Papers', Part III., pp. 345-380), has ably shown that "the economy of music is a necessity of Browning's Art"--that music, instead of ever being an end to itself, is with him a means to a much higher end. He says:--