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Page 3
[Footnote 1: Sharp's _Life of Browning_.]
BROWNING AS POET
The three generations of readers who have lived since Browning's first
publication have seen as many attitudes taken toward one of the ablest
poetic spirits of the century. To the first he appeared an enigma, a
writer hopelessly obscure, perhaps not even clear in his own mind,
as to the message he wished to deliver; to the second he appeared a
prophet and a philosopher, full of all wisdom and subtlety, too deep
for common mortals to fathom with line and plummet,--concealing below
green depths of ocean priceless gems of thought and feeling; to the
third, a poet full of inequalities in conception and expression, who
has done many good things well and has made many grave failures.
No poet in our generation has fared so ill at the hands of the
critics. Already the Browning library is large. Some of the criticism
is good; much of it, regarding the author as philosopher and
symbolist, is totally askew. Reams have been written in interpretation
of _Childe Roland_, an imaginative fantasy composed in one day.
Abstruse ideas have been wrested from the simple story of _My Last
Duchess_. His poetry has been the stamping-ground of theologians
and the centre of prattling literary circles. In this tortuous maze of
futile criticism the one thing lost sight of is the fact that a poet
must be judged by the standards of art. It must be confessed, however,
that Browning is himself to blame for much of the smoke of commentary
that has gathered round him. He has often chosen the oblique
expression where the direct would serve better; often interpolated
his own musing subtleties between the reader and the life he would
present; often followed his theme into intricacies beyond his own
power to resolve into the simple forms of art. Thus it has come about
that misguided readers became enigma hunters, and the poet their
Sphinx.
The real question with Browning, as with any poet, is, What is his
work and worth as an artist? What of human life has he presented,
and how clear and true are his presentations? What passions, what
struggles, what ideals, what activities of men has he added to the art
world? What beauty and dignity, what light, has he created? How does
he view life: with what of hope, or aspiration, or strength? These
questions may be discussed under his sense and mastery of form, and
under his views of human life.
Browning's sense of form has often been attacked and defended. The
first impression upon reading him is of harshness amounting to the
grotesque. Rhymes often clash and jangle like the music of savages.
Such rhymes as
"Fancy the fabric...
Ere mortar dab brick,"
strain dignity and beauty to the breaking-point. Archaic and bizarre
words are pressed into service to help out the rhyme and metre;
instead of melodic rhythm there are harsh and jolting combinations;
until the reader brought up in the traditions of Shakespeare, Milton,
and Tennyson, is fain to cry out, This is not poetry!
In internal form, as well, Browning often defies the established laws
of literature. Distorted and elliptical sentences, long and irrelevant
parentheses, curious involutions of thought, and irregular or
incoherent development of the narrative or the picture, often leave
the reader in despair even of the meaning. Nor can these departures
from orderly beauty always be defended by the exigencies of the
subjects. They do not fit the theme. They are the discords of a
musician who either has not mastered his instrument or is not
sensitive to all the finer effects. Some of his work stands out
clear from these faults: _A Toccata of Galuppi's_, _Love Among the
Ruins_, the Songs from _Pippa Passes_, _Apparitions_, _Andrea del
Sarto_, and a score of others might be cited to show that Browning
could write with a sense of form as true, and an ear as delicate, as
could any poet of the century, except Tennyson.
To Browning belongs the credit of having created a new poetic
form,--the dramatic monologue. In this form the larger number of his
poems are cast. Among the best examples in this volume are _My
Last Duchess_, _The Bishop Orders his Tomb_, _The Laboratory_, and
_Confessions_. One person only is speaking, but reveals the
presence, action, and thoughts of the others who are in the scene at
the same time that he reveals his own character, as in a conversation
in which but one voice is audible. The dramatic monologue has in a
peculiar degree the advantages of compression and vividness, and is,
in Browning's hands, an instrument of great power.
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