Life of Robert Browning [52]
The 22 lines beginning, "As, shall I say, some Ethiop."
*5* The 29 lines beginning, "For he, -- for he."
*6* To these 32 selections there must now be added "Now", "Summum Bonum",
"Reverie", and the "Epilogue", from "Asolando".
--
It is here -- I will not say in `Flower o' the Vine', nor even venture
to restrictively affirm it of that larger and fuller compilation
we have agreed, for the moment, to call "Transcripts from Life" --
it is here, in the worthiest poems of Browning's most poetic period,
that, it seems to me, his highest greatness is to be sought.
In these "Men and Women" he is, in modern times, an unparalleled
dramatic poet. The influence he exercises through these,
and the incalculably cumulative influence which will leaven
many generations to come, is not to be looked for in individuals only,
but in the whole thought of the age, which he has moulded to new form,
animated anew, and to which he has imparted a fresh stimulus.
For this a deep debt is due to Robert Browning. But over and above
this shaping force, this manipulative power upon character and thought,
he has enriched our language, our literature, with a new wealth
of poetic diction, has added to it new symbols, has enabled us
to inhale a more liberal if an unfamiliar air, has, above all,
raised us to a fresh standpoint, a standpoint involving our construction
of a new definition.
Here, at least, we are on assured ground: here, at any rate,
we realise the scope and quality of his genius. But, let me hasten to add,
he, at his highest, not being of those who would make Imagination
the handmaid of the Understanding, has given us also a Dorado of pure poetry,
of priceless worth. Tried by the severest tests, not merely of substance,
but of form, not merely of the melody of high thinking, but of rare and potent
verbal music, the larger number of his "Men and Women" poems
are as treasurable acquisitions, in kind, to our literature,
as the shorter poems of Milton, of Shelley, of Keats, and of Tennyson.
But once again, and finally, let me repeat that his primary importance
-- not greatness, but importance -- is in having forced us to take up
a novel standpoint, involving our construction of a new definition.
Chapter 7.
There are, in literary history, few `scenes de la vie privee'
more affecting than that of the greatest of English poetesses,
in the maturity of her first poetic period, lying, like a fading flower,
for hours, for days continuously, in a darkened room in a London house.
So ill was Miss Elizabeth Barrett, early in the second half of the forties,
that few friends, herself even, could venture to hope
for a single one of those Springs which she previsioned so longingly.
To us, looking back at this period, in the light of what we know of a story
of singular beauty, there is an added pathos in the circumstance that,
as the singer of so many exquisite songs lay on her invalid's sofa,
dreaming of things which, as she thought, might never be,
all that was loveliest in her life was fast approaching --
though, like all joy, not without an equally unlooked-for sorrow.
"I lived with visions for my company, instead of men and women . . .
nor thought to know a sweeter music than they played to me."
This is not the occasion, and if it were, there would still be imperative need
for extreme concision, whereon to dwell upon the early life
of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The particulars of it are familiar
to all who love English literature: for there is, in truth,
not much to tell -- not much, at least, that can well be told.
It must suffice, here, that Miss Barrett was born on the 4th of March 1809,*
and so was the senior, by three years, of Robert Browning.
--
* Should be 1806. See note in Table of Contents. -- A. L., 1996.
--
By 1820, in remote Herefordshire, the not yet eleven-year-old poetess
had already "cried aloud on obsolete Muses from childish lips"
in various "nascent odes, epics, and didactics." At this time, she tells us,
the Greeks were her demi-gods, and
*5* The 29 lines beginning, "For he, -- for he."
*6* To these 32 selections there must now be added "Now", "Summum Bonum",
"Reverie", and the "Epilogue", from "Asolando".
--
It is here -- I will not say in `Flower o' the Vine', nor even venture
to restrictively affirm it of that larger and fuller compilation
we have agreed, for the moment, to call "Transcripts from Life" --
it is here, in the worthiest poems of Browning's most poetic period,
that, it seems to me, his highest greatness is to be sought.
In these "Men and Women" he is, in modern times, an unparalleled
dramatic poet. The influence he exercises through these,
and the incalculably cumulative influence which will leaven
many generations to come, is not to be looked for in individuals only,
but in the whole thought of the age, which he has moulded to new form,
animated anew, and to which he has imparted a fresh stimulus.
For this a deep debt is due to Robert Browning. But over and above
this shaping force, this manipulative power upon character and thought,
he has enriched our language, our literature, with a new wealth
of poetic diction, has added to it new symbols, has enabled us
to inhale a more liberal if an unfamiliar air, has, above all,
raised us to a fresh standpoint, a standpoint involving our construction
of a new definition.
Here, at least, we are on assured ground: here, at any rate,
we realise the scope and quality of his genius. But, let me hasten to add,
he, at his highest, not being of those who would make Imagination
the handmaid of the Understanding, has given us also a Dorado of pure poetry,
of priceless worth. Tried by the severest tests, not merely of substance,
but of form, not merely of the melody of high thinking, but of rare and potent
verbal music, the larger number of his "Men and Women" poems
are as treasurable acquisitions, in kind, to our literature,
as the shorter poems of Milton, of Shelley, of Keats, and of Tennyson.
But once again, and finally, let me repeat that his primary importance
-- not greatness, but importance -- is in having forced us to take up
a novel standpoint, involving our construction of a new definition.
Chapter 7.
There are, in literary history, few `scenes de la vie privee'
more affecting than that of the greatest of English poetesses,
in the maturity of her first poetic period, lying, like a fading flower,
for hours, for days continuously, in a darkened room in a London house.
So ill was Miss Elizabeth Barrett, early in the second half of the forties,
that few friends, herself even, could venture to hope
for a single one of those Springs which she previsioned so longingly.
To us, looking back at this period, in the light of what we know of a story
of singular beauty, there is an added pathos in the circumstance that,
as the singer of so many exquisite songs lay on her invalid's sofa,
dreaming of things which, as she thought, might never be,
all that was loveliest in her life was fast approaching --
though, like all joy, not without an equally unlooked-for sorrow.
"I lived with visions for my company, instead of men and women . . .
nor thought to know a sweeter music than they played to me."
This is not the occasion, and if it were, there would still be imperative need
for extreme concision, whereon to dwell upon the early life
of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The particulars of it are familiar
to all who love English literature: for there is, in truth,
not much to tell -- not much, at least, that can well be told.
It must suffice, here, that Miss Barrett was born on the 4th of March 1809,*
and so was the senior, by three years, of Robert Browning.
--
* Should be 1806. See note in Table of Contents. -- A. L., 1996.
--
By 1820, in remote Herefordshire, the not yet eleven-year-old poetess
had already "cried aloud on obsolete Muses from childish lips"
in various "nascent odes, epics, and didactics." At this time, she tells us,
the Greeks were her demi-gods, and